The Worst Man on Mars

Having used the waste disposal unit to rid himself of the giraffe-manure-and-turf poultice, and taken great satisfaction in watching it drift off into space, Lieutenant Willie Warner retired to his sleeping quarters. Two things prevented him from getting any sleep that night. One was the excitement of his discovery – particularly the part promising worldwide fame that would surely be his. And the other was that sleep was nigh on impossible in his sleeping quarters. Whereas the rest of the ship’s personnel and Commander Dugdale had luxurious family cabins, with plush bunks and all mod cons, the two lieutenants had to make do with ‘sleeping tubes’ – like the pods in Japanese capsule hotels, only slightly less spacious.

During the construction of Mayflower III the NAFA engineers had rather blown the budget on their pride and joy: the Ion Drive engines. The Chief Accountant had been so displeased he had immediately imposed a strict financial regime forbidding any spending of more than £500 on any spaceship component. Every purchase required a signed chitty (in triplicate) for his approval. For the few items he approved he would dispense funds from a small petty cash box in his bottom desk-drawer.

Undeterred, the NAFA boffins had soldiered on, drawing inspiration from the legendary ingenuity of their NASA counterparts on the Apollo 13 mission who had cobbled together a life-saving CO2 filter from spacesuit hoses and duct tape. NAFA strove to use their own resourcefulness to repurpose cheap items for solving high-tech spaceship design issues. The two lieutenants’ sleeping pods were one example. Built out of torpedo tubes salvaged from a Royal Navy submarine scrap yard for under £50 each, they were not only a great saving of money, but also a great space-saving idea.

As early morning approached and Willie finally drifted off to sleep, his flaptop buzzed an alarm. Opening it he was amazed to see it was a signal from the planet below. Not from the base, but some distance to the west. Instantly he was wide awake and trying various codecs for interpreting the communication. Several frantic minutes later he had it. A picture jerked into life, fuzzy and jagged and jumpy at first, but soon settling down. It was a video feed showing something on the surface. A caption identified the source as Camera 1, Beagle 2. For a moment he took this to be a football score, but then grasped its significance. How, after all these years, had the crashed Beagle 2 managed to start transmitting images?

Of greater significance was the image the camera was showing. It appeared to be the carcass of some dead bird-like creature. The wings and beak were clearly visible; as were the clawed legs. Willie stared in amazement. Was this what the aliens looked like? He needed to get an idea of its size but, just at that moment, there was a knock on his hatch. He slapped his flaptop shut as the frizzy head of Lieutenant Zak Johnston poked itself into the tube by his feet.

“Peekaboo, Hilda! You playin’ with yer wazzeroo?” asked Zak, poking his head deeper until it was level with Willie’s knees. Despite Willie having had a thorough zero-G shower before coming to bed, some of the smell of the giraffe manure still lingered about his legs. “Whoa, dude,” said Zak fanning his nose. “That must have been a full-bodied one.”

“Medication,” responded Willie, nudging his flaptop as far from Zak as he could. “And who invited you in?”

“This isn’t a social call,” said Zak forcing his way into the limited space left between Willie and the inner surface of the torpedo tube. “What were you watching there, space rider? Lift the lid on yer dirty vid. Eight months shacked up on Mayfly III has made ol’ Zakkie as fruity as a three-balled tomcat in a cattery.”

“I was merely checking co-ordinates for tomorrow’s transfer to the surface, Junior Lieutenant Johnston.”

“Sure you were, dude. Sure you were.” Zak pulled himself all the way in until he was wedged practically nose-to-nose and toe-to-toe with Willie. “Come on, man. Show the show. Gotta get some satisfaction ’cos I can’t get no girlie action.”

Willie shuddered with disgust and tried to convince himself that the lump in Zak’s pocket was a Mars bar or similar. Inadvertently he inhaled a lungful of Zak’s body odour.

“When was the last time you had a shower?”

One more breath and Willie decided he had to get out of there. Wriggling like a burrowing sandworm he scrambled his way out of the torpedo tube. Halfway down, his pyjama trousers snagged and ripped a revealing gash in the garment. He swore. Once outside the torpedo hatch he quickly removed the damaged trousers and reached into his sleeping-tube for his boxer shorts. With the predictability of a bad French farce, Emily Leach drifted past right at that moment. She took one look at his naked posterior and the other occupant of his tube and gasped in horror.

