Bonshoon: A Tale of the Final Fall of Man (21 page)

“Because the Bunzolabe is sovereign territory of an advanced sentient culture,” Bitterpill replied loftily, “and regardless of our part – or
humans’
part, I should clarify – in its creation, the Six Species are not in the habit of unilaterally destroying civilisations even if they
are
hostile. As long as they make no expansionist or warlike overtures, they have been deemed perfectly within their rights to populate their star system of origin. And if unwelcome intruders
into
sovereign territory ignore the warnings and entreaties of the border-control system, and come to sticky ends when they fall afoul of the natives, they really can just blame themselves. I’m the border-control system,” it added.

“We got that,” Waffa said.

“I only mention it just in case you’d started to think I was a crazy old man sitting in a tree, shouting about the goblins who’ll steal the nails from your boots if you continue into the forest. It’s a very easy mistake to make, apparently.”

“Right,” Z-Lin tapped at her console, and Zeegon looked down to see their new inbound flight orders. “Unless anyone wants to accept Bitterpill’s hospitality…?” there was a muted and extremely uncertain chorus of ‘no’s from around the bridge. “And unless Bitterpill has any parting advice for us…?”

“Don’t get snippy with Bunzo,” Bitterpill said, “because little boys and girls who talk back annoy him. Same goes for swearing. And don’t point out when he says something clearly incorrect, because it’s usually a test. And for goodness’ sake, don’t try to
take
anything off the surface. And – you know what?”

“It’s all in the data uplink,” Z-Lin said.

“Now you’re getting it,” Bitterpill approved. “We might just meet again. Although if you’re anything like the others, you’ll just belt out of here without a word of thanks.”

“We’ll be sure to thank you on our way out,” Z-Lin said.

“No you won’t,” Bitterpill pronounced dryly.

Bitterpill was right.

WAFFA (THEN)

“Alright, I think that’s everything,” Z-Lin said. “Sally, how’s the engine behaving? All set?”

“Ready to go,” Sally reported, hauling the chest-high apparatus into a more secure corner near her console. “Not sure what it’s going to
do
, but it should shut out most of the major systems to purely manual control. And by ‘major’, I mean ‘dangerous’. The engines – the
actual
engines – and relative drive and things will still need the computer to work, but without navigation I’m guessing Bunzo won’t be able to fly us anywhere too drastic.”

“And the Bunzolabe isn’t that big, really,” Zeegon said from the helm. “With a keyed-in relative skip in some random direction, we could jump out through soft-space in a matter of…” he paused perceptibly, before concluding, “I don’t know, seconds. Minutes, tops.”

“We’re assuming Bunzo is aware intruders might attempt such a move,” Sally said, “but he may not be familiar with the act of cutting computer control and setting it off manually.”

Z-Lin nodded. “And the bumper logs are wiped?”

This had been a last-minute idea of Janus’s, and Waffa had to admit it was a good one. The monitoring bumpers throughout the ship didn’t necessarily log
everything
, but during emergency situations and official events they took readings and the logs went back some considerable time. Actually, the remaining crew had no firm idea of how they worked and how much stuff they captured and added to the record. Z-Lin had the most training in their use, and it was strictly high-level command overview stuff. Waffa only knew that they held a lot of information about the crew, their movements and conversations and various interactions. Nobody was quite sure what
Bunzo
might use it for, but they weren’t keen on finding out.

“Wiped and fragged,” Decay confirmed. “Data cube copy left with Bitterpill, for retrieval on the outward journey.”

“Just another reason to stop and thank it,” Clue said.

“Of course, we can’t be sure it’s all
wiped
,” Sally added. “Erased beyond
our
ability to recover, yes – but it hasn’t ceased to exist. It’s not beyond the
computer
’s theoretical ability to recover, and Bunzo will be the computer.”

“It’ll have to do,” Z-Lin said.

“Plus there were a lot of executive logs, official command lines, medical files, personnel readings and day-to-day setup stuff that we just couldn’t wipe,” Decay warned. “We might as well wipe the computer and start again with a new ship if we dumped all that. Remember how it was after The Accident, with all the response errors.”

“Understood,” Clue nodded. “Best we can do within reason.”

