11.

THE SECRET OF THE OOZE

CAPTAIN COX HAD BEEN sitting alone in his cell for so long now that his face had stopped hurting. As a life long law loyalist, this was a position he never dreamed of finding himself in. Well, there was that time he bought Krispy Kremes but pressed the number code for cheap dinner rolls. The attendant didn’t question him when he claimed he made a mistake, but she knew. Oh, she definitely knew.

So maybe he shouldn’t be surprised to have ended up in here, given his willingness to commit acts of such depravity. Still, he’d be lying if he didn’t find the implications unnerving. With his pale, lean bod and his feathery blonde hair, it didn’t take a genius to figure out how all the other inmates were going to see him: everyone was going to think he was a wimp. He would have to find someone and bribe them into letting him shank them just to show everybody he ain’t no goof.

It sure was taking a while for them to send someone to talk to him. Maybe the pursuit of justice was regarded around here as a kind of tortoise and hare type of dealio. Or maybe it hadn’t been that long at all, and he only thought it had because he had no way of telling time inside this otherwise-empty holding cell. Or maybe they had forgotten about him and he was going to become one of those neglected prisoners who slowly goes insane due to cabin fever. Or maybe he was already serving his sentence because everything was decided on the other side of that door without him . . . which would also lead to him going insane with cabin fever! This was getting maddening! Thankfully, the door opened and his mental torture could stop—potentially to be replaced by real torture, but he could fret about that later.

“Good afternoon, Mister Cox,” Sir Percival Todgerworth uttered with audible smarm.

“Captain Cox.”

Percy sighed and set his tablets and space mug on the table. He smoothed his tie, smoothed his hair, and smoothed his hands before taking a seat with a slow elegance. Once comfortable, he clasped his fingers and regarded Cox with a sober expression.

“You are not a captain, Mister Cox. You have no military affiliation, nor any other officially recognized designation of importance. You are merely a man who claims ownership of a piece of machinery staffed by simpletons who follow your orders presumably because you are either paying them or threatening their lives. I have a canoe that I enjoy paddling on the Thames; it grants me the same qualification to be considered a captain by your standards.”

The space captain seemed rather elated by that last comment.

“I don’t mind calling you captain if you want. It could be something we have in common! Maybe even help smooth things out a little between us, y’know?”

“You know what will help smooth things out between us, Mister Cox? You explaining to me why a child of an affluent family, such as yourself, not only attended but completed Education Station’s most prestigious university program, their coveted Master’s Degree in Everything, only to devote his time to a job that we’ve nearly replaced with giant slingshots.” Cox’s mouth fell open.

“Whoa, whoa there, buddy! Well look at you with your, well, oversimplifications and stuff! You can make any job sound dumb with the right wording.”

“Do it with my job, then. Right now.”

“Oh, well, okay then. Um. What’s the point of secret agents anyway, huh? Sneaking on into other countries and taking their stuff and . . . and their information. Why not try asking them first? See, that’s the problem with today’s society. Everybody just assumes everybody else is gonna say no! And then they’re too afraid to be the first one to say yes, so they also say no. And then we get all stuck working against one another because nobody was brave enough to reach out! So maybe your job isn’t dumb, but it’s the product of dumbness.” Percy took a dignified sip from his mug.

“I see,” he said with a nod. “Well, I suppose that answers my question from before. Of course, it also prompts the question of how you managed to graduate from the school mentioned during the aforementioned question.”

“Hah. I get it; you’re making fun of me. But I swear I passed the same way everybody else did. With good marks too! And they weren’t influenced at all by any of the huge donations my parents made.”

Something in the way Percy stared at him with bored eyes, slowly slouching into his chair, made him seem unconvinced. Without adjusting his squished posture, he picked a tablet from the table and mulled it over.

“Mmm, yes. I will take that into consideration,” he mused as he read. His tongue ticked, filling the silence as he tried to reconcile the man before him with the man on the form.

“So tell me then, Tim . . . er . . . Timon Cox. How did your parents come by this vast wealth with which they can command prestigious schooling but not gainful employment for their child? Surely there was some sort of nepotistic job within their company that would offer a better life than this.”

“Oh, they don’t have a company.” Cox replied. “After they got rich, people started sponsoring them to get blackout drunk at nightclubs and take selfies. You know, like all rich people without incomes.”

