BigBug

Moon returned to the hotel with Tanya after two hours. Seamus was sitting up at the bar drinking a beer. His dinner had been excellent. They came up to Seamus and he tried to attract the bar girls’ attention.

“Come,” said Tanya, “and join us. In our conference room.” Moon was standing beside her a fulfilling smile decorating his smug mug.

“Please don’t order drinks. We have much of everything.” Seamus finished his beer and walked behind them. He walked all the way down the long corridor behind that magnificent girl’s slightly swaying bottom and tried not to sulk. If only he was thirty years younger. Seamus considered being reconciled with the Church so he could, with all good conscience, ask for a miracle without undue embarrassment. Moon and Tanya were holding hands. Seamus and God silently agreed to differ and let matters spiritual and sceptical remain, in limbo, in no man’s land. Tanya used her plastic key and swiped the security lock on the conference door. A wall of noise greeted them. The Russians were dug in there in the conference room. They were working, eating, drinking, and partying in there. Seamus saw charts, computers, tables full of Russian food and bottles of Vodka everywhere. It was Soviet HQ and they were having a Karaoke session. Moon and Seamus sat down at the tables occupied by Tanya’s department and she did the introductions. She introduced Seamus as Dr Herr Professor James Price from Queens University Belfast and Moon she introduced as Dr Herr Professor Waxy O’Moon from the University of Galway. Seamus was a little surprised to find himself an expert, a world expert no less, specializing in the field of meteorites. And who was the learned Moon? Well he was a professor of cosmology. But of course, and handshakes all round and the first of many vodkas. Seamus cornered Moon when the opportunity presented itself. Moon was up by an old baby grand piano where he was threatening to sing Danny Boy, in the old Gaelic, for his new found Russian colleagues, one of whom, as a young enlisted Russian sailor, had seen the west coast of Ireland from the periscope of his submarine. Moon was trying to get information out of the Russian about Soviet submarine activity off the west coast of Ireland.

“What the fuck are you up to Moon?” asked Seamus. He was concerned. “Are these I.Ds ok?”

“Professor Moon - if you don’t mind Professor Rice.” He had a fit of the giggles. “Look at that that look on your face.” Seamus waited until Moon calmed down a bit. He was a naughty schoolboy sometimes. Moon smiled. “We are officially accredited as guest geologists with the Russian delegation.” He handed Seamus his nametag and official pass to the Mineral fair. The pass gave them - “Access all areas and lectures.”

“How did you pull this off, Moon?”

“Do you mean the I.Ds or what? Ok. Tanya is the new administrator. She just arrived. The delegation’s regular administrator went mad. Thought she was a crocodile. Bit a few people in the legs and then jumped into the Danube, thanks be to God and His Holy Mother. Lucky for us, eh? Tanya is temporary and she doesn’t care about administration. She wants to party. She wants to dance. She registered us and made the I.Ds. Genuine I.Ds. The Russians are not impressed though that we are going to meet the NASA people.”

“That’s very nice of her. How much did this cost?”

“Ten big ones.”

“Ten grand!”

“No ten grams of Northern Lights. The Russians love a smoke.”

“You mad bastard. How much fucking weed did you bring with you?”

“Enough.”

“More than enough to get us locked up? This is not Amsterdam Moon. How many times do I have to tell you? They lock you up here for having one spliff and if you are caught dealing here they will lock you up for a few years and me with you. I drove you here.”

“It’s not dealing. It’s just old fashioned barter. The Russians are great traders. That’s how they make ends meet, Bolshevik Barter, BB. And they fix things. Like Tanya’s grandfather. He still has his old T34 tank from the battle of Kursk. Runs like a dream. They do not throw things away. The great USRR The United Soviet Recycling Republics. Excuse me I’m on.” Moon grabbed the mike and began to sing Danny Boy in the old Gaelic for the Russians. Ah! He didn’t know the words to the song, so he made up his own words, inventing a new form of language, as he went along. It was a dreadful, wailing, keening gibberish but the Russians loved it and Moon came back down to the tables to great applause. Seamus was sitting next to Tanya with Moon on the other side.

“Are you sure these I.Ds are ok? Will they work?” Seamus asked Tanya quietly.

“Of course, darling,” she replied, “they are genuine. Don’t worry if you have any problems just pretend you can only speak some weird USSR dialect.” She laughed. “Like the way the Scotsjockeymen speaks English.”

Very interesting thought Bigbug who was sitting a couple of tables away discussing solar system geology with his new found Russian colleges. Bigbug’s Russian was impeccable. Bigbug knew everything about the false papers. This pair of Celtic clots were now committing a criminal offence. Those whom the gods wish to destroy they first frame and then criminalize.

“Yeah,” said Moon, “Seamus can do that. He can speak Mongolian with a Kerry accent.”

“We don’t want to get into trouble,” said Seamus. He was serious.

“Not here in Hungary. The jails are not very pleasant.”

No, they are not agreed, Bigbug.

“Seriously,” replied Tanya to Seamus, “you will not get in trouble, but comrades be practical, there was no other way to get you into the Mineral Fair and Moon is so anxious to discuss your meteorite with the NASA scientists. Are you not, darling?”

“I am. I have questions,” replied Moon, “and a list. I want the Americans to admit they never set foot on the moon. It was all a giant hoax. I want an admission that the only human ever to have set foot on the moon was Cleopatra who landed, as calculated, to receive a birthday present from her father. Do you know what he gave her?”

