Space Trip Excerpt

Here are the first two chapters of Space Trip. Sign up to my newsletter to stay informed about the Space Trip Universe and other projects— you get a FREE short story too!

Chapter One: Men or Mice?

In the not-too-distant future (not so distant that it’s a long way off, but not so soon that it’s just around the corner—sort of mid-way, in that time when you’d like to know what year it is, but it’s not that important that you absolutely must know; you can guess if you like, but you’d be wasting your time, and you’ll probably never get it right anyway, so you might as well start with the story), four friends set off on an impromptu journey across the stars … and live to tell the tale. This is their story.

Dave

Dave Winkle was an accountant. In fact, he was so much of an accountant, his non-accountant friends called him The Accountant.

He hated this.

He also hated his immediate supervisor, Jennifer Moseby, who had been giving him so much work lately that he was beginning to think even the alphabet was made of numbers. Dave had slaved at Sremmacs & Co Accounting Services for sixteen years. He’d started at the lowest level, and this is where he was now. Jennifer Moseby, on the other hand, had only been working at the firm for five years before she got the promotion due for Dave. Dave wondered whether it was because he never wore short skirts and tight-fitting tops. He found out later that he was right, but decided against changing his wardrobe.

One Friday at the office, he had five minutes until he could stop working and enjoy the weekend. There was the usual clattering of fingers on keyboards and clicking of mice buttons—the only thing that passed for music in the large building. Then came an irritating double beep from his computer. Dave hated that sound nearly as much as he hated Jennifer Moseby. It meant someone in the office had sent him a message. Why couldn’t people just leave him alone?

He clicked through his computer and his eyeballs nearly popped out of his head. The message read: Please complete the attached financial statements. Have them on my desk by 9:30 Monday morning. Your boss, Jen.

Dave’s knees popped as he stood to look over the walls of his tiny cubicle, just to see if anyone was laughing. Nope, it wasn’t a joke. He glanced through the glass windows of Jennifer Moseby’s office. She watched him with a devilish grin. He glared back at her as he slowly lowered himself back into his chair, below the level of his cubicle wall.

He closed his tired eyes, but more beeping from his computer jolted him. He grumbled and opened his eyes. The new message read: I mean it, Winkle. Enjoy your weekend! I certainly will.

Dave picked up a stress ball from his desk and pumped it furiously. He’d bought it because its long yellow tassels looked like Jennifer Moseby’s hair and it gave him the satisfaction of imagining he was squeezing her head. Hate flowed around him like a hot wind.

Are you sick of that name? Jennifer Moseby. Jennifer Moseby. See? Even you cannot stand her—no disrespect to all the other Jennifer Mosebys in the galaxy. It’s just that this Jennifer was a thorn in Dave’s side, a real piece of work.

Dave threw the ball against his cubicle wall and it bounced back and hit him in the face. While he rubbed his eye, a work colleague stopped by and asked him what he was doing on the weekend.

“I’m going on a holiday,” Dave replied.

Jimmy

James Jonathon Jones—Jimmy to his friends—was a humorous person with a permanent smile and a disposition so sunny it could give you a tan. Jimmy was also a compulsive liar, unbelievably nosey, sometimes ear-piercingly loud, generally arrogant, heavily opinionated, and . . . well, you get the idea. He was the kind of guy who everyone loved to hate, but at the same time was a breath of fresh air. “Fresh” as in different, not “fresh” as in better.

However, perhaps the worst thing about him was this: he was a journalist. In the galaxy’s recent survey on the most annoying people, journalists ranked third; behind politicians (first) and lawyers (second), and in front of mechanics (fourth), real estate agents (fifth), car salesmen (sixth), and mothers-in-law (seventh). When galactic news stations reported the findings, viewers didn’t quite know whether to believe them or not, because it was news stations full of journalists doing the reporting.

Jimmy loved his job. He lived for his job, and people regarded him as a cut above the usual investigative journalist. Not only did he write a regular column, he also took the pictures for it. He was a one-man army, bent on revealing injustices throughout the galaxy. Many admired him for this, some despised him, and some even wanted him dead. But every week he had something new to report, and his stories were read by trillions throughout the Milky Way. But one day he was bound to write that spectacular story that pissed off the wrong people.

That day was today.

