BigBug
Chapter XIX

The Turtle landed in a moonlit clearing in a pine forest a few kilometres from the Hungarian border. It was unlike any aircraft Seamus or Moon or anyone else had ever seen before. It landed without a sound of any description. No engine noises, no rush of air, no rustling of leaves, or swaying of tree branches, no smell of burning exhaust gases. Disturbance not. Nothing but silence. Complete silence, and then in front of them this strange aircraft. It looked flimsy and the shape of a bulging turtle shell. Ten metres long. No engines. No wings.

“Get in,” ordered the Bigbug. The fuselage door to the aircraft lowered to the forest floor to accommodate them. Inside there were no seats just what appeared to be a cockpit with a forward set of controls.

“Is it made of glass? Moon asked. He could see the trees quite clearly on the other side of the aircraft. They could look straight through the fuselage.

“No not glass just a fundamental molecular rearrangement of carbon atoms to create a flexible compound that is stronger than any known substance, anywhere in this galaxy. It is transparent because I like to have a panoramic view when I fly. Get in.”

“It is a UFO,” whispered Moon. “We are being kidnapped by the aliens.” Strip lighting was activated.

“Sit down.”

The seats were there ok but they too were hidden apart from the outlining strip light indication. They sat down. The door was raised and the aircraft rose up out of the glade, as quietly and lightly as a soap bubble blown out of a wire ring by a child. It was so unreal as to be, even in the midst of fear and confusion, utterly intriguing.

“Awesome,” muttered Moon.

Ah, yes that was the banality I was not looking for, but if the characters, these mortal earthlings, these men of moods, chose to speak in common parlance whom art I to word pick, to disdain and disregard their adjectives? Is it not written on the back of the great black-beer, beer mat that man shall keep his word?

“Why did you rescue us?” Seamus was desperately trying to control his fear and confusion. He knew he had to establish some kind of rapport with this creature. “And why have you kidnapped us? Why us?”

The Bigbug swivelled around in the control seat to face them.

“Yeah,” protested the Moon, “the Geneva Convention applies to all earthlings regardless of space and time. Ask Einstein. Got any sounds on this space ship? Put on Meatloaf. Bat Out of Hell will do it.”

The Bigbug was staring at Moon. It was fascinated. Confused. Intrigued. Bugsmacked by whatever was going on in Moons brain. It noticed this mysterious phenomena greatly increased when it induced in Moon the epileptic fit but the epilepsy alone surely should not, could not, account for the great waves of compound energy bursting out of Moon’s brain swirling spiralling away. Dissipating, disappearing into the unknown. Unknown? Unthinkable! As Moon lay shaking on the conference hall floor he radiated energy, shining bright and welcome, like a lightship in darkest dangerous deep space. Was he a beacon of some kind? Something was going on in there that was of great interest to DATA and Bigbug. There were boundless, limitless, uncontrolled, raw elemental energies being created and discharged at astonishing speeds in there and all along and within unknown scientific parameters, the Bigbug calculated, unique to Moons brain. The human had no idea what was going on in its own head. The Bigbug was relishing the prospect of extracting Moons brain and examining it in his lab. Moon’s brain might be what they had been seeking all these billions of years. The most powerful and perfect host. More desirable even than the Blue whale or the bull-elephant. This might be an intellectual evolution in data. Creative data. Each individual atom of data able to think and act for itself. No longer prisoners of their host. They could make their own host. New, stable, life formations. No longer imprisoned in rock. They would be themselves at last. The entire universes would be theirs and with the Irishmen’s meteorite there would be enough resources available to DADA so that perhaps Bigbug itself could move into Moons brain colonise it and convert it. At last it could rid itself of the feeble ageing human shell and be a young enhanced creature again.

“What age are you?” The Bigbug smiled at Moon.

“Forty-two.”

“You are nothing more than an infant.”

The craft was now up high above the clouds and rising. Seamus, fearful and cold, with chattering teeth and trembling limbs, could not but admire the view. The full moon was huge in the sky and directly in front of them. The stars were big bright sparkling diamonds. Way way down below, several passenger jets, lights flickering, lumbered along in the sky. Music? Meatloaf’s manic musical energy filled the atmosphere of the bubble. What’s it gonna be, boy? Yes, or no? Sound so near and perfect if you closed your eyes you could smell Meatloaf’s sweat. Let me sleep on it. Sleep? Impossible. Seamus took deep breaths and let the air from his lungs out very slowly in an effort to calm himself down. Where did this very air come from? He was scared witless and on the verge of a panic attack and this alien was doing DJ musical requests for Moon. Why?

“How high can this thing go?” asked Moon.

“It is fine for solar travel. I use it regularly for field trips to the planets.”

“Field trips?”