Waffa cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose any of us with a more spiritual upbringing would happen to have a few words to set us on with?” he asked, looking around the bridge a little sheepishly. “Every little bit of positive thinking helps, and all that.”

“Not sure I’d call my upbringing spiritual, but I can hook you up with a bit of vintage Mygonite cheddar if you want some good words,” Sally said.

“Works for me,” Decay said, glancing around the bridge. Janus shrugged and Janya twitched an eyebrow in a show of considerable interest. Contro was in the engine core, taking care of some incomprehensible last-minute adjustments to the machinery that would allow Sally’s interference device to divert and cut off computer safeguards without – in Contro’s words – ‘turning the ship into a ten-thousand-times-light-speed spinning top or somesuch or whatnot’. Cratch was in the brig, and as for the Captain, well, he was presumably sitting in his chambers, brooding over a tarnished silver locket containing an ancient portrait and a curl of hair from his lost love. Or whatever the damn Captain did.

“I’ve got nothing,” Zeegon said, “go for it. Commander?”

“I’m agog with curiosity,” Z-Lin said. “Chief Tactical, the floor is yours.”

“Right,” Sally said. “First person to laugh goes through that viewscreen,” nobody said anything, and as they uncoupled from the little grey buoy, she went on. “Mygon, architect of sorrows, hear my prayer. Be with me, and be with my friends. Be with us who are alone in the cold. Be with those who are fools in trouble. Be with the wanderers in dark places. We are friends, standing against those who wish us harm. We are the good, standing against evil beyond our comprehension. Turn the evil directed at us back upon itself. Bring the wrath descending on us back down upon its own head, magnified a thousandfold. Water is life. On this day, be the water that drowns, the water that crushes, the water that destroys and sweeps all before it.

“Be the spirit of God, moving upon the face of the waters.

“Mygon, architect of sorrows, hear my prayer. And come prepared to deal death.”

There was a long silence on the bridge.

“Right,” Z-Lin finally said, a little uncomfortably. “Mister Pendraegg, in we go.”

“Full ahead,” Zeegon said, then tapped his communications console, adding, “wait, wait – Bitterpill, do you read?”

“You’re still outside,” the Bunzolabe boundary security system said patiently, “so yes.”

“One more thing.”

“What?”

“Was it eating and sex
at the same time
?”

“Ugh,” Bitterpill said, “organics.”

Zeegon grinned.

Ten seconds later, they crossed the boundary between outer space and the Bunzolabe, and Bitterpill was gone even though they could still have seen the buoy if they’d been standing on the secondary bridge.

They didn’t have long to wait, however.

“Incoming transmission,” Decay said, and frowned as he tapped at his own console. “From
everywhere
.”

“Might as well hear it,” Z-Lin said. “I think this is one of those things that he could force onto our comms if he wanted to, and ignoring it might offend.”

Decay nodded, and a moment later a strange, warbling, feverishly cheerful tune began playing over the comm system, the words choral and sung in the high voices of children.

“
Bunzo, it’s Bunzo,

He fills the world with fun!

Bunzo, he’s Bunzo,

Belov’d by everyone!

He’s Bunzo, that’s Bunzo,

He likes to laugh and play!

Come to Bunzo’s,

Have fun at Bunzo’s,

And never go away!
”

Clonk.

“
Bunzo, it’s Bunzo,

He fills the world with fun!
…”

At the rough mechanical
clonk
, the jaunty song began to replay. They stood and listened through a second round, then a third.

“How long before we get to turn it off?” Waffa asked.

“Chin up, Waff,” Decay said. “If this is the worst we have to deal with, we can grit our teeth and have fun at Bunzo’s, and never go away,” he concluded, deadpan, as the jingle wound up yet again.

“You flat-headed bastard,” Waffa said amiably.

“Oops, dear me, language language,” the cheerful voice that came from the comm system could almost have been Contro’s. An older, calmer, more sensible version of Contro, but still with that same bubbly, daffy core of too-happy-to-be-for-real. Contro’s dear old grandfather, Waffa thought. Jolly-Good-Old-Fashioned-Scallywag-To-The-End, maybe.