“Damn it, Jimmy, I told you to stop looking into that chemical company.” The angry voice belonged to Jimmy’s editor, a short, chubby man puffing on a short, chubby cigar. He was so irate it looked like his eyeballs were going to pop out of his red, vein-throbbing head.

“I told you I couldn’t do that, Fred,” Jimmy shot back, his Irish accent drawing out the words. “It was too big to let go.”

“Too big to let go? Too big to let go? Jimmy, once this issue hits the network, Racza Corp’s going to read it, and they’ll be after us for defamation. They’ll hit us big, and they’ll be after blood—your blood.”

“Oh, boy, you think so?” Jimmy responded sarcastically. He looked side-to-side in mock fear. “Well, I’d better get outta here, then.”

“Damn right you’d better get out of here, because you’re fired.”

The words almost didn’t register in Jimmy’s mind, but he heard them well enough. “Fired? No, no, you can’t fire me.”

“I just did,” Fred said. He took a big draw on his cigar. The business end of it glowed orange.

Jimmy waved away the cigar smoke blown in his direction, resisting the urge to verbally recite the building’s no-smoking policy and health warning like he did every morning when he entered the office. He’d stand by the door to the fourth-floor balcony where the overworked and highly strung journalists congregated to suck cancer into their lungs, and there he would shout his recitation, much to the amusement of the non-smoking journalists, who took to calling him Father Jim and his morning ritual as the Smoking Liturgy.

“Then I quit,” Jimmy said.

“You can’t quit, I just fired you.”

“Then rehire me so I can gain the satisfaction of quitting.”

“Now you’re being silly.” Fred propped his head on his hand and closed his eyes. “Damn it, Jimmy, why did you do it? You went nuts on this one. I mean, the only thing you didn’t say about Racza Corp was that they used their grandmothers as guinea pigs.”

Jimmy nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, I decided to edit that one out and save it for later.”

Fred opened his eyes and glared at the rebellious reporter. “Get out! Get out!” He stood up behind his desk. “I don’t ever want to see you here again!”

“Fine, I’m gone, Fred. But you’re losing your best reporter and all my readers.”

“I don’t care. You’re a troublemaker. I’ll make sure you never work at a news outlet again this side of the galaxy. You’ve caused so much—”

Jimmy left the office and slammed the door behind him before Fred finished. He went to his desk and checked the time—it was a little bit past five—before retrieving two items: his tiny camera and his digipad. Then he left for his favourite bar.

Chuck

As a barrister, Chuck P. Simpson ranked second on the galaxy’s list of most annoying people. Within his own profession, however, he came first in two areas: one, as a personal injury lawyer, because nearly everyone agreed that they were slimy, blood-sucking leeches who would do anything for a buck—indeed, this was partly how Chuck made his millions; and two, as Chuck P. Simpson, because he was renowned for never giving up, which, incidentally, was exactly how he made his millions—the opposing parties almost always settled out of court. Chuck had come to fame as a notorious personal injury lawyer when he sued his own mother on behalf of a client. That client was his brother. To this day, both Chuck and his brother are out of their mother’s will—not that there was anything left in it anyway, because they sued her for all she had.

The only person in the entire galaxy who had the guts to stand up to him was his wife, who specialised in family law. Today, they were both in a civil courtroom, battling it out against each other. Finally, Chuck thought, they were experiencing their wildest dream. Oh, how they had fantasised about this moment! He chuckled nervously at this, knowing full well that his wife was a cold-hearted vulture just as much as he was a blood-sucking leech. He sort of admired her as he looked at the long list of assets she was after: two of his houses, three of his penthouses, one of his holiday shacks—the one with four bedrooms!—seven of his cars, his thirty-foot space yacht, one hundred million Standard Credits (EsCes), and their two daughters. He scanned the list again. His space yacht. She wanted the yacht!

“She doesn’t even like travelling,” he said to the barrister representing him, Wayne Harris, a long-time colleague and partner in his firm.

In case you hadn’t figured it out yet, she had filed for divorce.

While his representation spoke to the judge, Chuck looked at his soon-to-be-ex-wife and the numerous legal professionals she had at her table. They were all women, he noticed. This didn’t sit well with him. Women stuck together—he’d used that often enough as a psychological tactic in his own cases. They were grabbing him by the neck (or something else) and squeezing with all their might. Then the judge joined in.

“Mr Simpson, in light of what has been considered today, I’ve decided that you are to sign over all that Mrs Simpson has requested.”

