As a second explosion rocked the Peter Principle, Finto mentally counted the number of times she’d told Commander Morvis that his badly battered spacecraft would not, under any circumstances, be able to withstand yet another interstellar jump. She lost count along with her balance when the third explosion rocked the engine room.
“Finto! I bloody—” the radio crackled. “—and then—you better—”
“I did warn you, sir.” She drifted through the corridor, pushing aside large pieces of flaming debris, and propelled herself towards the bridge.
Topher popped his head out of the kitchen as she passed. “You were right. I owe you sixty bits.” Behind him, something frothed over the sides of a large steel pot.
“Told you so,” Finto said.
“I know, but…” He waved a careless tentacle. “I didn’t think even he’d be so stupid as to jump right after—”
Finto squinted. “What are you holding?”
Thirty eyes blinked simultaneously. “I thought I’d try something new today.” The tentacle unfurled to display a small pink bar.
“That’s soap.”
“Excellent identification! It’s rose-flavoured. The books Kzz left behind after he passed suggest that floral bouquets can be extremely palatable when—”
“Not flavoured. Soap is scented,” Finto corrected.
Another explosion. Topher’s lower tentacles were suckered onto the metal floor, rendering his position stable, but Finto – clad in cheap boots two sizes too big – did not have the same equilibrium. She stumbled, smacking her elbow hard on the corridor wall.
Topher blinked again, processing the idea. Another explosion rocked the ship, briefly inverting gravity. “What’s the difference?”
Finto was already halfway down the corridor, scrabbling over the ceiling on her hands and knees; being physically present might pause, if not outright halt, the commander’s determination to repeatedly jump through space and time without a properly working engine. At least he couldn’t feasibly ignore her if she was standing – or hovering – right in front of him.. “I’ll explain later! Just don’t put it in the soup.” She reached the bridge as the ship began to jolt again and braced herself against the doorway until the movement had lulled into a gentle sway. “Hello? Commander?”
“It wasn’t even a whole jump,” Morvis complained. “More like half a hop. What sort of ship can’t handle—”
“Sir, as I informed you in my emails, as well as your personal comms and on large-inked notices on the staffroom board, I fixed the engine up to withstand regular travel until such time as we can dock with a trade hub. I can’t hold a skip drive together with glue and good intentions.” She’d managed to do almost the equivalent with some screws and a fervent wish, which had been a minor miracle, but she wasn’t about to admit this now.
“Come now, Finto, you must understand the pressures that have been on me since our late captain died. The board demanded that we arrive in Caorpix on time. They’ve never really accepted the presence of my kind here, and, well, I shan’t bore you with history now. Besides, it’s all that idiot administrator’s fault. He scheduled our run poorly on purpose, I’m sure of it.”
Finto rifled through her mental database as she inched into the vast command deck. “Mr Chchia?”
“Yes, that’s right. Used to be a good secretary to the Director, now he’s the bane of my life. Couldn’t administer… remind me, how do the humans word the insult?”
“Couldn’t administer gravity to an apple?” Gravity chose this moment to reassert itself. Finto hit the deck hard, the metal floor jolting all the breath from her body.
“Yes, that’s it.” Morvis’ features brightened in an approximation of a smile. Light glowed from each of the tiny rocks which composed his body. “Can’t imagine what’s happened to the man. He used to be so good at his job.”
“It’s the Peter Principle, sir,” Finto clambered to her feet, then bit her tongue.
“Eh? What’s that?” He jinted across the deck, gems scraping against the metal tiles, until they were eye to eye. “Speak up. My crystal wavelengths aren’t what they used to be.”
“The late Captain thought very highly of my father and allowed him to name the ship after a human theory, sir. Everyone is competent at a certain level until they’re promoted into the next job which exceeds their skill or talent level. Then they can’t rise any higher because they’re no longer good at what they do. Stuck, you see.”
She tried to count the number of bruises she’d obtained in the last hour and lost count once she reached double figures. Her spine ached. On the nearby consoles, lights flashed various alarming shades of red and orange.
“I can’t say I agree with much of the things you say, but it seems you might be onto something with that idea. Certainly in Chchia’s case—”
Another explosion, this time from the rear of the craft, cut off Morvis’ words.
“It’s happening all over the ship, sir.” In for a penny, in for a pound. Or rather, in for a bit, in for a byto. Her words tumbled out. “Look, Topher was a great assistant to Chef Kzz but he’s got no sense of smell or tastebuds. It’s not his fault, but his face is entirely comprised of eyeballs, sir. Hard to taste anything that way.”
Morvis stared. “But he worked so hard. He’s earned the right to advancement.”
“And Hllela,” Finto continued, “considering she’s essentially a large slug who leaves trails of mucus everywhere she goes, I’m not sure a janitorial role is best suited to her—” Something in the corner of the command deck, which she recognized as part of their only surviving survey drone, was emitting plumes of purple smoke. “Excuse me, sir, is that a wing from our—…”
“Oh, Drenn accidentally flew into the side of the ship while trying out a new manoeuvre. Don’t make another fuss.”
“See, this is exactly what I mean! We’re trying to make do with too little crew and only the most meagre equipment.” Despite herself, she could feel her temper starting to fray again. “Drone controls aren’t made for tiny hooves and besides, I’ve seen corpses with faster reflexes than Drenn. I’ve long said he should never have been allowed near any—”
The commander’s facets glowered. “This is all starting to sound a bit unenthusiastic, Finto.”
Enthusiasm was a key component of Morvis’ managerial strategy, although it could not have been said to be a winning one. Finto straightened, gritting her teeth. “No, sir. I’m very… keen, sir.”
A massive cruiser slid past the windows, taking up the entirety of the view.
“Ah. We’re here,” Morvis said. “Better late than infinity, eh? And you’ll have that engine fixed up in no time, won’t you?”
She sighed. “Of course, Commander.”
Morvis turned, casting a refracted glance over his shoulder. “Oh and Finto, before I forget, I have a meeting with Captain Hork later today.” He jerked a diamond-encrusted limb in the direction of the cruiser. “He’s been on the lookout for extra staff for another adventure later this month. Something about the surface of the sun, I wasn’t really paying attention. And the thought has crossed my mind lately that, particularly in light of your waning ardour, no doubt brought on by a lack of real challenges…” His facets glinted. “You’re long overdue for a promotion.”
Lindz McLeod is a queer, working-class, Scottish writer who lives in Edinburgh. Her prose has been published by/is forthcoming in Catapult, Hobart, Flash Fiction Online, Pseudopod, and more. She is a member of the SFWA and is represented by Headwater Literary Management.