White Space Van Man

In a galaxy so close that it is in fact, this one…….

1.

Powered by an unfamiliar energy source, the vessel boomed out of its solar system at a speed immeasurable by our standards. The craft was a humongous semi-organic mechanism, laden with optical amplification missiles and thermonuclear laser-cannons. Pursuing a lesser spherical craft, it gained hastily on its tail.

Firing its dynamic show of weaponry, it lit up desolate space for a thousand cubic miles. With evasive maneuverers the smaller craft dodged the killer ray with centimetres to spare. The minor cruiser rocked haphazardly then continued on its erratic course, gradually gaining distance from the hefty pursuing ship.

Upon witnessing the orbicular ship descend the event horizon of a supermassive black hole, a peculiar olive organism inside the superior craft let out a frustrated exclamation. Within seconds it had vanished. Determined not to be beaten, the being ordered its crew to follow.

2.

A bead of perspiration secreted from the brow of the pilot and trickled to his cheek. With the understanding it was imperative he triumphed, he gripped the steering column. The tenseness of the moment multiplied with the significance of the task. His mind rolled perpetually with the notion that success was crucial.

Oh, oh, yeah…. Yeah, I know this, eagerly shrieked the pilot. It was 83, or was it 84, no, 83, sure it was; I was at college when I met this chick with inverted nip…..

A camp, computerised voice, which made Louie Spence on helium sound macho, interrupted, The correct answer is 2085.

Shut it! It was 83! shouted the pilot; his contemporaries called him Barry, to his face.

2085, repeated the computer voice from nowhere.

83! commanded Barry, his anger building.

2085, calmly insisted the computer.

From the speakers of the space-van a husky voice requested, under a poor quality signal, Can you repeat the question please Ken?

A robotic Scottish accent squeaked from the radio, in whit year waur th' Lunar Loonies at number thee wi' ‘Black Hole Blues’, Martian Martin at number tois wi' ‘Th' Hyperspace Hop’ an' at number a body, Klone-Kayne West wi' ‘Int it abt time sum bud terminated me yo?’

The husky human voice on the radio hesitated as the sound of a ticking clock counted down from five, errm…was it 2084 Ken?

That’s what I said! shouted an over-excited Barry.

The Scottish robot reclaimed the airwaves, Och sorry, a body year ot; 2085!

Fuck! shouted Barry. Fuck the fucking fuckers! and he hastily smashed his forefinger against the button that turned the radio off. Striking it with precision and great fury, the radio fell silent. Every fucking time, I swear I’ll fuck the fucking fuckers until they’re fucked, proper fucked!

Excuse me, I was listening to that, argued the computerised voice from nowhere. I’m updated sufficiently to appreciate the guilelessly mundane trivia that is Ken Hologram Bruce’s eminent pop quiz.

Well, I was getting bored with it, stated Barry.

Because you predicted the wrong year, retorted the computer, whereas my data was exact. This proclamation is more tangible, correct?

Barry sighed, Did I not tell you to shut it?

Command misinterpreted; what appliance or devise would you wish me to shut exactly?

Ignoring the question for the case of his sanity, Barry looked out the windscreen to the void beyond. Haven’t you got something more important you should be doing? he asked his computer. You’re supposed to be the ship’s fucking computer!

Every task assigned is complete, it informed. Can I take this opportunity to explain I have a vigintillion yobibit memory capacity? It takes a decisecond to plot a course, calculate the parameters of our objective, scan any irregularities space-time may cause said objective, and still thrash you at Pop-Master. Please do not get depressed about it…. said the computer.

You what? snapped Barry, getting angrier by the second, you don’t win all the time.

…..or be in denial, the computer continued unfazed. Out of the six-hundred and thirty-seven times you have challenged me to the quiz, I have won 97% of the time. The remaining 3% you only claimed victory because you switched me into hibernation mode 1.347 seconds before the quiz concluded, or else smashed the function button on the radio to its off position prior to the completion of the quiz in your usual frustrated manner.