“Goodness gracious me, Lieutenant!” she exclaimed, whilst trying to get a closer view into the tube.

Panic stricken, Willie turned and cupped his hands around his embarrassment. “It’s not what you’re thinking, Miss Leach.”

“I shall be making a full report to Commander Dugdale. This sort of depravity needs to be nipped in the bud.” She focused her eyes on Willie’s cupped hands. “It’s utterly disgraceful. Imagine if Master Tarquin or Mr Snuggles had wandered past.” Not waiting to hear more excuses she launched herself toward the Commander’s quarters.

“Just great,” said Willie. He turned to the wriggling form of Zak as it emerged from the sleeping pod. “Thanks a bunch, Johnston.”

“No probs, dude. All part of the Zakster service.” He spread his clumsy hands and pulled himself the rest of the way out of the tube hatch. In the process he inadvertently pressed a red button labelled ‘FIRE’. There was a worrying mechanical click and the hatch door started closing slowly and deliberately.

The two crewmen looked at each other.

“You just pressed the ‘FIRE’ button,” said Willie folding his arms and giving Zak a baleful look.

“That must be ‘FIRE’ as in ‘Fire Alarm’,” said Zak, with no great conviction.

“I think it means ‘FIRE’ as in ‘Fire Torpedo’.”

“No way, dude. Must be mislabelled. NAFA would’ve disabled the Torps for sure. They ain’t that poor. Are they?” The hatch clicked shut.

A red light started flashing and the posh synthesized voice of Joanna Lumley announced, “Target locked. Please stand clear. Firing torpedo Number One.”

There was a sudden jolt and a sound like the opening of the ring-pull on a gigantic can of beer. Then an eerie silence descended and the light stopped flashing. Peering through the hatch window Willie could see his sleeping quarters had been sucked clear of all their contents.

Zak was peering at something flying past a portal window. “Cute teddy bear, dude.”

Dressed only in his pyjama top, Willie propelled himself to thrust Zak out of the way and look out through the window. He was just in time to see his half packed suitcase careering away from the spaceship, spilling his possessions towards Mars. In its wake followed a trail of other personal knick-knacks including Rupert the Bear, Willie’s dearest companion through the long lonely nights since his childhood.

“My clothes. All my possessions!” he squealed.

“Soz, dude. Could be worse, though, man.”

“Oh, really? I’d love to know what could possibly be worse than having everything I own launched into space.”

“Could have lost yer jimjam top. It’s cold on Mars, space-guy, so you’ll need a jacket or you ain’t gonna hack it.”

Willie felt like crying as he watched his things go. He noticed his flaptop, lid flapping open and closed, as if waving him goodbye. On its screen, he could just make out the Beagle 2 images.

“Hey, space-bud. Nearly forgot. Lord Dugdude wants to see you, urgentissimo. Said something about a special mission needing a space-magician.” Zak struggled to contain a snigger as he knew what the mission entailed.

Willie pulled himself away from the window and sniffed. “A ‘special mission’?” he asked, still a little dazed.

Zak nodded. “You were choice numero uno. Props to yer, man.”

Willie brightened. “Well it’s about time I started getting some recognition around here. But I can hardly report for duty dressed like this.” He pointed at his skinny white legs dangling under a stripy pyjama jacket. Suddenly realizing they weren’t the only dangly things, he pinched his knees together and cupped a hand over his exposed anatomy.

Zak reached into the back pocket of his NAFA dungarees and pulled out a multi-coloured crocheted rastacap. He unfolded it and handed it to Warner. “There yer go, Loot. Tuck Sergeant Todger up in this. You’ll need a couple of leg-holes.”

Reluctantly, Willie took the item, trying not to think about its level of cleanliness and forced a hand through two locations where the crocheting was loosest. Then he slid the makeshift underwear up his pipe-cleaner-slim legs and pulled it up to his waist.

Zak covered his mouth, gripping his jaw to constrain the laughter that was bubbling to get out.

“How do I look?” asked Willie.

That did it. Zak couldn’t hold back any longer and the laughter burst out. “Looks good, man,” he said between guffaws. “Real good.”

“Thanks, buddy. I’ll remember this.” Willie fastened the top button of his pyjama jacket and set off toward the commander’s cabin.