Both Chuck and Harris jumped up and yelled: “Objection, Your Honour!”

The judge held up her hand to quieten them down, and then dropped her head to make some notes. “Additionally, your wife gets full custody of your daughters. You may see them only when your wife deems acceptable. They will not live with you. Also, . . . Mr Simpson? Mr Simpson!”

Chuck was out the door, leaving behind the first case he had ever lost. He’d scrawled a note for his barrister’s final instruction: Wrap it up.

Eddie

If Eddie Harrison had to pick a tool to represent him, a lawyer would be the last choice. No, he preferred the screwspanhamulesawilevelplifench (v3.6.0)—sound it out: scroo-span-ham-yool-saw-wi-level-pli-fench, and repeat ten times. This was his favourite tool. It was a screwdriver, spanner, hammer, rule, saw, file, level, pliers, knife, and wrench, as well as many other tools, all in one neat little package. He took it everywhere. He never knew when he was going to need it. In fact, he was using it to put the finishing touches on his baby—his first attempt at building a personal interstellar spacecraft.

He was a mechanic and former asteroid racer, happily fourth on the “most-annoying” list. Apart from being able to fix just about any vehicle, he was also a jack-of-all-trades, though some would say a master of none. He could build a shed and then completely destroy it in one day; he could plumb his pipes, clearly displaying the crack of his backside; he could fix the electrical components in his house and make his hair stand on end at the same time; he had laid sandstones in his garden and kidney stones in his toilet. Anything he wanted to do, he did it. And now, he was finishing the greatest challenge of his life. He had worked like a dog to finish this spacecraft, forgot two wedding anniversaries and missed all of his kids’ school award ceremonies, but he figured it was worth it. Although no one else did. His wife said it wouldn’t even lift off the ground.

Eddie ignored her every time she said it. Anybody with even the slightest knowledge of propulsion and physics knew that anything could fly—even humans. You just had to have the science right. This thing was the size of a small house, but he was certain he’d got it right.

The last thing he had to do was install the virtual intelligence software that ran the ship’s autonomous systems such as oxygen and temperature modulation. It also acted as a supercomputer for storing information and calculating the complex mathematical equations necessary for space travel. As much as Eddie liked to say he knew how to do everything, he admitted that astromathematics wasn’t his strong point. That and riddles—he was vehemently opposed to purposefully confusing himself.

He looked at his watch and smiled as he finished the job.

Right on time.

He switched off the lights, locked his shed, and went for his car.

Chapter Two: What’s the Big Idea?

Chuck was the first one at the bar, though nobody knew exactly how long he’d been there. His face sagged and his eyes stared into oblivion as he downed glasses of various concoctions. Neither Dave nor Jimmy could make him happy or get more than a mumble out of him. So, being the great friends they were, they ignored him.

“I quit my job today,” Jimmy announced, smacking his hand on the table for effect.

“Now that’s a good idea,” Dave replied thoughtfully. He finished the last drop of his beer. “I wish I’d had the guts to do that today.”

Chuck yelled an unintelligible order to a nearby service bot, and the wiry machine responded affirmatively and scuttled away.

“So you bottled up your self-loathing and resolved to return to work on Monday like you do every other week?” Jimmy asked Dave.

Dave smiled. “No. I decided to go on vacation and never come back.”

“Cowardly, but smart.”

“Yeah, that’s me. I set up some automated processes to make it seem like I’m still working. I figured it would take them a couple of weeks to realise that I’m not there at all. Why did you quit?”

“Because I got fired.”

“I see.” Dave nodded, no stranger to Jimmy’s wild reasonings. “Chuck, anything interesting happen to you today?”

The service bot returned with a glass of scotch for Chuck. Just as it turned around, Chuck downed the whole thing and ordered another one. He sighed. “I lost my yacht.” A group at a nearby table laughed heartily and he frowned at the noise.

“Oh, no, you loved that thing,” Jimmy said. “Where did you see it last?”

Chuck breathed a low, grumbling breath. “I also loved my houses, my cars, my money, and my daughters, too, I suppose.” His fist hit the table and their glasses and bottles bounced. “But not as much as my yacht.”

“What happened to all that stuff?”

“Betty took it all. She also took a chunk of my savings.” He sighed again. “So it looks like I won’t be shouting today.”