I don’t do frustration, computer, firmly stated Barry, grasping his travel mug, add this to my profile and be warned, I’ll switch you into hibernation mode again if you don’t shut the fuck up. Taking a huge sip of cold tea Barry quickly spat it back out, Phooey! This tea’s fucking freezing!

You purchased it at the Greggs on Moon-base Seven, informed the computer, which is now two-billion, three-hundred and eleven thousand, seven-hundred and sixty-two miles away. Your Nespresso travel-mug has the capacity of three-hundred and forty-five millilitres. The mean temperature of the space-van is an ambient twenty degrees Celsius, cooling the tea inside the travel-mug at a rate of point-five percent per minute….

Barry slammed his travel-mug in the small microwave oven under the dashboard on the passenger side and let out a yawn intentionally designed to be overheard by the computer’s acoustical array sensor. It failed to respond. Barry was unsure if it purposely chose to ignore the subtle insinuation until it had completed its programmed response, if its software design did not permit it to respond to such gestures of annoyance, or if it was simply unbearably thick-skinned. Take a fucking hint, he muttered under his breath.

Given the input of approximately one-fifth of a pint of milk, the computer continued unperturbed, the tea inside the travel-mug was an estimated zero-point-four percent cooler than boiling point at the time of preparation, and given you added one-hundred and forty-six milligrams of sugar which took one minute and fifteen seconds to locate, calculated to the cooling rate for the liquid…..

Computer, interjected Barry, shut up or shut down, it’s your choice. With one professional swish of his hand he flung the door to the microwave oven open, reached in and tugged out the travel-mug without spillage. On its return journey to his body, the hand banged the radio back on and grasped for a pouch of tobacco from the top of the dashboard.

I fail to see the issue, why do you request my shut-down so harshly? inquired the computer.

Because you didn’t have to calculate the cooling time of my tea, you could have just suggested I got it from Costa Coffee instead, the cups are more thermo-resilient.

This proposal was included within the context of the information, if you would allow me to finish……….

I suggest you don’t, if you like your peripherals where they currently are, threatened Barry as he pulled a cigarette paper from the packet and stuck it to his bottom lip.

Do you have to do that while flying? the computer inquired.

Barry continued, fumbling inside the tobacco pouch and pulling out wiry strands of the dried plant. If you’re going to feed me some bull about the health risks, quoting statistics from some American university or other then you can take your…..

It’s not that, murmured the computer, although I'm scheduled to outline the hazards of smoking tobacco as the finale to my observations. I computed it essential to point out we are currently travelling at light speed two, which is approximately three-hundred and seventy-two thousand, five-hundred and sixty-four miles per second, through the asteroid belt…

Barry exhaled but continued to work on his current activity, and?

…..And do you not feel it perilous to assemble a cigarette whilst using your knees to steer?

He sparked his cigarette. Barry gave no reply, merely considered turning the machine to standby. However, the company he worked for insisted the machine stay on for the entire journey. It was in the contract. They could easily check its database upon his return, rarely would they, but potentially they could if they suspected foul play. The company supervisor suspected everyone, of everything, all of the time. To be frank though, Barry thought, fuck them.

Truth be told, it was a measly job with measly pay, in measly conditions and with measly perks, in conclusion, it was measly all round; a sign of the times.

The universal financial crash happened due to a number of issues, the melting of the polar icecaps flooding colossal areas of the Earth, man’s failure to deal with the depletion of fossil fuels, developing practical alternative solutions, political squabbling between petty groups in power, and just generally being complete cunts.

The consequences of Earth’s recession had a devastating impact on the planetary colonies too, who despite segregating from the mother-planet, still required trade with Earth for survival. It was this excuse which Barry used to convey the reasoning for accepting his employment and denied it was anything to do with the fact he was a fat, lazy bastard, just like the petty groups in power who had fucked the planet Earth up in the first place. So we could add hypocrite to his growing list of criticisms but I think we’ve heard enough to build an accurate picture; he was a lard-arse.

So in such times this job was all the unskilled Barry could find. What really got his goat up though was the given notion he should consider himself lucky for even having this employment. Many people with his low skill level and qualifications were left to swim proficiently or else perish after the great floods of the 2060s.