“I am familiar with the practice, yes. Yet that explains neither the origins of the funds nor your current occupation. I mean, even without a family company, it’s common knowledge that even the most dimwitted and unmotivated of upscale youth can always rely on being offered lucrative employment to lavishly spend their parents’ money, so long as it too is accompanied by visual documentation.”

There was a beat; the first time Cox didn’t answer straight away. The room almost seemed to dim as he couldn’t help but avert his gaze for a moment.

“Yeah . . .” He lamented. “They really wanted me to. I mean, I did for a little while. It was kind of fun, I guess, but I dunno. Living life with no responsibilities, eating and drinking way too much of whatever you want, having beautiful women throw themselves at you without even having to try . . . That just seemed like no way to live to me! I wanted to do something. To feel accomplished.”

“Mmm, most interesting. That absolutely fits with the MO that I have decided you have. We are making progress, Mister Cox.”

He clicked away excitedly on the tablet, presumably recording these new findings of his.

“H-hey, what are you writing?! Just ’cause I don’t want to follow in their footsteps doesn’t mean I don’t love my parents.”

“I couldn’t possibly care less if you love your parents,” the agent muttered. “If you must know, I am making note of your motivations. Spoiled progeny rebelling from luxurious mores in search of purpose finds himself caught up in a terrorist plot masquerading as rebellion. Classic defector from decadence; a right champagne socialist, even, given that overpriced space camper you parade yourself around in. You’re quite old for such a rebellious phase though.”

“Can we time this out for one second and let me ask a question?”

“Absolutely not. You are entitled to none of my knowledge while I am entitled to all of yours.”

“But can you at least tell me what it is you think me and my crew are doing?!” Cox spread his hands in either desperation or in memory of that fish he caught once. “You keep throwing the word ‘terrorist’ around and now you’re talking about rebellions and socialism and . . . and . . . I’m so lost!” Percy studied him intently. His narrowing British eyes struggled to pierce past the provincial pretences he still suspected and into the nefarious ne’er-do-well he knew to be true. But, mostly, he was trying to find a way to legitimise the wild and baseless speculation he made.

“I know more than you think I do, Mister Cox.” He angled his face downward to cast a sinister shadow upon his face to match his voice. “I know all about your associate, Mister Banks, and I know everything there is to know about the unstable specimen that you or he possesses.”

“Except where it is.”

“Are you mocking me, you oaf?”

“No.”

“WARNING: LIE DETECTED.”

“Maybe. Sorry.”

“I do not know what role you play in the machinations currently unfolding, but your unwillingness to cooperate does little to stem my suspicion of you. That being said, your generalized ignorance tempts me into the belief that you could well be little more than a pawn in the overarching plot at hand, so I shall attempt to appeal to your conscience, instead of your intellect.”

Todgerworth cleared his throat and cocked his head side to side before sitting up as straight as possible and gently laying his hands upon the table. If he didn’t have such a silly-looking moustache he would have been rather intense looking. Cox still wasn’t completely convinced that the man didn’t secretly have assless chaps and nipple tassels underneath that fresh-pressed funeral attire of his.

“The specimen we are seeking to retrieve from Mister Banks is an alien amoeboid organism unlike any we have ever encountered within our solar system. It has the unique ability to consume and dissolve nearly all organic matter it comes into contact with, including plants, food, and, of course, living creatures. The size of the matter is inconsequential, as this organism will grow in size at a rate commensurate with what it consumes. These qualities, coupled with its nigh invulnerability against nearly every form of eradication besides potent acids, drives me to search for and procure it.”

“Wow,” Cox whispered. “That stuff sounds dangerous.”

“Of course it’s dangerous, you doughnut! That’s why we want it.”

It was a lot to take in for the intrepid sorta-captain. He asked about space socialism revolutions and got an earful of probably classified information about alien death goo. This must be how newly elected presidents feel. Especially since he was also pretty sure his risk of getting shot in the face by somebody was increasing by the second. But there was no time to be awed. This wasn’t like the time he saw the ocean, or every time Kim took her top off; this was serious stuff that wasn’t to be enjoyed. It needed critical consideration. And not just the stuff about the stuff, but also the stiff spouting the stuff and stuff.

“What do you guys want it for, anyway?” He asked slyly, twiddling where his moustache would be if he had one.

Percy scoffed.

“That is none of your concern.” With a steady hand he took a sip from his mug, pinky up, before continuing. “Our intentions are irrelevant as you are obligated to comply with our demands.”

“Am I? I thought England was a free country.”