At this moment Eddie marched in, wearing a smile a foot wide, his screwspanhamulesawilevelplifench dangling from his belt. He ordered a beer and sat down at the table. “How are we, guys? Anything interesting happen today?”

Dave didn’t look up from his empty Australian beer bottle. He refused to drink any beer that didn’t come from his home country. “I’ve started my indefinite vacation, Jimmy was fired-slash-quit, and Chuck got divorced and isn’t shouting us today.”

Eddie clapped his hands together. “Excellent! That means you can all come with me.”

“Where are we going?” Jimmy asked. His eyes were bright with expectant adventure.

Eddie shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Another service bot brought over drinks for Chuck. Chuck attacked this one more slowly—the bot had a chance to turn around and take one step before he ordered another.

“Well that makes it harder for me to decide whether I want to come with you,” Jimmy stated.

“Okay, you pick the place.”

Jimmy made an effort to show he was really thinking. “How about Spain?”

“I was thinking somewhere offworld.”

“Whoa, hang on a minute,” Dave said. “I’m not going on some cheap passenger cruise with hundreds of people where I’ll have to listen to babies cry as their ears pop when we exit the atmosphere, and breathe recycled air, and sleep in a tiny bunk, and eat when I’m told to and probably get a gastro bug.” He paused. “And listen to a boring tour guide.”

Eddie’s smile grew. “You don’t have to. I’ve built my own ship.”

Jimmy’s and Dave’s jaws dropped, while Chuck looked like he was sleeping.

“What?” Dave asked. “That would’ve cost you a fortune.”

“Ah, gee, Eddie,” Chuck said without opening his eyes. “If I’d known you were doing something like that, I would have financed it for you.” This was uncharacteristically generous of Chuck P. Simpson the Tight-Arse, so it must have been the scotch talking.

“You know, Chuck, you’re not the only millionaire at the table,” Eddie told him.

Dave shook his head. As an accountant he would have advised against such ridiculous spending. But now, as a man not wanting to account for anything, all he had was praise for his friend. He grasped Eddie’s hand and congratulated him. “So where are we going?”

“How about we go to the other side of the galaxy?” Jimmy queried.

“Yeah, as far from here as we can go,” Dave agreed.

Eddie nodded. “Good. Anywhere in particular?”

“Sure,” Chuck said. He slurred the word. “There’s a place called Paradise at the end of the Centaurus Arm.”

“Sounds great!” Dave exclaimed. “What’s it like?”

Chuck cleared his throat. “Paradisaical.”

“Excellent,” Eddie said. “So, are we all in?”

They all looked at Chuck, who was now barely standing and struggling to put on his coat. He nodded wearily. “Sure.” And then, while yawning, “Text me the details and I’ll meet you guys tomorrow.” He stumbled to the door but stopped and called over his shoulder. “Oh, and you guys will handle the bill, right?” He kept moving before he got an answer.

“I think this trip will be good for him,” Jimmy said.

“Um, Eddie, this sounds like it will take a long time,” Dave said. “What does Christie say about it?”

“Huh? Oh, she’s at her mother’s place with the kids. I found a note on the dining room table this morning. Says she went to the family reunion her parents had planned last year.” He paused. “It was dated two days ago. I guess I was so busy finishing my project, I just didn’t notice they were gone!”

“I’ll say,” Jimmy said, lifting his eyebrows. “You’ll be in the doghouse, for sure.”

“Nah, she’s okay,” Eddie said. “I called her on the way here, and she doesn’t blame me for not wanting to go up with her. She didn’t want to go either. I have nothing to do with her parents ever since her father told me he supports Arsenal F.C.”

“Man U for you, isn’t it?” Jimmy asked.

“Until the day I die.”

A silence followed as they drank their beer and ate the wonderfully shaped pretzels Chuck had neglected.

“So, what’s with Chuck?” Eddie asked. “Doesn’t he have any money now?”

“I don’t know,” Dave replied. “The divorce went through today. He probably still has millions, but maybe it’s not enough to pay for his drinks tonight.”

Later that evening, after finishing the pretzels and drinking a lot more responsibly than their lawyer friend, they stood and called for the bill. Dave nearly choked on the last pretzel when he saw Chuck’s debt for the night.

Thanks for reading this Space Trip excerpt. Thus begins a crazy and entertaining journey of four woefully underprepared characters: Chuck, Dave, Eddie, and Jimmy. Can they manage a little trip across the stars? How hard could it be?