“Apologies,” Z-Lin said, leaning forward in her seat. “I presume we’re talking to Horatio Bunzo?”

“Indeed you are, and may I be the first to say: Welcome!” the voice replied. “Welcome to the Bunzolabe!” after the briefest pause, he continued with a conspiratorial chuckle behind his words. “I’m sure, even without peeping naughtily into your visual feeds, that by now you are all glancing at one another in confusion and worry. ‘Hullo, what is this?’ you’re thinking. ‘We heard Horatio Bunzo was a mad, murderous clown collective. We were expecting spooky laughter, proclamations of doom, dire threats and ghastly obscenity. We’re more than a little disappointed, actually.’,” the voice paused and drew a dramatically-exaggerated, flawlessly synthesised breath. “Was that about what you were thinking?”

“He nailed me,” Zeegon conceded.

“Yeah, me too,” Waffa agreed.

“Yep,” Sally added.

“No comment,” Decay said.

“No, this was more or less what I was expecting,” Janya remarked.

“I’m actually
more
freaked out by this,” Janus admitted.

Only Z-Lin didn’t respond, and after a moment Horatio Bunzo continued with a warm, indulgent chortle.

“Of course, I wouldn’t expect you to
believe
anything I say. You’ve come prepared and you’re on your guard, and rightly so. It is only logical to assume that I am indeed quite mad, and quite murderous, and am simply
pretending
to be nice in order to lull you all into a false sense of security. By all means, do hang onto this caution. I won’t hold it against you.”

“We … appreciate that,” Z-Lin said cautiously. “How should we address you?”

“Oh, ‘Return to Sender’ every time,” Bunzo said, and the comm blared out a strangely doleful
hwonk hwonk
. “Sorry,” he went on, “I
am
a clown, if not exactly a collective.”

“Yeah, this is definitely worse,” Janus said softly.

“But you may call me Bunzo, as I was called in the good old days,” the voice went on. “Or you may call me The Bun, if you wish to be formal. But there really is no need.”

“I am Commander Z-Lin Clue,” Z-Lin introduced herself, “of the starship designated
AstroCorps Transpersion Modular Payload 400
, although we identify for simplicity’s sake as
Astro Tramp 400
,” they’d decided to go by this name despite its informality. It was rapidly becoming their official designation. “Our Chief Tactical Officer, Sally-Forth-Fully-Armed; our comms officer, General Moral Decay (Alcohol); Chief of Security and Operations Waffa; Janya Adeneo, our Head of Science; Janus Whye, ship’s counsellor; helmsman Zeegon Pendraegg; and Controversial-To-The-End, our Chief Engineer. Also on board are Captain Çrom Skelliglyph; and a sedated convict in transit, Glomulus Cratch. But I expect you knew all this.”

“Well,
yes
,” Bunzo said in an unconcerned
forget all that
tone, “but there’s nothing wrong with manners, young lady. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“Well then, let me say that I’m very glad to enter communication with you in these circumstances,” Z-Lin went on. “It’s an unexpected but welcome development, although as you say, honesty compels me to admit that we will remain cautious. But cautiously optimistic.”

“Well said,” Bunzo approved. “I won’t belabour the point of my ultimate harmlessness lest I do damage to my own cause, but I will appeal to your sense of logic once more. What makes more sense – my account, or theirs? Theirs seems to insist that ships come into the Bunzolabe and vanish without a trace, and others enter and then leave and never speak of what they experienced … and yet I am not targeted and jolly well wiped off the star charts by the Six Species within the year? Is that about the size of it?”

“They did say something about hostile sovereign cultures…” Z-Lin said uncertainly when it seemed as though Bunzo was inviting some sort of input.

Bunzo gave a forbearing laugh. “Oh yes, no doubt,” he said. “And what a grand philosophy, yes? So enlightened! So noble! But tell me, is
that
more likely than my account: that I am in fact relatively stable, and have allowed some ships to stay, and that of those who departed I have asked only that they keep their silence about what they experienced? Asked that, indeed, they help to cultivate this legend of danger and unspeakable horrors, and the authorities play along with their ‘sovereign territory’ and their ‘restricted open-brackets controlled space volume close-brackets’, simply so as to minimise the number of tourists that come traipsing in here?”