Cargo Cult (52 page)

“Once they start shooting, they
don't really care who gets killed,” Sam added.

“Screw that,” the general said. He
drew his gun and Sam and Barraclough threw themselves on the
ground. Treasure raised the gun to the sky and shouted, “This is my
country and my planet. You dickheads can all just calm down and
listen to me.” He squeezed off two shots into the air but nothing
happened. He tried again. “Damn this thing!” he said, and threw the
gun away.

Everyone was looking at him.
“Braby, give me your sidearm.” Braby looked uncertain. “That's an
order, Air Commodore!” Reluctantly, Braby handed his weapon over.
Treasure snatched it off him and pointed it into the air again.
Again he squeezed the trigger and again nothing happened. “What the
hell is this?”

In the space between Chuwar and the
others, the air shimmered and then cleared to reveal a gigantic
black figure. “I have neutralised all your weapons, and your
shields,” it said.

“Holy shit!” said the general.

Everybody took a couple of quick
paces back from the Agent.

“I knew that guy would show up
again,” said one of the trolls.

“They're like pink groin mites,”
said another. “You can never get rid of them.”

“This is a case of mistaken
identity,” said Braxx. The shifty look on his face suggested he had
remembered the accusation the Agent had made when he last saw it
and was putting that together with the things Drukk had said. “And,
anyway, we didn't know. I swear by the tentacles of the Great
Spirit.”

“You are the leader of these
people?”

“I am Braxx,” he said. “I – I wear
the white clothing.”

The agent looked him up and down.
“Interesting.”

Barraclough and Sam got up off the
floor. Barraclough was grinning. “Agent, it's me, Mike Barraclough.
I knew you would come.” He turned to Sam. “Even if some people
didn't believe me.” Sam pulled a face at him.

“Greetings Detective Barraclough.
It is a pleasure to see you are still alive.”

Sam bridled. “No thanks to you, you
great, scaly drongo. It was you who blew up their ship, I
suppose.”

“I eradicated a dangerous machine
sentience,” the Agent said. “After checking first that there were
no life-signs within it. I monitored enough of its transmissions to
prove it was sentient. I didn't need it any more. So when it was
about to blow up this creature's ship...” The Agent shrugged.

Treasure was gaping at Sam. “You
know this... this...” The general was clearly finding it hard to
keep up.

“We have been trying to tell you,”
Sam said.

The Agent turned back to Braxx.
“You and your associates are under arrest.
You
have violated Galactic Law and have built sentient machines. I am
here to judge your species.”

Braxx began to argue. Seeing that
everyone was engrossed in what the Agent and the Vinggans were
saying, Shorty began sidling away as stealthily as she could,
poking and prodding her mob as she went to get them to follow her.
As soon as they were all underway and pointing in the same
direction, she chivvied them into a flat out run and they bounded
off along the runway at astonishing speed.

“Hey!” Totterdell shouted. “The
roos are getting away!”

They all looked briefly at the
fast-disappearing marsupials.

“
Armed alien
insurgents
are no concern of mine,” said the Agent. “If you
wish to have them removed, you should contact your Local
Jurisdiction.”

“What, the Ipswich City Council?”
asked General Treasure.

“I'll explain later,” said
Barraclough.

They all turned back to the
Vinggans to find them legging it in the opposite direction. The
Agent shook its head, sadly. A beam of white light stabbed down
like lightning from above and, when they had all blinked away the
after-image, the Vinggans were nowhere to be seen.

Chuwar seemed to think this was
hilarious. But then Werpot whispered in his ear that the Agent had
merely teleported them to his ship, not vaporised them. This was,
in fact, quite upsetting for the warlord, since blasting the
Vinggans was the only part of the proceedings that had made any
sense so far.

The Agent turned to Chuwar. “You!
Go home.”

Chuwar scowled, ready to argue, but
his troupe of trolls immediately obeyed the giant stranger,
shouldered their weapons, turned sharply, and marched back into the
ship. Unsettled and feeling exposed, Chuwar let Werpot chivvy him
into shuffling reluctantly back up the ramp.