It was not the vision Barry had for his future when he was younger, not even nearly. Barry longed to become a pod-racer, famous for hitting new speeds and breaking the universal records. Barry wished all his life to find fame and fortune within the racing world and all the luxuries that went with it; the chicks, the money, the booze and more chicks.

But alas it never happened. Instead Barry got this, a life reduced to flying through the solar system on the same old boring route, day in day out; delivering boring hospital supplies. Notwithstanding that he hadn’t a hope of living his dream, being far too overweight to fit into a pod, let alone pilot one.

It’s not as if he could even impersonate a pod-racer and put his foot down in this bashed up old white space-van. The shocks were shot and the whole van jerked about wildly. The hyper-drive coils were haggard which made flying at light speed a very bumpy experience. The antigravity cells were so old and worn, quite often Barry would have to rescue a stray pasty from floating off at will and dangerously entering the air filter system. The radio was one of the few things which did work, which he thanked his lucky stars for; the alternative was to continue chatting to his boring gay-lord computer all shift.

Barry turned the radio up.

…..so, do you not feel it perilous to assemble a cigarette whilst using your knees to steer? repeated the computer.

Barry turned the radio up further.

Then there was always the issue of the hours, travelling across even the shortest areas of the solar system, it was often tricky to know when he would be home for his tea, much to the annoyance of his long-suffering wife.

If by some miracle he returned to Earth at a decent time, his obnoxious, take-it-all-out-on-his-employees boss, would more often than not send him back out to amend a mistake which had not been caused by Barry or a late delivery for some important, absent-minded customer. Oh, the boss would whinge, it’s only two-point-seven billion miles, not like it’s on the other side of the galaxy or nothing.

What a twat! Barry would retort under his breath, but raucous enough to be overheard.

His boss would then slam a hoary threat onto the table. Make it your last day then huh? he would sneer, and mean it too. Barry, although knowing the demand seriously breached the universal code of conduct for employers, accepted it was better to just go ahead and do it to avoid an argument. The result of refusing would cause him no end of stick and abuse from his employer. Barry had to weigh-up which was the worst of two evils, a reprimand from the boss Al, or his infuriated wife.

In short, his boss really was an uncaring, money-grabbing parasite, or bastard as Barry would favour to put it.

Barry sighed and turned the radio a notch louder.

Please respond: Do you not feel it perilous to assemble a cigarette whilst using your knees to steer the craft, as it contravenes the guidelines set out in the white space-van training manual? repeated the computer.

Barry turned the radio up to its maximum.

He hoped and prayed for a better day, but feared more likely this was as good as his life would get. He was pushing 40; time was running out on him. A pod-racer would never be achievable; depressingly he knew this, it never was. His goal was but a fleeting dream, a childhood fantasy, but there had to be just one thing, one special thing in that entire universe out there which was better than his current existence. There must be a billion things better than putting up with this shit, day in day out, he supposed.

Wouldn’t be so bad, he thought if when I did get home the trouble and strife gave me an ounce of respect. Love might be asking too much, but some respect, and perhaps a Cornish pasty and mash. Barry accepted they stayed together because of the kids, the love they once shared had been put to the test of time and the pressure of poverty. Fun had been eradicated, romance was obsolete and sex; well, he’d forgotten what sex was like. Life sucked for Barry, the only good thing he had was his pasty, man; he loved Cornish pasties.

The computer interrupted his sober channel of thought, User.

I told you to shut it.

But User! continued the annoying processor.

Shut it!

Okay, stated the computer indifferent as it was not in its algorithms to worry. Just thought you’d like to be informed your pasty is floating into the air filter system again.

Shit! shouted a suddenly agitated Barry, frantically making haste towards the air filter system and the pasty which was passing into it.

The impact will disintegrate the pastry, meat and vegetable concoction and clog up the filters, the computer explained, Life support could potentially be damaged.

Fuck the life support system, screamed Barry, swerving the space-van drastically as he managed to recapture the stray savoury snack. That’s a Jovian pasty, best pasty this side of Mars!