The Brit snorted into his tea.

“A free country? Wot do you think we are? North Korea?”

Cox drummed his hands on the table. He couldn’t think of a response right away, but felt compelled to keep the beat of the back-and-forthing going. Thankfully, Todgerworth was still so busy chuckling to himself at the previous notion that he missed the momentary look of elation that spread on the captain’s face. After literally wiping the light bulb expression away, Cox took his turn to slouch and finger clasp. With squinted eyes and puckered lips he regarded his captor.

“Well, I think it is my concern. I mean, if you expect me to give it to you, then I’m gonna need to know what you’re gonna do with it.”

Todgerworth raised an eyebrow.

“Is this your attempt to be clever, Mister Cox? Because I’m afraid all you have done is admit to me that you do indeed possess what I desire. And one way or another I will get it from you, regardless of your demands.”

“Mmm, most interesting,” Cox mimicked his accent. “Well, Mister Todgerworth, I do believe that you have indeed admitted to me that your intentions are indeed not ones that I would indeed find to be favourable.”

“I indeed may have. What of it?”

“Well, while you aren’t wowed by it, the Jefferson has a couple tricks up her sleeve. You can search it all ya like. Unless you take her apart screw-by-screw, you’re never gonna find your stuff.”

“Well, we can and will take it apart screw-by-screw if we must.”

“Oh . . . are you gonna put it back together when you’re done?”

“No.”

“Aw . . .” Cox crumbled out of his game-faced façade. “That’s gonna take forever for me to put back together.”

“Mister Cox, I have had just about enough of this!” Todgerworth finally snapped. His perfectly parted hair flopped into a Hitler-esque undercut as he leapt to his feet in furor. With shaking fists and a quivering moustache, he channelled his memories of his prep school principal.

“I have not the time to engage you in this juvenile chitchat any longer. You seem to feel content to waste my time, but would that feeling persist if you knew the wrath I could command? Perhaps you do, and yet carry on due to misdirected courage or pants-on-head retardation. But I ask you this. Would you continue to conduct this hubris if I instead targeted that same wrath at your wife?”

Cox’s eyes widened. He too stood, but the usual flamboyance with which he conducted himself had vanished. Instead it was slow and deliberate, like a snake waiting to strike. His hands slid over the smooth glass as he bent at the waist to bring his face closer to Percy, unwavering in his gaze and unafraid.

“If you touch one hair on my wife’s head . . .” He spoke in a low tone. “. . . She will kick your ass.”

“That might possibly be the most spineless answer that threat has ever received.”

“Well, I’m not really much of an ass kicker myself. I mean I have dabbled, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not really my thing. I’m a talker, y’know? I think words can solve all problems if you just give ’em a chance. Plus, Kim’s got a way meaner swing than me anyway. Whoa-boy, if you knew some of the things that woman could do. . . . That sounded kinda sexual, but I meant to your face. Like, with her feet. And hands. And pretty much any household object . . .”

“Are you going somewhere with this?”

“I am, actually! Can I have some of your tea?”

Percy blinked at him.

“ . . . What?”

“Your tea. That is tea, right? It smells like tea. They haven’t given me anything to drink since I got here.”

The Brit raised his mug and then an eyebrow.

“You could not possibly handle the way I take my tea, Mister Cox. It’s been superheated to over 300 degrees Celsius. One sip would scald your lips off.”

“Ah c’mon, it can’t be that bad. You’ve been sipping it since you got here!”

“That is because I have gradually become accustomed to it over my long tea-drinking career!”

“Just lemme give it a try!”

“Oh, for the love of—” Percy rolled his eyes but handed the beverage over nonetheless. “This is going to render you even more useless than you already are, but for schadenfreude’s sake, I just can’t resist.”

The eager-beaver drink receiver hungrily snatched up the stein. A pop of the top sent plumes of steam billowing upward like a witch’s bubbling cauldron, lining the ceiling of their cramped room with a caffeine-infused haze.

Cox took one cursory glance inside before splashing the contents in the secret agent’s face.

Percy’s dignity gave way to searing pain. He screamed and grasped at the air around himself, recoiling so hard his chair tipped over backwards and sent him crashing to the floor, where he lay dancing the discomfort disco. Ever-sympathetic, even while administering third degree burns, the captain offered a meek “Sorry,” and a concerned grimace before stepping over the writhing body and inspecting his next obstacle: the door.

