Obie almost regretted his decision about cleaning when he
found out his first task was the head, but a gentle reminder from Moody (he
simply stood and twitched his fingers in Obie's face)
convinced Obie that there were worse things in life
than clean ing toilets. An incidental by-product of
the task that made Obie's life more pleasant was an
improvement in the atmosphere of the ship (both breathing-wise and
personnel-wise) with the sudden drastic reduction in free methane and reported
cases of constipation.
Obie had thought he was using up his supply of garbage
bags at a heavy rate when he was just cleaning up after himself, but with has
new duties dunging out cabins, lockers, holds and any place else that Moody
could point had Obie pushing bags out the disposhole at an alarming rate. He only hoped his supply
lasted until freedom or twitch-twitch he did part.
An extra onus was placed on Obie when the crew found out he could cook when he made
himself a small snack of crab newburg
out of supplies he found in forgotten corners of a hold. Now he was cook as
well as maid, but at least he was no longer having to
survive on sandwiches and beer.
It was only a few days later as Obie was returning from the laundry room after washing
linens and dumping another load of full bags that Moody stopped him in the
corridor. From the way Moody was smiling Obie knew he
was in trouble, or at least was g oing to have more
work to do. He was right twice.
"Ah, Mac," Moody enthused.
"Just the man I was looking for."
"I was afraid of that," Obie mumbled.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Sure?"
"Positive."
"Good."
"Not again."
"What?"
"Short
sentences."
"Oh."
In an attempt to avoid screaming, Obie decided to get to the point. "Pray tell me, my
putative lord and master, what new and wondrous exploitative endeavor hast thy
diminutive and demented mentality devised for my further edification and
ultimate de gradation?"
Moody devoted a moment to staring, then managed, "What?"
"What," Obie
sighed, "do you want me to do now?"
"Oh. Well, we will soon be arriving at
our hide-a-planet and we wish to celebrate. Prepare food."
Obie looked at Moody. "Prepare food?" Moody
nodded. "What does that mean -- 'prepare food'?"
"How difficult can that be to
understand? It's only two words - prepare food."
"The words," Obie
said patiently, "I comprehend. It's the interpretation of them I'm having
difficulty with."
"Oh?"
"Yes. What do you mean by food?"
"That chewy stuff you shove in your
face," Moody grated, "something I'm considering doing to you."
Quailing slightly, Obie
backed up a step. "Please, sir," he cringed, "I merely want to
know what kind of food, and what I'm supposed to use to make it."
"Something good," Moody glowered, then stomped off.
Obie started looking in the galley for "something
good", then moved to each hold in turn. He found
some canned potted fowl, but upon opening one he decided the name was correct
but the spelling was wrong. Nonetheless, he wasn't going to have to eat it,
just cook something with it. And it would certainly be better than another balogna soufflYi.
His culinary efforts were interrupted by the
grounding siren, a grating ululation that had Obie
sorry he had ever cleaned up the alarm system. He pushed a full garbage bag
into the galley disposhole to avoid having to
jettison it on the (he assumed) pristine world below and strapped himself to
the nearest wall. A slight subaudible thud was
followed by a thunderous silence, broken a moment later by Moody. "Secure
all systems. Meet in the mess for a victory banquet." Obie
felt that "victory" was a bit premature, but banquet meant now.
Quickly he returned to his pots and pans and
scattered spices and condiments with mad abandon, not wishing to keep Moody
awaiting his food. A bulkhead buckling "Now!" emanating from the mess
next door convinced Obie that dinner was served. He
gathered together various tureens and casseroles, dumped them on a tray and
staggered the load through the hatch. Hoping that presentation would offset
content, he placed the tray with a flourish before Moody's glower and whipped the
cover off the main dish.
"What," Moody asked with subsonics, "is it?"
Obie, who had been asking himself that same question for
some time, smiled. "An excellent question, sir."
"If so, it deserves an
excellent answer."
"Indeed, sir. It does."
"Well?"
"Well, sir?"
Moody scowled. "One more two syllable
sentence from you and you'll discuss oral interpretation with Ms. Quincannon."
"Yes, sir, indeed,
sir, whatever you say, sir. This,
sir," Obie pointed at the tureen, "is Fowl
Stew a la Prospero."
Moody looked at the dish. "How do you
spell that?"
"P-R-O-S-P--"
"Not that word. The
first one."
"Oh. F-O-W-L."
"You're sure."
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Then as a special treat, you are
invited to join us for dinner."
"Sir?" Obie squeaked.
"Sit. Eat. Enjoy."
"But sir--"
"Sit." Obie
sat. Moody scooped a large dollop of Fowl Stew a la Prospero and deposited it
with a glurpy shplat on a
plate and set it before Obie.
"Eat." Obie
stared at the glutinous mass before him, then, deciding that ingestion was the
better part of valor, loaded a fork with about two grams and poked it
tentatively at his face.