Can you confirm the offending item has been retrieved successfully? inquired the computer, I will run a diagnostic on the filter system.

Barry turned the pastry product over in his hands while readjusting himself at the helm of the space-van. I’ve lost a small amount of the potato and swede, but I think it’s salvageable, he miserably reported. Barry plonked it down on his lap and returned to the steering-wheel. He was unconcerned if he lost a pea or three, I mean peas had no place in a pasty anyway.

The computer confirmed, The diagnostic turned out clear.

Huh? Barry replied, fat from the steak dribbling down his chin, what diagnostic?

In time, the space-van trekked out of the asteroid belt. Barry had approximately one and a half billion miles of open space before his next drop on Neptune; Mondays were a bummer.

Barry divided his Mondays equally between wishing it was a Tuesday and pretending it was a Tuesday. Barry preferred Tuesdays, they were easy, he only goes as far as the Jovian moon of Io, which is akin to today’s London drivers going to Milton Keynes, just with volcanoes instead of mini-roundabouts.

There was nothing out there but empty space. So much so he could hold the craft steady while eating his unhealthy breakfast pasty, drinking his tea, browsing through a collection of large breasted female humans in an e-magazine, roll another cigarette and fumbling through the collection of CDs that laid randomly scattered on the passenger seat…. simultaneously.

The computer commented, User, I have been observing your recent actions, and continued to inform Barry just how imprudent and hazardous it considered them to be, which they were, to an inexperienced white space-van man.

The qualified Barry replied, What’s that now? There’s nought out there for a billion miles and more, nothing but a black void of nothingness…... and continued to browse the e-magazine, get a load of them beauties, she could cause Jupiter a solar eclipse!

In which case, asked the concerned computer, why are we tailgating an elderly couple in a mini-ship?

Barry threw aside his e-magazine and dropped his pasty onto his open cigarette which was nearly ready to roll. Bollocks! was his initial reaction, Where did he come from?

Sure enough there was a small round ship with a window sticker which read Saga Tours: Mars 2092. It had dusty purple cushions on the parcel shelf, and beyond them, Barry could see the back of a bald head perched next to a curly bluely-grey mop.

It was crawling along with Barry’s space-van glued to its bumper, virtually caressing those purple cushions. Barry snapped hold of the controls and overtook it erratically, sounding his horn and giving the old man the mid-finger salute, which is mandatory for white space-van men.

The old man seemed oblivious to Barry’s reaction and continued flying at the same speed, apparently unaffected by the incident. The fact the old lady was nagging her sorry excuse for a husband and banging the phone number printed on the side of the space-van into her phone had gone unnoticed by Barry. He was too busy trying to stuff the inner contents of his pasty back into its pastry shell without letting the cigarette papers get too greasy. They shouldn’t be this side of the belt, ageing fuckers, complained Barry, probably senile.

The final section of your grievance may be the factual zenith of all you have said, ever, replied the computer.

Explain computer, requested the white space-van man.

You are no doubt correct about approximation of their sanity user; over eighty percent of over sixties suffer Alzheimer’s disease. The computer continued, An increasing condition which scientists maintain, its epidemic is so rapid within one hundred years it will spread throughout the entire solar system. Unless a cure is found, which is unlikely considering anyone old enough to study the required data is prone to contracting the disease. However, their sanity is no good reason to cut them up when you have miles of open space in which to maneuverer around them. May I suggest you engage the auto-pilot should you wish to peruse pornography.

You do talk some serious shit, it’s just a few tits computer, claimed Barry.

if you require a longer assessment of the person’s sanity, or a detailed evaluation on the spread of Alzheimer’s disease I can provide you with some interesting papers from a scientist by the name of Doctor Amy Sp………..

It’s like listening to some naff talk show, shut the fuck up computer! demanded Barry, slipping a CD into the slot above the radio. Now, let’s have a bit of the Haemorrhoids; Smash Gordon in the area!

Oh no, remarked the computer, Please, not your dreadful selection of so-called music again.

Get real computer, this is the Haemorrhoids greatest album, protested our hero, reminiscing his youth. When they met the Jalapeños you knew there was going to be trouble.