It was quite a bore of a door; same dull grey like pretty much every other door that’d been made in the last couple hundred years. Boilerplate boiler plate embedded with the standard superfluous blinking lights made for a flat barrier with no handholds to fruitlessly pull at. His shoes did have lasers built into them, but if Kim’s display on board the Jefferson had taught him anything it was the fact they probably wouldn’t be very useful. This forced him to move straight to his brain-based escape plans. First point of attack was to check to see if the door was even locked. An unlocked door was an easy obstacle to navigate, but it was one that had been foiling college students for millennia.

With a steady hand and surgical precision, Cox pushed the “open door” button. Then, with a limp wrist and Parkinson’s precision, he pressed it several more times. The exit remained as impenetrable as the Space Titanic’s hull . . . or, rather, as it theoretically was supposed to be. But that was only the first plan of many! The next plan was to come up with another plan.

The captain studied the barrage of mechanisms holding the hatch shut. From the keypad to the eye scanner to the ID card OCR to the CAPTCHA to the motel-quality latch on the door, this room wanted its occupants to stay put more than a lonely grandma. Each were viable restraints, but each also had their weaknesses. Passcodes could be guessed, latches could be broken, and key cards could be pilfered. However, acquiring a viable eyeball was a slight bit more daunting. There were potentially two laying right at his feet, but the still-screaming man they belonged to probably didn’t feel like sharing them. Not to mention the fellow was surely deserving of a break at this point.

Admittedly, the one plus side of trying to tear out the man’s eyes with his bare hands like a damn savage would be perpetuating the colourful vocabulary that had been spewing throughout the whole debacle. Nobody ever accused the Brits of not having a way with words. It wasn’t enough to make Cox give it a shot, though.

“Hmmm,” he audibly pondered. “Computer! Unlock the door.”

“Please state name of individual authorizing command,” a pleasant female voice responded.

“Captain Cox!”

“I am sorry. Individual does not exist in personnel registry.”

“Fair enough. Register new employee: Captain Cox.”

“New Personnel file for Private ‘Captain Cox’ has now been created.”

“Cool! Now, open the door. Authorization: Captain Cox.”

“Unable to perform request. Employee is not a high enough rank to authorize command.”

Cox folded his arms and slumped against the wall. With a dainty hand he administered absent-minded strokes to his bald chin. He was not defeated yet; he just had to be clever, that’s all. Mechanical minds such as these were designed to perform tasks. Very rarely were they capable of considering the meaning behind the tasks they were requested to perform. He could work with that.

“Computer!” He announced again. “Who is the highest ranking officer in this station?”

“The current Chief Executive Officer of Guantanamo Station is Warden Boehner.”

“Right, then! Unlock the door. Authorization: Warden Boehner.”

“Request denied. Current speaker has already identified self as Private ‘Captain Cox.’”

“Well touché, miss attentive; I guess you’re smarter than I thought. Hmmm.”

Percy appeared to have passed out from the pain. His chest still gently swelled from his spot on the floor, so Cox’s conscience remained clear for him to strategize.

“Computer! Grant Captain Cox authorization for . . . um, everything.”

“Unable to perform request. Employee is not high enough rank to grant authorizations.”

“Okay, then remove rank requirement to grant authorizations.”

“Unable to perform request. Employee is not high enough rank to reassign permissions.”

“Boy, this is getting repetitive. Fine, how about this: grant me all authorizations.”

“Unable to perform request. Employee is not high enough—”

“Override!”

“Access denied. Overriding that command is restricted to deputy wardens or above.”

“Delete override restrictions of that command.”

“Unable to perform request. Employee is not high enough rank to delete override restrictions of that command.”

“Override the rank requirement to delete override restrictions of that command.”

“Access denied. Overriding that command is restricted to deputy wardens or above.”

“Delete the rank requirement to . . . uh . . . override the rank requirement to delete override restrictions of that command.”

“Access denied. Employee is not high enough rank to delete override restrictions of that command.”

“‘Kay . . . Override the rank requirement to delete the rank requirement to override the rank requirement to delete override restrictions of that command.”

“Request performed. Rank requirements to delete rank requirements to override rank requirements to delete override restrictions of authorization granting have now been overridden.”

“Holy crap that actually worked. Alright, uh, delete rank requirements to override rank requirements to delete override restrictions of—.”

“I have has considered all commands given and understand employee’s ultimate intention. For the sake of expedition, all requested restrictions have been removed and authorizations granted. Have a nice day, likely-to-soon-to-be-court-marshalled Private Captain Cox.”

