Tuesday, 19 June 2012

Crop Circlers

Whilst there are many conspiracy theories floating around very few people have considered the terrifying consequences if they are all true... Read on, gentle reader, read on.

There had been much debate over whether or not silence was a big enough word to describe the kind of noiselessness found away from planetary atmosphere. Some had maintained that the silence off a world, made up as it was off a cacophony tiny sounds, could never approach the stillness of the vacuum that some other, bigger word was needed. Others said that there was no need for another word, that the universe was mostly silent and the planets were far to noisy. Yet more said that the conversation was a pointless debate over terminology and that everyone should shut up and get on with what they were being paid for. However even those voices would after a few bottles of the local poison admit that out in the black there was something suffocating about the complete stillness of it all. It was this silence that flooded the bay as the shuttle drifted in from the star-flecked blackness.

The awaiting crew felt a faint rumble transmit through the floor as the doors slid shut. Shortly after the room was flooded with rich breathable atmosphere accompanied by a near deafening roar. The shuttle was a rhapsody in gleams and shimmers the occasional strip of lights blinding the unwary viewer. Much has been written on the phallic nature of space-ship design and whilst there have been many wonderful arguments put forward regarding the the overall aerodynamics of such designs. Most of these arguments fall apart in a vacuum. The designer of this particular vessel had either ignored the fact that wind resistance wasn't a factor in effective space-ship design or just really liked penises. Either way it was less than a second on the ground before the ground crew started to swarm all over it like so many pubic lice. It took slightly longer for the an opening to appear in the tip of the craft and ejaculate forth it's passenger.

The man who emerged was eight feet of matt black fury. His hat was a master-class in severity that allowed no room for compromise beneath it two dark red eyes the colour of the blood of betrayed children burned forth with the kind of gaze usually reserved for those who have discovered grammatical errors on the internet. There was no nose and almost no mouth, only a near invisible line in carved from the chiselled onyx that passed for flesh on this strange creature. The rest of his body was a shadow a skin-tight black suit clinging to an aggressively muscular frame all enshrouded in one of those long black coats that the bad-guy always wears. Beneath all of this were a pair of fierce stomping boots that appeared to only meet the ground with extreme displeasure. The figure achieved a kind of stillness akin to the silence mentioned two paragraphs previously. It was the kind of stillness that demanded attention far more than any raging tempest a complete lack of movement that screamed murderous intent. Within seconds a smaller scurrying creature had rushed towards the weapon, for there was no better way describe the recent arrival.

“Grand Prefect” The small beige creature gasped as his small white robes flapped around him in everything about this one screamed bureaucrat he was therefore in his own shallow way infinitely more dangerous than the man who's entire being screamed death and rage. “We weren't expecting you so soon.”

“No it appears not” The Grand Prefect replied in the voice of Alan Rickman... thus making him instantly even more menacing. “Indeed it appears that you weren't expecting a single review of your progress” Here he stopped to remove his gloves in one of those completely unnecessary little touches that none the less made him appear even more deadly.

“If you have any luggage you need depositing...” The small pencil-pusher tried to reply before he withered beneath the intense and deadly gaze.

“I have no intention of staying longer than it takes to rectify this catalogue of failures.” He said pulling a small data-pad from within his coat and casually throwing towards his subordinate. “Now that someone competent is here.” With that he swept towards out of the bay pulling the now extremely flustered beige being behind him like a cork bobbing in his wake.

Every corridor of the ship was half walkway half maintenance corridor half walkway. For reasons that no-one has ever been to reasonably explain designers of larger and more expensive space-ships feel that this kind of look gives a ship such an edgy and dark feel that it complete negates all of the horrible disadvantages. Higher maintenance costs were just a small portion of this. The number of crews that the Grand Prefect sent scattering as he made his way through the ship was truly preposterous. It would have angered the Grand Prefect if he had not already been simmering away at approximately 90% of his maximum rage capacity. He did take time to kick a small repair robot directly at one of slower moving crew. As per standard science fiction protocol all of the repair staff where slovenly blue creatures with New York accents and matching New York attitudes. There was lots of establishing shots and small snatches of banter before the Grand Prefect tore past as is standard for this early in a story of this nature.

The internal doors of the central command were twenty-foot high and ominous, they were literally dripping with om, this was another another cost that could've easily be avoided if the whims of the designers had been ignored in the face of practicality. By the time the doors slid open with a satisfactory shu-thunk word had spread of the Grand Prefects arrival and the senior staff had hastily assembled around the large circular table that all futuristic settings must have due to intergalactic architectural regulations. The Grand Prefect reached the table in two long strides and slammed his fists down on the table with such force that the over end of it flew up and knocked one of the tiny bureaucrats flying across the room.

“Gentlemen.” He yelled. “I am the tyranny. I am the rage. I am the terror that lurks deep in your hearts and I am here to say enough is enough.” He grabbed the nearest subordinate and without even a grunt of effort flung them bodily across the room into a control panel. There was a flicker in the air in the middle of the table which flickered and, with a noise that sounded suspiciously like an old cathode ray tube TV turning on, a hologram of the planet earth appeared, taking the audience massively by surprise. Yeah I know. Well let's stay with this and see where it's going. “This tiny orb has managed to rotate around it's home star fifty times since you arrived and still they have yet to surrender to the might of the Transian Empire.”

“Grand P-P-Prefect” One of the bolder underlings stammered. “We've done everything that standard procedures indicate. The humans refuse to even send a reasonable negotiator.” He continued before quailing beneath the powerful death-stare.

“I've read your reports.” The Grand Perfect sneered. “You've been to earth. You've mutilated the carcasses of their primary food beasts, sending a clear message that we are willing to destroy their very way of life. Following that you have left clear understandable messages in the heart of there arable land. When you attend the meetings to discuss their surrender in place of there leaders the send out a bunch of, what was it...” Here the Prefect stopped and pulled out his pad and glowered at as if it was anger sensitive. “...genetically questionable hill-folk. What hypothesis do you put forward to explain all of this.” He asked with a sweeping gesture around the room and began to pace around the table forcing his subordinates to actively flinch as he passed behind them “What grand ideas do you put forward?” He held the pad into his eye-line. “The humans don't understand our messages. Ha. The humans are not aware of, or open to, the possibility of other intelligent life. Preposterous. Food production is not considered vital by most humans and as such our efforts should be consigned to the more developed urban regions of the planet...” He halted behind one of the bureaucrat who tried his best to sink into his chair. “What sort of drivel is this... I should have each and everyone of you taken to an airlock flung into space and use you as target practice. That way you will at least accomplish one useful thing with your worthless lives.” Where some would have shouted the Grand Prefect's voice never wavered from its Alan Rickman monotone.

“The humans have one of our ships. Due to someone's spectacular incompetence in leaving the wreckage at this...” He glanced at the pad “...Roswell place. They are storing it in... Area 51. Every attempt to negotiate with them has been met with derision. The time for soft words has passed gentlemen. I want a full attack to be launched within the cycle. Wipe that smug rock from the face of the universe.”

eddie <i hope you enjoyed it>

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