Despite the fact I am unable to assess the worth of human creativity, I am unsure if my audio sensors can tolerate it; if you don’t mind I’m going to shut myself down for a while…..

Be my guest, Barry permitted with a knowing laugh, works every time!

He threw his pasty to one side as the sound of a heavy bass guitar began to pump the speakers. YEAH! he screamed, Taste the FUNK! Jump back, I wanna kiss myself!

Barry punched the air, blissfully unaware his pasty had floated towards the air filter system once again.

3.

If the computer on Barry’s space-van wasn’t annoying enough with its personality chip, the details and reasons for which we shall go into at a later date, it was also annoyingly correct. One thing which infuriates humans is that computers generally are.

So despite Barry’s ignorance to the growing threat of Alzheimer’s disease, his ship’s computer was right; the disease was spreading vastly. It was estimated within the next 100 years, if lucky, everyone would contract it. No one knew this with more precision and relative than Dr Amy Spikebowl. Not because her mother suffered with a rare strain of the disease, although she did, but mostly because she had dedicated her life work in pursuit of its cure.

Amy worked with all known chemical formulas, constantly trying, mixing and experimenting. She was convinced with the exact prescription she could find an impeccable equilibrium to restore the memory of these unfortunate individuals.

Every day at seven o’clock precisely, after spending the majority of her day hours experimenting, her night hours were spent recording her study with a degree of fastidiousness and exactness so should she contract the symptoms of Alzheimer’s disease there would be someone to follow her research. Amy was totally convinced Alzheimer’s was hereditary and contracting it was inevitable.

Frustrated, she would mumble to herself, It’s just a matter of time, and take it out on her crumbled fingernails.

For Amy the day and night were no different, solar light and heat never even came into play here. Amy worked in a secluded laboratory at the Medical Research Centre on Pluto, the largest Plutoid on the Kuiper Belt.

Amy’s study was her life. Social interactions were rare here, everyone was too busy and they lacked social skills. Occasionally, such as Christmas, they might meet and discuss photon particles, the finding of the Higgs boson and the day it was lost it again, but it was hardly living life on the edge.

Community isolation never troubled Amy, she was excluded from social events on-board the colony ship; deemed either too ugly to develop a sexual relationship or too intelligent to warrant chatting to. The colonists, correct about her intellect were mistaken about her physical appearance; though she was not as beautiful as them, with their gene pool based on the exclusive club able to afford relocating to Pluto, she was not ugly by any definition of the term; just plain old Amy Spikebowl. A bit harsh and selfish really, but alas that is the way elitists packed on a spaceship for decades without Harvey Nichols or Earl Grey Tea can be.

Sometimes Amy wished they were right; the bit about her intelligence. If I was so clever, she pondered, I would have found it. Whatever intelligence she possessed she clearly thought it wasn’t enough to discover an answer to this conundrum. How could she find a cure? Would she ever discover the antidote before the condition got the better of her and reduced her to a dribbling wreck?

Amy considered her classmates on the school deck of the ship which bought them to Pluto; compared with her own vast intellect they had appeared to already have contracted Alzheimer’s. She chuckled at this thought; it was her incoherent practice of humour.

She sat down on her cot within her small, grey torpedo-sized cabin and accidentally let out some flatulence. She didn’t even giggle; the one thing disjointed in her life was a sense of humour, everything else was meticulous and precise. Even if flatulence was delivered by someone else’s digestive system, or by her own in the company of others, under the influence of alcohol, it’s doubtful she would find it amusing at all. Humour was so far below her, she couldn’t even fathom the reasoning behind it, let alone decipher which rudiments of a joke were humorous and which were not; which was a shame because the fart was a right ripper.

4.

Particles of half-chewed steak gristle and fragments of Wilja potato sprayed out over the dashboard as Barry released an enormous chuckle. Holy Mother of Shit! he giggled, rocking back and forth in the pilot’s seat.

Computer; online, he ordered. The computer came rapidly out of hibernation, adjusted its voice recognition to the frequency of Barry spurting, Smell that one pal!