"Enjoy." Obie's
answering smile seemed less than sincere as he felt his throat close to protect
his stomach. His tongue, thereby trapped in the same room with the Fowl Stew
ran gibbering about his mouth in an attempt to escape, pounding vainly behind Obie's clenched teeth.
"How is it?" Moody inquired.
Obie's response was less than clear what with his clenched
teeth and a tongue doing calisthenics, but he did manage to gurgle out
something that Moody took as an affirmative. He glopped
out a portion for each member of the crew and passed the plates along, then
began shoveling. His eyes widened as the taste penetrated and his eyes swiveled
at Obie who immediately felt an overwhelming desire
to join his garbage bags in deep space. Moody's adam's apple did several push ups as he swallowed a
few times, then when he mouth was, in his opinion, adequately clear for speech,
he spoke. "Great!" A chorus of similar expressions spewed from the
rest of the crew.
"Why haven't you made this before?"
Moody asked around another shovelful.
"I thought I'd save it for an occasion,"
Obie answered, wiping his chin.
"Well, you've certainly picked the right
occasion -- our victory over the Federation, which will soon no longer
exist." Moody leaned close to Obie and wrapped
his arm around his shoulders. "You know, Mac, I like you. You're great to
have around, jus' great. You'll ma' some woman a grea'
whiff some..." Moody ran down like the drool on
his chin and slumped into his plate. Obie glanced
quickly at the rest of the crew but they were in much the same condition as
their captain -- out cold.
Not knowing how long
the pure alcohol and soporifics he had laced the dinner with would keep
everyone out, Obie ran down the corridors to the comm room. He then ran back to the mess, screaming
obscenities, to get the key. By the time he returned to the comm
room his run was only slightly slower than a walk, but he hoped sufficient.
Barely waiting for the hatch to slide aside he stumbled to the radio and
punched up a broadband broadcast for help, preferably in the form of a
Federation cruiser with a full complement of marines.
Switching to receive he was surprised to hear
a reply. "This is a Federation cruiser, we have a full complement of
marines, and we'll be there in approximately fifteen minutes. Now kindly shut
up."
Obie sat back with a sense of accomplishment closely
mingled with a sense of confusion. He had managed to carry out his mission (he
hoped), but how had they got there that fast? Oh, well, he mused, at least I
can now get back to my office and my ro utine. No more space spy for him.
#
"Well, Mr. McElhaney,
you have succeeded, have you not?"
"Indeed, sir. I am amazed -- that is,
pleased to report that I have."
Governor Quincy-Morefforde's
corpulent face pursed itself like a deflating balloon as he savored a
particularly fine swig of lemonade. "Yes, you have." He glanced at Obie. "How?"
"How, sir?"
"Yes. How did you manage it?"
Obie proceeded to describe his adventures on the Star
Ranger, interrupted only by an occasional question or belch. "What
happened after the cruiser landed?" the governor asked.
"Well, sir, they came storming in after
I opened the airlock and quickly and efficiently took Captain Moody and his
crew in hand."
"And the professor and his
daughter?"
"The professor was more than happy to
accompany the squad of marines that surrounded him, and a sergeant even larger
than Amanda and with a reminiscent twitch bundled her off in a cargo net."
The governor nodded his head like a boulder
falling off a cliff and held out his hand. "Well, Mr. McElhaney,
congratulations on a job well done, and welcome to the ranks."
"Ranks, sir?"
"Certainly. After your adventures you surely do not wish to
return to that hole you were in. You are hereby promoted into the Federation
Special Services."
Eyes widening in horror, Obie
stammered, "But, sir--"
"No, no," the governor continued
magnanimously. "No need to thank me. I believe there is a commander
outside who has your first assignment." He shook Obie's
hand warmly and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good luck."
Suddenly in the hall, Obie
looked rather wild-eyed at a Navy commander who was clearly waiting for him.
"You McElhaney?" the commander asked.
For a brief moment Obie
considered denying it, but the look in the commander's eye made the moment even
briefer. "Yes."
"This is for you," the commander
said, holding out an envelop.
"What is it?"
"Your orders."
"Orders?"
"For your
assignment."
"Assignment?"
Momentary violence burned in the commander's
eyes, but he controlled it. "Yes. It's time for you to get to work."
"Work."
"Yes." The commander handed Obie a pink slip. "Here. This is for you, too."
"What is it?"
"Remember all that garbage you
jettisoned from the Star Ranger?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's how we found you so
quickly. An admiral's barge ran into a pile of your garbage. Made
a real mess. He insisted that we find out who the slob was who was
messing up the space ways. We tracked your bags all the way to Moody's hideout.
"
"So that's how you did it." Obie looked at the piece of paper. "But what's
this?"
"That? It's a ticket for littering. What
else?"
Go to A
Dirty Little War, Obie's second adventure
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