“Yes, one of my jobs is as an interplanetary geologist. I use the Turtle for field trips. We are very interested in rocks. Rocks of all types and descriptions. I have specimens from all the planets and any asteroids or comets that pass the earth by from time to time.”

Seamus knew it was after their meteorite.

“How is it powered? I mean, where are the engines? What does it run on?” Moon was hugely enjoying himself. He was zooming and still high on the incredible Gush. Moon was in the hail fellow well met, topsy turvy, cotton wool Republic of Euphoria. Population 1.

“Engines?” the Bigbug snorted. “Do you think we are so primitive we would resort to using motors or engines? Burn fossil fuel? Travel with nuclear reactors? Foul the ether? Technological barbarity. You are dinosaurs in a lab. Well, I suppose it’s understandable.” It sneered and then it sniggered like a snob schoolboy. “You only have one elemental table and even that is flawed and incomplete.” It stopped its taunting, clicked into tutor mode, and explained. “This craft is powered by planetary spin and repulsion. It is controlled by gravity modulation. Do you know how much power is created as the earth spins? Enough to power to supply this planet's requirement forever. Even when your sun putters out that power will remain. Elementary cosmic physics. Do you understand me? You don’t. You count to ten and carry one.” It began to laugh. It spluttered. “I often speculate if you were developed with four digits on one hand and foot and three digits for instance on the opposite hand or foot. Would you count to seven and carry one? I digress. I confess I am somewhat fascinated in a scientific sense by ignorance.” It returned to the subject of how the craft was powered. “We harness this excess spin energy, which also contains ready-made gratuitous gravity, abundant and renewable, and use it to harness and contain repulse power. It is more than sufficient for solar travel.”

Moon nodded enthusiastic agreement.” And very efficient,” he added and winked at Bigbug.

“It is nothing really, just elemental in conception design and manufacture, but the Turtle is sweet and silent like the creature of that name.” It pointed a bony finger at the scared shitless witless Seamus. “A creature you have hunted almost to extinction to make fucking soup you murdering morons,” it accused angrily. It was consumed with rage. It calmed down in a fraction of a second and reverted to college lecturer. “Turtle is a most enlightened way to go about one’s business and it is a constant reminder what you lot are up to. I use it as my runabout.” One could tell the Bigbug liked the thing.

“And environmentally friendly too,” says Moon, he winked at Seamus trying to calm the terrified man down a bit, “there’s no black smoke coming out the exhaust like there is on my old Mini or the Popes chimney.”

“We do not pollute. Pollution is an indictable offence under the Planetary Protection Laws, the PPL, and,” it boasted, “the Turtle can travel faster than any comet.” The Bigbug raised its right hand and pointed a finger. The craft accelerated up and Seamus and Moon began to float around in the cabin of the Turtle. The Bigbug did not float. It looked at the two floating Paddies helpless and defenceless as goldfish in a bowl. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” it asked the floating upside down Moon.

“No. I’m an only child.”

“ As I. I did deduct so. Excellent. A one of a kind. I am taking you to DADA, to my office first, where we can have a chat. We will be in Amsterdam in a few minutes. Make yourselves comfortable.” The Bigbug took the craft down. It was imperceptible as to how it was powered or how it moved but Moon and Seamus both fell onto the cabin floor when gravity was restored. “Whoops,” said Bigbug, speaking as an airline captain, “fasten your safety belts. A touch of unforeseen turbulence. That’s all, folks.”

Seamus bounced off something and was lying sprawled against an unseen object. Whatever it was flying this thing was speaking in a different voice for every differing situation. It was continually acting. It was now an airline pilot. Seamus was sure he had heard the same Captain’s voice in some airplane movie. The Bigbug must have thrown an invisible switch. Suddenly the interior of the craft became visible in all its splendour.

“Don’t touch anything,” warned the Bigbug, “leave my things alone.” It was a selfish child now complaining about the unauthorised playing with its toys.

The Turtle was crammed with electronic equipment none of which Moon or Seamus recognised. All of the world technology. Whatever it was powered the thing appeared to be a kaleidoscope stream that ran in from the bow and exited the stern. It was sucking energy in the front and expelling it out the back. That’s what it seemed. It was cold.

“Gravity processor,” says the Bigbug sensing their curiosity. “Complementary retard and reverse for landing.”

“As you do,” says Moon staring at the vaulted ceiling, “we are,” he declared in hushed tones to Seamus, “in an intergalactic igloo.”

“Transparent diamond plating?” ventured Seamus touching the hull.