“I don’t remember.”

“A pot of everlasting mascara.”

How is it possible, thought Bigbug, that such a moron found DATA? It might be, Bigbug further reflected, as he observed the behaviour of this drunken pair of Irish idiots that Moon’s behaviour was so bizarre and mighty odd, and that is what creates this dense wall, a dense firewall of stupidity, that blocked out all attempts by Bigbug to read Moon’s mind. Bigbug had no idea what Moon was going to do or say next.

“You are so clever professor, Moon,” said Tanya, “and you know so many things.”

“Historical alternatives are the only way to know what they are up to.”

“You must instruct me in this hidden knowledge.” And she tickles Moon’s ear and blew a few enhanced pheromones over him. Some wafted Seamus’s way and a powerful tingle surged through Seamus’s cock which was only used these days as a directional aid during urination. Seamus was utterly amazed. Bigbug was not. It was monitoring what was happening at the table through its human assets eyes. All was progressing according to plan in Operation Moonhead. Seamus was giddy. He felt like a teenager. He was jealous and he had no idea how Moon ended up with this very beautiful, fun filled, mischievous, woman who oozed glamour sophistication and sex. He also had no idea why she was pandering to and encouraging Moon’s absurd, alternative views, on all matters conspiratorial and alternative. Seamus was certain Moon had laid Tanya after the MacDonald’s. A Big Mac took on a new value. Moon was pure gloating and Seamus had a hard throbbing erection. It was extraordinary exciting and perplexing and it just wasn’t fair.

“Life sucks,” sighed Seamus, “and then you die.”

It all depends, mused Bigbug, which creature sucks the blood from you and which creature picks the flesh from your bones. Every last disgusting morsel of man.

“As long as you get sucked first,” said Moon and then he and Tanya were gripped by the giggles.

The Russians wherever they went brought everything they needed with them. Seamus wasn’t too fond of the Vodka so he went out to the Margarita and took out a few bottles of very old, very special, Bushmills Irish whiskey for a glasnost gargle. Tony had a great deal with the brewery and secured two boxes of Bush for Seamus. The whiskey tastes better when it is tax-free. The Bush was supposed to go back to Amsterdam with Seamus for Finnegan's pub but there it goes. The Russians loved the Bushmills and it was soon gone. Seamus remembered before the party descended into a haze and just after he sang The Wild Rover again to warn Moon not to drink too much whiskey or vodka because of the epilepsy.

“Who are you preaching at?” said Moon. “If the Gardaí gave you the breathalyser now it would melt,” shouted Moon who was now dressed in a white lab coat with his I.D. pinned to his lapel. He was wearing a Soviet Army hat and was trying to teach a gang of Russians, who thought he was the greatest thing since Lenin, the Canal Dance. Party on.

Bigbug was fascinated by the stoned, singing, dancing, drunken Moon. The human’s brain was creating some sort of natural firewall, in a mind mist that Bigbug was unable to disable and get through. This was in scientific terms astonishing given the super programmes and technology Bigbug was equipped with. Bigbug knew everything about everyone in this room. It had, by remote mental command, accessed and downloaded, into its head, the data of every desktop computer, laptop, I. Pod tablet and smart phone in the place. It followed up and downloaded the data of any computer laptop or phone that the devices in the room had contacted and so on. Chip by chip by chip ad infinitum. All at the speed of light and all data analysed instantly by DATA. Yet one human, a creature, the curious Mr Moon, found the DATA rock. Was this a random coincidence based on quirky odds reduction? If someone buys a lotto ticket and they wait long enough, millions of years, billions of years, as long as it takes, playing the same number every week, the numbers will eventually come up. It was impossible to tell at this stage of the investigation if the find was random coincidence but it was, and Mr Moon was an enigma. Enigmas were something Bigbug found intolerable. Moon was a scientific anomaly. This irked Bigbug’s intellect. Scientifically speaking Moon should not exist. He would have to be dissected at some stage and his seething pulsating polluted brain examined in the lab. Something Bigbug looked forward to. A pleasurable later. Bigbug reviewed its data to date. It was pleased with the progress in Operation Moonhead. It patted the two pieces of Moon’s meteorite, securely fastened in an inside pocket, it had rescued from the Hungarian scientists. DATA was so pleased and had heaped much praise on Bigbug but in all logic it had been a very simple affair. It was as easy as taking a meteorite from a monkey. Professor Brezini and Dr Nagy were in such a high state of excitement examining the pieces of Moon’s meteorite they took no notice of Bigbug entering their lab. It walked right up to and stood behind the scientists. Bigbug gave them a mild dose of gas, just enough to knock them out, and caught them as they fell. Both pieces of Moon’s meteorite were on the lab bench. Bigbug pocketed them then accessed the scientist’s brains and wiped all memories of Seamus, Moon, and the meteorite they had been given to examine. It wiped all information from the scientists' computers then sat the two men in chairs and left them there sleeping. They would wake up after lunch and remember nothing. All that remained to do in this mission was to rescue the main mass of the DATA meteorite held in the Dutch lawyers office, retrieve and destroy the receipt given to Seamus by the Hungarians, prevent the humans from any contact with the NASA scientists and bring the two Irishmen back to DATA for interrogation, scientific examination and recycling. It was a great plan. Bigbug was pleased with itself. The boy in it loved being a secret agent.