“But who is that guy?” they heard
him say to his vizier.

“It's all right, I'll explain
later.”

“And what about the treasure?”

“There isn't any treasure.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“My head aches.”

“Yes, mine too.”

They disappeared into the ship and
the ramp retracted.

“I must leave now,” the Agent said
to the remaining humans.

“Now, hang on a minute,” the
General said. “I am General Treasure, Head of the Australian
Defence Force. As such, I represent this country's military forces.
I am also authorised to speak on behalf of the Prime Minister, the
head of our civilian government.”

“You can come with me, if you
like,” the Agent said, but he was speaking to Barraclough.

The general spluttered with
indignation. Barraclough looked amazed and then excited. “You mean
we could team up? Join forces to fight crime across the Milky
Way?”

“Well, no, actually. I was thinking
that, when this was all over, I might open up an invisible
furniture shop on Lalantra. It's selling like lasers in that
sector. We could make a real killing.”

The excitement drained out of
Barraclough's face. “Sorry, mate. I'll probably just go back to my
old job in Brisbane. Thanks for the offer though.”

Treasure was about to interject
when Chuwar's yacht lifted straight up into the air and shot off
into space, leaving him open mouthed and speechless.

“Shame,” said the Agent, as if
nothing had happened. “You'd have made an interesting novelty. I
bet people would have come from light years around just to see
you.”

Sam sniggered. Barraclough
tightened his lips but said nothing.

“As I say,” said the general. “I am
authorised – ”

“Farewell,” said the Agent cutting
across him. Another flash of light left them all blinded and
rubbing their eyes. When they could see again, the Agent was
gone.

“Bloody hell fire!” the general
shouted. “Bloody aliens. Bloody space ships. Bloody monsters and
ray guns and half-dressed bloody celebrities and bloody teleporters
and – ”

“General?” Braby interrupted his
rant politely but firmly.

It seemed to bring him to himself
again. But he was not happy. “What?”

“I've got the PM on the phone for
you. Seems they managed to dig her and the Cabinet out of the
bunker they've been stuck in. She'd like an update. Oh, and by the
way – ”

Braby himself was interrupted as
first one, then another, then another squadron of fighters howled
low across the base. When the noise had subsided, Braby
continued.

“- the American's have sent some
air support from their carrier group in the Coral Sea. That would
be them, I reckon.”

“Right,” said the general, through
gritted teeth. “Right.” He looked around. There was chaos and
smouldering ruins everywhere. He turned to Braby. “First, I want
those fucking Yanks out of my air space. If the PM objects, tell
her to find herself a new general. Next, I want you to dig my aide
out of the rubble and send him off to find me a sandwich and a cup
of tea. Next, I want a flight readied to take me back to Canberra.
If you can't clear the runway in less than an hour, get me a
chopper and I'll take a commercial flight from Brisbane. Then I
want you to put that lot...” He pointed at the wreckage of the
Vinggan ship. “... into the hands of your best air incident
investigators to see if they can put any of it together and find
out how it works. Finally,” He swung his finger to point at
Barraclough. “I want this invisible furniture salesman and his
friends rounded up and debriefed until the whole damned thing makes
sense. And I want the report on my desk in Canberra when I get
there.” He took a deep breath. “I'll be in the in the emergency air
base command post if you need me.”

“I'll have them set one up right
away, sir,” said Braby.

The general studied the Air
Commodore's blank expression for signs of the insubordination he
clearly suspected, then stomped off through the ruins. Braby
immediately got on the phone and started making things happen.

“So,” said Barraclough to Sam. “Now
what?”

She nodded. “Bit of an anticlimax,
really. Still, at least we're all back home and safe.”

“What'll you do now?”

“Oh, I dunno.” She looked at him
and grinned. “Write the biggest bloody exclusive in the history of
newspapers, I suppose. Then a book. Then do an interview with...
some big-name American dickhead, auction the film rights, and just
be bloody famous and wonderful for the rest of my life. What about
you?”