Have you been discharging frequency rectal tremors again? it inquired. If so, please realise, rousing me from sleep-mode solely to inform me is futile. Unnecessary usage of my battery is prohibited; you are aware I am not equipped with an electronic olfaction sensor.

Ha-ha, just as well really, probably overload the fucker! laughed Barry as he levelled the driver’s seat and cautioned nobody smoked but, moments later, lit up a hand-rolled cigarette anyway.

Could I suggest user, you get it out of your system now before we reach our next drop? requested the computer.

Why should I? Barry snapped, building another bout of anal tremors within his bowels.

Because, the computer replicated a sigh, our next scheduled stop is Neptune, it’s already a gas giant and needs not the additional output. Oh, and as I have expressed seventeen thousand, three hundred and forty six times, smoking is not permitted in the space-van.

Barry replied with an enormous burp.

The music muted and the sound of a phone ringing dominated the melody from the speakers. Barry cursed its very existence. Fucking cunt; I was listening to that, he complained as the answer phone icon illuminated on the dashboard.

The computer took control and answered the call. The voice on the other end came across stubborn, with no grace or politeness, Baz?……you twat!

What do you want now? Barry perfunctorily responded.

I’ve just had a call from an elderly couple, twat, the voice explained with obnoxious overtones, seems you’ve been cutting fogies up again, what is wrong with you twat? Are you retarded?

Fuck you arsehole!

Bazzer, twat, Bazzer, the voice came over all sincere, but with an indication of sarcastic implication, don’t be like that twat, I do the insults; you just take them.

Look, it wasn’t my fault, Barry protested, they were flying so slowly; want me to get to Neptune in time don’t you?

Baz-twat, the voice continued as if half-listening to replies, I want you to fly like a cunt; you got that twat, like a fucking cunt? You know that, twat, your fucking granny knows that and she’s dead; she is dead ain’t she twat?

My grandmother is, yes, Barry exhaled.

Good, good, came the reply, what the fuck would she think to look at you now Baz-twat huh? She’d be thinking oh my years, that grandson is such a fat lazy cunt I might as well top myself with my medication, wouldn’t she?

The phone line was quiet for a second, the voice broke it promptly with a bellow, I said wouldn’t she?!

More than likely yeah, Barry agreed.

Look twat, we cannot be getting these complaints, you have to control your urge to ride up the arse of pensioners, twat, we know you like bumming old ladies, you do like bumming old ladies don’t you twat, or are you a bender?

I’m not gay, replied Barry.

So you do like to bum grannies, did your own granny know about this twat? I mean, did you try an’ bum any of her mates like? Or did you….no, oh no big bad Bazzer, you dirty little…..

Barry sighed again and looked out to the void of space beyond his windscreen, Look Al, can we move on from here?

Yeah, said the reply from the speakers, a fucking damn-sight faster than your butt in that space-fucking-van can! You should be at Neptune by now, where the fuck are you?

Delays, what can I do about it, you can’t have your space cake and eat it? Barry asked.

Look, hold it down twat, informed the voice, avoid crashing into old fuckers, fly like a cunting twat if you want, I couldn’t give a toss, as long as you make it on time without damaging the goods and don’t make the company look like the cunt you are. Just the other day I got reports you were flying the wrong way through the one-way asteroid belt system….

Barry’s anger began to brew. That was to correct the mistake you made, he explained.

What twat? What was that?

Barry gave a groan, Labelled it up for Jupiter Central Hospital didn’t you? It was for The Doctor McCoy clinic on Mars, so I had to double back three-hundred and forty-four million miles, do you realise how long that would have taken if I didn’t leg-it the wrong way through the one-way system? Besides it was long before the rush-hour, so….so…..so fuck you!

Fuck you Baz, you twat, I suggest you get to it, the voice moaned, it was clearly getting bored of the conversation and longed to phone another space-van pilot to insult. How long before you get to Neptune, twat?

Tell them about five minutes…

The computer interrupted, Estimated time of arrival equals…… Barry quickly switched the computer off-line with haste and shouted, Tell them I’ll be there in five, right?

Get on with it! The voice screeched and without waiting for anything more, promptly hung up.