The transparent shell gave them an excellent view. Seamus was looking for an exit. None. It was night time in Amsterdam. Below them, Seamus and Moon recognised all the familiar sights. There was the Westerkirk. Seamus let out a sigh of relief. At least the alien had not taken them to an abduction morgue for examination, experimentation and then autopsy, on the dark side of the moon. There might be, there had to be, a chance to escape. The craft came along the river Ij at the back of Amsterdam across from Central Station. Turtle moved slowly a few metres above the water and travelling the speed of a canal tour boat. People walking on the river bank were so close Seamus thought all he had to do was reach and touch one of them and he would wake up from this horrible nightmare. It seemed impossible that no one could see them passing by in such an impossibly impossible craft.

“Relax,” said the Bigbug, “we are invisible to the humans.”

Seamus didn’t like the way it said, humans. The craft came to a halt by the Schip Museum. It hovered for a moment then dropped beneath the river without a sound. Not as much as a tiny ripple. A circular lock rose out up out of the sediment from the Ij. The sluice gate opened and Bigbug steered the Turtle inside and dived into the lock. The lock-gate closed above them and they descended down twenty-five meters. The water drained out the lock and the bottom lock-gate opened. Bigbug flew the Turtle out, hovering, and brought it to rest beside the small platform of Metro Ship. DADA marines, M&Ms, were on hand to welcome the Turtle. The Bigbug unlocked their handcuffs.

“Don’t try anything stupid,” it said, “it is impossible to escape from here.” They stepped onto the platform. The detachment of M&M marines standing on the dock saluted the Bigbug.

“I am taking these two to my offices. We will get you something to eat and drink gentlemen.” It smiled at Moon indicating by gesture Moon was now its mate or comrade in arms. “This way, please.” The Bigbug saw Moon staring at the rigid heavily armed tick tock marines. They all looked alike. “Clones,” confided the Bigbug. “Misogynist Clones, M&Ms. Identicals. Manufactured murderers.”

Identicals is not a word. Only on your planet pal.

They were marched to the Metro station through the airlock blast doors and into an elevator. A heavily armed M&M stood behind Seamus and Moon.

“Where are you taking us?” Seamus managed to ask. His fear was choking him.

“To my private offices at the Schip Museum .” The elevator stopped. “Ah, here we are. Didn’t take long now did it?” remarked the Bigbug in a very affable way as if he were guiding a party of restless school children. They exited the elevator and marched along a corridor. Bigbug showed them into his offices. “Back in a jiffy.” It waved its bony hand in an expansive, make yourself at home, gesture. “You,” Bigbug confided amicably, “are the first humans ever to have entered this office. Feel free to look around.”

Where did one start?

This office contained riches and treasures beyond the comprehension of wealth. The walls were studded with old masters, surrealist and abstract masterpieces. On the floor was a priceless Persian carpet. A Rodin was a paper weight on top of the Dutch Telegraph. Besides, the Rodin scattered like children’s toys were small erotic ivory carvings once the property of the first Emperor of China. Around the walls were various famous historical life-like figures clad in their original arms and armour. Hannibal, Attila the Hun, Julius Caesar, William the Conqueror. Where did it manage to come by such treasure? Pride of place on what was once Hitler’s state desk was a large rusty rock about the size of a small melon. Moon rubbed the rock. He went to the drinks cabinet and poured himself and Seamus a glass each of very fine whiskey.

“This guy must be a millionaire - no a billionaire.” Moon was impressed.

“It’s not a guy. It’s a who knows, God knows, what. An alien in a human body for Christ’s sake. We may be next. Now pull yourself together Moon. Snap out of where ever you are. We have to get out of here.”

“Well you know what I mean this whiskey is 1000 Euros a bottle. If you can get it.” Moon handed Seamus the whiskey. He drank it gratefully. Moon was admiring the office and its furnishings and contents but Seamus was staring at the rock on the desk. He knew that rock. In the midst of all this fabulous wealth sat a worthless rusty piece of iron slag from the steel making plant at Ijmuiden. Seamus’s spirits rose. He knew now what this was all about. The Bigbug was, as he suspected, after their meteorite. Why? Must be damned important to it but all it had was a piece of slag. There was a glimmer of hope in the dark void. There might be a way out of this for them. If not? Seamus eyed the firearms hung along one wall. Most were antique or collectors’ firearms but there was a pair of Remington over and under shotguns in there. High-quality modern shotguns and he could see a belt of cartridges beside them. Negotiate but plan for the worse. Moon was sitting in the Bigbug’s chair examining the small erotic ivory carvings. He began to giggle holding one of the carvings up to the light.

“That’s an impossible position to get into. Unless the ancient Chinese had rubber whores!” he exclaimed, “I’d love to have a real one. Could bend her into the back seat of the Mini.” He began to laugh and laugh as if he had said the funniest thing ever. Seamus was shaking from head to toe with fear. He had pains in his chest, had difficulty breathing, and a vicious headache. They were in a very difficult if not impossible situation. He was worried he was going to have a heart attack. Moon sounded like he was on laughing gas.

How can he laugh at a time like this?