The consensus of opinion is that space does not smell, though the monks of the Good and Great Prophet Nasal Trunk the Third will argue the rear most limbs off a Gillywharg that, in point of fact, space can smell like cinnamon, sunlight on fresh Macasino limes or the flatulent emissions of an aging Harthlickle, depending on the time of year and whether or not your wearing artificial fibres.
Most life forms in the Federated Galactic Congress don’t agree with the monks, though I suspect that not many of the citizens of the Federated Galactic Congress have heard of the Monks of the Good and Great Prophet Nasal Trunk the Third. Also, if I am to be completely honest, there seems to be a woeful lack of decent research on the subject. It seems that most citizens of the Federated Galactic Congress have more important things to do than sniff the universe and record their findings, what with the Imperators running amok, trying to quash the pesky rebellion and deal with all the attendant paperwork.
So, the Monks may have a point, though they have spectacularly failed to produce any form of peer reviewed paper or thesis on the subject.
The Deniabech Cluster is not widely thought of as one of the garden spots of the Federated Galactic Congress, in fact, if anywhere were to smell like the flatulent emissions of an aging Harthlickle, it is the Deniabech Cluster. It is unfortunate that the Deniabech Cluster does not feature in the lists of top garden spots of the Federated Galactic Congress because it does have a rather nice garden centre with a half decent café attached. The garden centre, run by a lovely old Lingalite called Geoff, does a nice line in succulents and those weird little plants that look like stones; Geoff’s second wife, Bunty, runs the café and her carrot and fratty-nut cake is an exceptional delicacy. If you happen to be passing through the Deniabech Cluster then it’s well worth a visit.
Carrot and fratty-nut cake was the last thing on the mind of alarmingly middle aged space scoundrel Captain Dubious Hip-Thrust. Hip-Thrust was deep in the bowels of his smuggling ship the Bi-Annual Leaf trying to repair the ailing hyperdrive unit. He put down the sonic wrench as bright, viscous fluid poured out of the sonic wrench shaped hole he had made in the lower tubular bits. It reminded Hip-Thrust of a particularly raucous weekend that he and his best friend in the whole wide universe and shipmate, Growler, had recently spent with three Speckled Hentigans and a vast quantity of knock off Regulan Brandy. Hip-Thrust realised he had neither the skill, nor the viscous fluids, to repair the hyperdrive unit. He tapped the screen on his wrist-com and added learn how to repair own hyperdrive unit to his ever-increasing to-do list. With an overly dramatic sigh he climbed out of the bowels of his ship and headed toward the cockpit.
Growler was bent over the controls, the beast’s bushy eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration as he piloted the Bi-Annual Leaf through the cluster with consummate ease. Looking directly at Hip-Thrust, Growler’s usually gentle brown eyes, barely hid the fury that swelled within the co-pilot’s massive frame; he opened his mouth and a stream of growls and other gnarly sounds fell out like a troop of large, angry frogs leaping from the confines of a too small aquarium. Luckily Hip-Thrust’s wrist-com was set to translate.
“If you have broken the hyperdrive unit again I will bloody well throttle you,” Growler punched a series of buttons on an overhead panel like a real pilot. “We are being pursued by a Hoard of Imperators and we really do need to get out of this blasted Cluster!”
“Take it easy,” Hip-Thrust smiled a cocky and reliably annoying smile as he placed his boots on the console. “We’ve got plenty of time, old pal. The Hoard should be armpit deep in the Ghost Lanes. We can chill, there is plenty of time to rendezvous with Her Royal Highness on the Forty Second Moon of Bouvinia.”
“You are a bloody fool Hip-Thrust,” Growler flicked more switches, anger dancing across his nimble, meaty fingers. “Computer, would you be so kind as to calculate the current position of the Imperator Hoard?”
Lights danced across the screen in the centre of the console as the onboard artificial intelligence, Gel-Magnus, started to speak, “Gentlemen the pursuing Imperator Hoard is approximately seven point two three four five hyphen one six seven dash one point three eight forward slash two zero zero nine clicks to the port side and closing at a rate of three slash zero four gravitons per click if the hoard maintains current attitude and speed they will be in striking distance of the Bi-Annual Leaf in less than zero point two seven standard galactic time units.”
“Holy shit!” Hip-Thrust sat bolt upright, his slightly too tight leather trousers squeaking loudly against the vinyl seat cushion as he nearly fell out of his chair. “So, what are the options here buddy?”
“Firstly, please do not call me buddy. Secondly, do not just saunter in here covered in hyperdrive fluid and put your mucky boots up on the console. I mean how many times do I have to tell you? Thirdly, you still wreak of brandy and what you call sex,” Growler tried not to be sick in his mouth. “It’s been over a week since that shameful episode with the Hentigans, please, please take a shower or at least put on some of the deodorant that Princess Linda got you for your birthday. And finally, get your sorry backside down to the rear gunport, you’ll need to man the weapons while I try and get us out of here in one piece!”
“Hey! I’m only trying to help,” Hip-Thrust pouted in the doorway, then he pointed through the cockpit window, just ahead of them, something glinted in the starlight. “Oh look, a garden centre with a café attached!”
Good anarchic humour of the HHGTTG kind. The names are particularly fun: Hip-Thrust and Growler foremost. The cast of characters and incidents are ripe with comedic possibilities, and the setup of Hip-Thrust breaking the hyperdrive when they’re being chased down by the hoard gives superb tension. Having a garden centre with a cafe attached as the source of redemption is very funny. Wishes: A few metaphors wouldn’t go amiss – the trousers are an open goal for this. The time/distance joke could be shortened maybe but don’t drop it, it’s too good.
This is very HHGTTG. The names throughout are superb. I particularly like the monks of the Good and Great Prophet Nasal Trunk the Third. The absurdity of a nice garden centre with a half-decent cafe run by Geoff’s wife, Bunty, in the Deniabech Cluster is a great image, and Growler and Dubious Hip-Thrust’s relationship is fabulous. I laughed out loud at this piece.