In which Kara does the washing-up
F
ar away, in another universe or another reality or somewhere else entirely, the perfection that is Kara-Tay, erstwhile pleasure android, erstwhile Empress of the Universe, erstwhile doing the washing up, was cursing that the dishwasher had broken. After the last service, the systems in her aging Time-Cylinder were starting to show problems, and a slight religious undertone. She should have known better than to use the ‘Ninth Day Opportunists’, worshippers of Clarkson, Patron Saint of Powered Wheeled Vehicles, on a ship which clearly had no wheels; but they were cheap. The recently-fitted ‘flappy paddle’ power controls made her relocations somewhat difficult, and in consequence instead of a quick trip to the shops to stock up on pizza for the SCT engineering team, she had found herself rematerialising inside a strange environment, which was described on the readouts as ‘Tween Space’. This had a generally purple tinge, and confused the controls; how do you find a way back, they reported, when you haven’t any reference to determine where you started from?
There was no immediate panic. Despite having to freeze the pizzas to stop them going off, Kara knew that when she did get back into External Space, she could simply set the Time controls for a moment after she left, and therefore the engineers would be able to continue working, without realising they hadn't had a break for the last three months, and the pizzas were of considerable vintage. Production had to continue to meet the demand for flying cars. The basic materials were there in the form of the Hynishota range of affordable, but unimaginative, vehicles, but the customisation required love and hard work, and plenty of carbohydrate and fizzy sugar.
Kara regarded her ‘dish-pan’ hands with disgust. Her skin might have been impervious to most things, but the washing-up liquid, while it removed the grease and burnt-on stains to give that bluey-white, squeaky clean, autumn-fresh smell, sort of cleanness, also played havoc with her outer covering. She dried her hands on a cloth, itself already starting to dissolve, and wandered across to the regeneration unit.
“Just the hands this time,” she muttered, thrust them into the chamber, and operated the starter with her nose. There was the sound of someone shaking marbles inside a cardboard tube, and a brief burst of ‘Jessica’ by the ‘Allman Brothers Band’, and then a green glow played over the inserted members. The hands returned to their original smoothness, but Kara noted, with slight concern, that the machine energy levels were fluctuating. She pressed a newly-fitted lever at the side The chamber gave a roar, a cloud of smoke and then settled down to purr nicely. She switched it off and let the extracts clear the room, while she went back down into the control section of the cylinder.
A light was flashing on the command console. It had the image of a stick with sparks coming out of the top. Kara peered at it and pressed a few of the controls. Nothing happened. She rummaged under the console and drew out a tattered manual; ‘Reconditioned Time Cylinder Workshop Manual’ it proclaimed on the greasy cover. She flicked through the pages and discovered the description for the new control panel the maintenance crew had fitted on a piece of brushed-aluminium, bolted to the console. Each of the warning lights was detailed, and this one had a page to itself.
“This auburn light, Emergent Hadron Distress Beacon,” it said. “Safety device trigger if other system jamming hadron waves. Without hadron beacon, humble Time Cylinder unable translocation with somewhat exactness. Bless you. Best options in any or all combinations are:
“I suppose I should see what the distress is about,” said Kara.
She set the large control on the panel to position 2 and pressed the ‘Restart’ button. The ship rumbled as the mock-turbines, fitted purely for the sound they made, cut in, and then the Time Cylinder materialised on a planet suffering from frequency absorption in all but the 400-445 nanometre wavelengths.
The navigation unit reported, “Outside appearance honestly of indigo and violet and atmosphere thick, as are reported to be the indigenous species.”
Kara adjusted her optical sensors to improve her vision and stepped outside. She was instantly surrounded by a group of the aforementioned species, throwing themselves on the ground in front of her and rubbing dirt into their hair.
“Hi,” she said. “Is there a problem?”
“It speaks, it speaks Archangel.” A susurration went through the assembly. “It’s a bloody miracle.”
“It’s not a bloody miracle,” said Kara, “it’s the automatic translation circuits and the forcing of air across a set of piano strings I use as vocal chords.”
“Piano. Another miracle. Perhaps it can replace the middle-C string on our broken Steinbeck.”
“For Phoist’s sake, stand up. Is there someone in charge?”
“The Great Archangel,” muttered the assembly. “It knows the Great Archangel; a real god, to be sure. We are at your mercy, o great one.”
“My mercy is going to be swift and violent if you don’t get up and stop grovelling,” said Kara, slapping the monkey-wrench into her palm. “I want one of you to speak for the others. Who will it be?”
The tribespeople remained prostrate. Kara took one by his immaculately ironed collar and dragged him upright. He tried to avert his eyes.
“You, what is your name?” She shook the man. “Tell me or I will be applying my wrench to your private parts, if you have any. Where are they by the way?”
The man pointed down to where Kara was swinging the wrench near his lower regions. “All my parts are public to you, o merciful one. I would consider it the highest honour if you apply your monkey-wrench to any part of my body.”
“You can speak then. Good. What is your name?”
“Alas, we are too unworthy to be honoured with names. The only name here is the Great Archangel. This world of ours is called the Great Archangel. That up there,” he said, pointing at the swirling sky, “is the Great Archangel. This here,” he said, indicating the dusty ground, “is the Great Archangel...”
“I think I understand,” said Kara, releasing his collar. “Nice ironing of the shirt, though. Very smart.”
“It is our duty to always present an agreeably starched archangel,” said the man. “The Great Archangel demands it.”
“Then I must meet the Great Archangel,” said Kara. “Can you take me there?”
The man looked confused. He stared at the sky, then he stared at the ground and then he stared at where his private parts might have been.
“Not that or this or even those,” said Kara. “I need to see the Great Archangel who must be obeyed.”
“Ah, then you will probably be advised to follow me. It is my duty to return to the Great Archangel under even the lamest of excuses.”
The man set off through the thick atmosphere, and Kara followed, now closely flanked by the rest of the tribe. She gave them sharp looks, but each time she did, they put their hands in front of their faces and muttered, “The Great Archangel.” As she scowled and shouldered her monkey-wrench, some of the men also shielded their private parts, as a small act of genital preservation.
The native village was dilapidated, even by care-home for the elderly standards, but at the end of the dirt street through the middle was a magnificent palace, built of polished limestone blocks, and it was to this that the tribe led Kara. They were met by two more men, slightly less grubby, and armed with primitive stone clubs. These new ones regarded the monkey-wrench with interest and tried to take it off her. She pushed them away and they fell to the ground, moaning.
“We beg your forgiveness, o clean one. We did not mean to cause offence. We have been instructed by the Great Archangel that you will now be seen. Please follow us into the atrium.”
“Why don’t you get up?” said Kara, after a few minutes trailing the guards as they dragged themselves along the floor.
“It is not permitted in the Great Presence.”
“I’ll show myself in then, thank you.”
To gasps of horror from behind her, Kara strode up to the door, leading, she presumed, to the atrium, and shoved it open.