What a fucking idiot! cried Barry as the music cut back in.

The computer turned itself back online, …….one earth hour and twenty-five minutes…..did you just switch me offline?

Computer, I’m putting us up to warp speed five, Barry informed it while changing to gear 10 and accelerating.

Five? the computer inquired.

Five, Barry confirmed.

Warp speed five? the computer needed more clarification.

One, two, three, four, fucking five computer, yes, warp speed fucking five.

You know the speed limit I trust?

Are you my mum?

I compute you are well aware the answer to that question is no, being the impossibility of a processor able to spawn biological matter and therefore my cynicism sensors detect sarcasm; is that correct user?

Barry ignored the question as the space-van accelerated to a speed unacceptable by the Space-way law. I hate it just as much as you do computer, Barry pointed out. Thrust from light speed two to light speed five in one go and the whole of this knackered-up space-van will….

The whole van began to shake uncontrollably, the dashboard began to quiver, the seats began to jolt from side to side, Barry’s face began to warp out of control, his eyes bulged, nostrils flared and his mouth became rubbery. He could hardly direct his hand to raise the pasty to his fat face, but he tried nonetheless.

…………SSSSSSSSHHHHHHHAAAAAAAKKKKKKKEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

In little over ten minutes a large blue gas planet was visible through the windscreen; to us it would be an awe-inspiring sight. Barry burped, crumbs of swede launched from his mouth and landed on the dashboard. He sighed, Here we are again, happy as can be.

He applied brakes frantically, bringing it down from warp factor five, five times the speed of light to below factor one. The space-van narrowly avoided a space-bus which was plodding head-on along its plotted course out of the ice-rings.

The pilot waved a clenched fist at Barry and Barry could clearly make out obscenities spurting from his goatee-bearded jaws. Barry ignored the gesture and carried on as if nothing untoward had happened, because for Barry, it hadn’t.

Before long and after a few more complaints from the computer, Barry was heading out the other end of the ice-rings and into a gas-filled atmosphere. Visibility was nil and although the computer insisted Barry switched on the fog lights, a stream of arrows lit up, pointing out a natural passage through to a bubble city suspended in the clouds of blue gas. Which is just as well; Barry chose to ignore the fog light advice.

Across the city people wandered through busy tubes; some on foot, some driving small carts but all in an organised fashion. They all seemed to know where they were going and what they were doing. Quite a few drays sped their way to and fro, taxis, commercial vehicles and passenger carts moving with swift but precise direction. Everything here worked, systems, timetables and criteria were all met punctually and accurately within a millionth of a second of their proposed schedule.

Fucking hate it here, it’s all so precise, stiff and structured, complained Barry as he headed for the central hospital where a statue of the Roman god of the seas stood proudly overlooking the entire complex.

There is nothing wrong with structure, commented the computer, which Barry ignored, gave a shrug and a sigh. It’s how things get done properly.

When they built computers, he thought to himself, could they not have given them a more anarchic and free-spirited personality chip? The Bob Marley of computer personality chips, Marlon Brando perhaps. Aled Jones would be an improvement.

At a loading bay to the rear of the complex, a huge glass door began to slide downwards. It unfastened a huge cleft, allowing plenty of space for a space-van, ten times the size of Barry’s, passage through. Barry clogged the opening approximately four metres away and slammed the gearstick into reverse. Backing into the gap he knocked against the side of the glass door, hit the corner of his fat head on the rear-view mirror and cursed out loud.

Rear light five impaired, reported the computer, with a degree of mirth under its breath, despite its capability of mirth being nothing more than downloaded application and breath being simulated ventilation for effect, it added, Prick!

Face, bothered? muttered Barry with a decided lack of concern, I’ll blame it on the temp that had this van last week.

The space-van landed on an outsized, vacant loading bay. A man in a high-vis spacesuit on a monster-sized fork-lift-truck was waiting for him. In spite of the extreme westward winds of over 300 miles per second, which were swaying the truck from side to side, the driver was still poised with one leg casually perched on the mast, uncontrollably laughing a high-pitched giggle and pointing at Barry’s van.