“I thought I might take you out for
a bit of a feed tonight, if you're not too busy being wonderful.
After that? Well, I might need to think about my options for a
while.”

They looked at one another as if
there were many other things on their minds but none that either
was willing to broach. Finally, Barraclough said, “Sam, that kiss
back there – ”

Sam whirled away from him. “Wayne?
What are you doing over there?” Her brother was sitting alone on a
charred piece of the Vinggan ship. He was making a quiet wailing
noise to himself, some kind of sad music that seemed vaguely
familiar. She went over to join him, and Barraclough trailed after.
She seemed to remember something and looked around. “Oh,” she
said.

“What is it?” asked
Barraclough.

“Drukk,” she said. “Drukk's
gone.”

“She said she liked me,” Wayne
said, not quite accurately. His head hung and his gaze was fixed on
the tarmac between his feet. “She said we could, like, be together.
You know? Then she just ran off and left.”

“Bloody aliens, eh?” said
Barraclough and Sam elbowed him in the ribs.

“But what happened to her?” Sam
asked. The last she had seen of Drukk, he was asking Chuwar for
asylum. “Did the Agent scoop her up?”

Wayne shook his head. “While
everyone was busy shouting and stuff, she slipped away into the
ship. I was watching. She didn't even, you know, like, look over
her shoulder or something to say goodbye.”

Sam bent down and put a hand on his
shoulder. “I'm sorry, darl. I know how much you liked her.” Even if
her brother was all kinds of stupid, it still bothered her to see
him so upset. “You never know, she might come back.”

“Be careful what you wish for,”
said Barraclough.

Braby joined them with one of his
airmen. “My only wish is for this day to be over,” he said. “This
is corporal Wicski and I want you to go with him. Some gentlemen
from the security service will be arriving shortly to ask you a few
questions. Take them to the officer's mess, Wicski, and make sure
somebody gets them something to eat.” He said to Barraclough,
“You'll find Mr. Saunders and his, er, followers there already. My
people rounded them up earlier on. There's a mob of unruly
pensioners there too with their bus driver. The ASIO blokes will
want statements from everybody before you leave the base. It could
take a while I'm afraid. Still, we'll do our best. Transport will
be organised to get you back to Brisbane.”

They nodded glumly and let
themselves be led away.

“Just one thing,” Braby called
after them. “Do you reckon there's any chance they'll come
back?”

The media storm took a while to get
going. Not many people outside Amberley had noticed “The Battle for
Planet Earth” as the leading Brisbane tabloid called it. But Sam's
exclusive for The Australian, a national broadsheet, alerted the
major news aggregators and the Internet was suddenly on fire with
it. Two weeks later, Sam was doing a tour of the US, being
interviewed on the top TV shows by celebrity dickheads, and had
become an overnight star.

Barraclough took the leave the
Commissioner offered him and went into hiding, spending the whole
of that month in a tent on Fraser Island. Wayne found his own route
to celebrity after two reporters from Rolling Stone tracked him to
a pub in Toowoomba where he was performing a set three nights a
week of original songs based on what he called “Mozbac Folk Music”
and attracting quite a following. Within a week he had a record
deal with an Indie label and his first album, “Stuck on Drukk”,
went to number one in the US charts.

John Saunders went home to his
derelict farm, abandoned by his disillusioned followers and out of
sight of the media. He was paid a visit by two agents from ASIO,
who wanted to question him about his part in the Amberley affair.
But, although the agents stayed long enough to help fix the
plumbing, they left confused and bewildered. Neither could quite
remember what John had said to them, but they were both convinced
they had asked all their questions and received full and
satisfactory replies. So they made up the answers they were sure
they had been given and closed his file.

Oddly enough, Marcus Grogan, the
reluctant bus driver, found fame as a novelist after all. An
enterprising commissioning editor at a major publishing house,
seeing his name in the press, and remembering vaguely that Marcus'
manuscript had briefly touched her desk on its way to the dumpster,
signed him up for a three-book deal. She then found a talented but
starving writer – of which every city has many – and paid him to
ghost-write something saleable based loosely on Marcus' rambling
text.