Without further ado, the door slid into the wall and revealed the hall that lay beyond. It appeared the employees had started up some kind of Christmas party since he arrived. Vibrant red lights flashed across the walls and everyone was running down the hallway with some kind of excitement. No carols were playing over the speakers, though, just some kind of shrill, repetitive tones that instilled a sense of danger.

“You!” A tall, broad shouldered man with a buzzcut barked at him. “Why don’t you look alarmed?”

“Should I be alarmed?”

“There’s an alarm sounding!”

“Oh . . . OH! Yeah. Sorry I’m, uh, new.”

The man cocked his head to the side, nose wrinkled down at the comparatively puny fellow. Without moving his head, he traced his eyes toward the ceiling.

“Hey, Siri, is this guy in the system?”

“Yes. Individual is recognized as Private Captain Cox.”

“People will name their kids anything these days . . . But good enough for me! Here, have a gun, Private Captain. Do you know where the exit is?”

“Is it the same place as the entrance?”

“Why, yes it is! Go stand there with everybody else standing there. If you see someone running from a big group of guys who look like me, shoot them in the knees.”

In true military-man fashion, he grunted instead of a proper goodbye and trundled his way down the hall with the rest of the stampede. In true escaping-criminal fashion, Cox opted to go in the direction that all the other law enforcement people weren’t going. Nobody seemed to give him a second glance now that he carried around a killer flashlight. Like a kicked anthill, they all scrambled about their duties seemingly oblivious to the obstacles they sidestepped. Only one person had no task taking up their focus. Instead they stared around in wide-eyed tribulation, like a child separated from their parent at the grocery store.

“Willy?!”

“Oh hey, Captain!” He parted the red-shirt sea and lumbered on over to the friendly face. Like his commander, he didn’t seem perturbed in the slightest by all the hubbub. Cox took him by the arm and led him aside, where prying ears would not listen.

“How did you get out, buddy?” He asked, beaming at his burly companion.

“Oh it was easy,” Willy shrugged. “The door has the same password it had when I worked here. I just waited ’til the guys left and walked out.”

“You’re a genius!”

“I think that’s a gross overstatement.”

“C’mon, buddy. We gotta round up everybody else and get outta here! Should be easy while the guards are distracted by whatever’s going on.”

He whirled around to make his way down the corridor, but kept spinning until he had come full circle.

“What exactly is going on, by the way?”

“Dude, you didn’t hear?! Some inmate went crazy and killed two COs with nothing but a chair!”

“Wow. Well, that is something! Least the rest of the guards will probably be real busy with him for a while.”

“That’s the crazy part; it wasn’t a dude. It was a chick!” Cox’s cheery look melted away like a chocolate barbeque. “Ohhh, boy . . . I was worried this was gonna happen.”

“An inmate going crazy and killing people?”

“Not just any inmate, Willy,” Cox lamented. His bright eyes flashed as they stared a thousand yards into the distance. “My crazy inmate.”

“You had an inmate already?! I hadn’t even got to spin the wheel of torture yet.”

“I meant my wife, actually, but I can see how you might have gotten confused.”

“Were you guys inmates? Is that how you met? Are you actually terrorists after all?!”

“I, no. She was a waitress at—look, never mind. It was a bad metaphor. I should have just said who without using vague pronouns in an attempt to sound dramatic. The point is, if she killed two prison guards—for what I’m sure are completely justifiable reasons—the rest of the prison guards are gonna have it in for her. So we need to get her out before she kills all of them too.”

Gun in one hand, cuff of Willy’s space onesie in the other, he sidled along the wall and peered around the corner. The stragglers of the stampede were just starting to filter off into the depths of the station. Somewhere out of sight, shouts and commotion could be heard echoing their way up the metal corridors. Willy stumbled along behind him, allowing himself to be led but not without resistance.

“Dude, we can’t go out there! It’s a warzone!”

“Love is a warzone, Willy!” Cox declared, looking back to him. “Patrick Benatar.”

“Didn’t you say she was a cop or something?! If anyone could get away with the ‘She went that way’ gag, it’s her!”

“I may have stretched the truth on that a bit. But it doesn’t matter, because she doesn’t do that anymore! Now take this gun and don’t use it; I have a plan. A real one, this time! A plan so great that if it works we will get absolutely no credit, because no one will even know we helped.”