Grt’zak-4 still wasn’t listening, as it was nothing more than a xenocyborg, a mingling of alien and artificial intelligence created with the latest advances in hyperspaced genetic engineering. The researchers at the forefront of the field had not yet mastered the ability to add functional ears to their creations. In fact, Grt’zak-4 was only slightly more advanced than Grt’zak-3, which had been a toaster with legs. Peter rubbed his lantern jaw, ran his tanned fingers through his mop of dirty blonde hair and flexed his rippling muscles as he regarded the collection of classic science fiction stories on the data tape in front of him. “What the hell is this?” he demanded. “Why do all the heroes have to be physical paragons of the race? And geniuses to boot? Not one ugly, shrivelled scientist outside of the villains. The other thing I hate about these stories is the ‘future’ technology. It is always so laughably dated”. He pressed a stud on the data tape reviewer and snorted. “This is pathetic. The dialogue is so transparently expository. If I hear one more monologue explaining the conceit of a story for the benefit of a reader, I’ll destroy myself with my personal particle decompressor!” Peter sighed and tossed the data tape reviewer aside. “Back to work”. He turned a dial on the control board of his Global Transpanmultiunitperambuporter and closed his deep blue eyes.

He continued to speak to Grt’zak-4, which was using its sepia camera eyes and on-board compucomp to navigate a path through some cloth-covered boxes. “Time to get down to brass tacks. Now, if we are to defeat the arachnohordes of Xarrg, we will require a plan”. He snapped his fingers. “I have it! The strange alteration to their gait we observed when they approached the power unit of the Global Transpanmultiunitperambuporter must have been due to some susceptibility to the plasmaphotonic emissions which power the quasi-perpetual motion generator!” He scooped up a portable calculator and tapped in some digits. Soon enough a thin sheet of paper slid out with the answer. “Perfect!” he called in triumph. “Emperor Ibus Canesh of Xarrg will be at our mercy when the plasmaphotonic emissions are directed at his Universal Peon Transmogrifier!!” Peter entered some galactic colossoco-ordinates and turned another metallic dial on the Global Transpanmultiunitperambuporter. With a hum, it turned and shot off to the space-east. “Course set for the Ra Quadrant. Those damned, dirty bugs won’t know what hit ‘em!”

With the colossoco-ordinates tapped in, and the autonavipilosteerer at the helm, Peter picked up the discarded data tape reviewer from the floor of the cockpit. “You know what else I hate? When the writer puts his own name in the story, all mixed up or something. Egotistical cocks, these science fiction authors were. Egotistical cocks. Almost as self-absorbed as Ibus Canesh himself. The other thing is, when they try to make their story a metaphor for some burning social issue. Hoo boy, it makes me so steamed. I’m almost as angry as I was when those Marnish Frogmen killed my parents and fiancee, or when I first found out that the arachnohordes of Xarrg had enforced taxation without representation on the conscripts in their racially pure genocidal units hellbent on seeking asylum and dropping atomic bombs unless their foes agreed to an unconditional surrender and bought their death sticks and cola”.

“It’s no wonder I destroyed the Earth” muttered Peter, or as he was known on his home planet, Peterpwetiohigneragnlaegnreughiueagnwaeowgnowellgnowngowabbwaeg-El. The Martian captain sat back in his chair and regarded his bottom half, which was a glowing, pulsing globe containing the souls of all Earthling science fiction writers.

Back to Articles