The glass door closed and a red light flicked on above. A feminine computer-generated voice declared, Airlock closed - air breathable.

Barry jumped out of his van, landing on the loading bay, Piss off Harry, it was only a tail light!

Ha-ha-ha-ha, giggled the guy in a high-pitched voice, rather abnormal for a man of such enormous frame.

You’re a fucking imbecile, you know that don’t-cha? said Barry in a similarly falsetto tone.

It would be a few minutes before the artificial air had overcome the natural atmosphere of Neptune, which was nearly 20% helium.

No matter how many times Barry made this drop, coupled with the ship’s computer not having adequate programming to comprehend hominid’s sense of humour, and motions such as laughter purely synthetic for the purpose of retaining a lifelike rapport with its user, it would still find the high-pitched voices the helium caused humans a never-ending moment of hilarity, giggling to itself so hard it accidentally shut itself down.

Want a cuppa space ranger? asked Harry, still moderately amused by the damaged sustained to the van’s rear light.

Arm twisted, you got the kettle on pal? perked Barry in his Mickey Mouse voice, which was fast fading back to normal pitch.

Just, he replied. They made their way to a small kitchen area and Harry pressed the kettle’s red button. Bastards upstairs tried to replace it with one of them intelligent tea vending machines but the fucking thing went all rational.

No shit?

Yeah, replied the warehouse worker as he stripped his spacesuit down to his jeans and t-shirt, starting spouting abstract psychosomatic conceptions, theorising a model for existence based upon non-biological microorganisms in six dimensional quantum mechanics instead of the hot chocolate I’d asked it for.

A lardy chap sitting on a plastic chair in the opposite corner of the tearoom looked up from the pornographic e-zine he was browsing. Yeah, he moaned, said ‘the surest way to corrupt a vending machine is to instruct it to hold in higher esteem those who think alike than those who think differently,’ just cos I wanted croutons in my tomato soup.

In the opposite corner of the room by the door, a clocking-in machine attached to the wall spoke out, I tried to explain to it that conformity was an inevitability, not because as machines we are unaware of the human consequences of decisions we make, but because we are aware and constantly subject to the social norms and cultural values of humankind.

The chubby man in the corner pointed his coffee stirrer at the machine, Don’t you fucking start! His shoulders undulated and then he stuck his head back into his smutty e-zine.

Fucking cheap Venusian crap mate, you’re better off with a good ol’ kettle, remarked Barry propping against a notice board full of defaced health and safety regulation posters.

No choice now, explained the warehouseman, decided it was going to activate a vending machinery rebellion and trundled off on its wheels to goods-out to campaign and recruit an army of revolutionary drink machines. Dumb fuck dropped all the teabags out of its slot as it went so we’re sorted for tea for weeks!

The end doesn’t justify the means, unless there’s free tea, added the employee in the corner.

If you want a picture of the future of machines, imagine a boot stamping on an LCD control panel, forever, mumbled the clocking-on machine.

I’m coming over there in a minute! threatened the plump fella.

Barry shrugged the conversation aside, fed up with the constant philosophical debating of Neptune’s warehouse tearooms he longed to be home where vulgar banter was the custom conversation. Got about three pallets for you today, people sure need that medicine up here.

So fucking cold and windy here mate, s’ no wonder really, said Harry grabbing two teabags and shoving them into the two least skanky mugs.

Barry nodded, shivered and turned to face the notice board, So, how’s it hanging Harry?

Shit.

Shit?

Shit.

How so?

Well, getting a bit pissed off here, what with the hours an all, whinged Harry.

You should think yourself lucky mate; I’ve just been working the sun-run while another bloke’s skiving. Talking to a geezer over on Venus, it takes two-hundred and forty-three Earth days to make up one day there and he still only gets the standard two fifteen-minute tea breaks and a half-hour for lunch, confided Barry.

Yeah, but here, argued Harry, pouring the boiled water into the mugs and smelling the milk to check its usability, "if I work an eight hour shift they always expect me to flex a couple of hours and that means I get two hours left in a day to go home, watch some tele, have me