The Road to Kvell Is Paved With Good Retention

by BrianMullin0

Fredwina and Sally floated aimlessly in their multipurpose xenobiological scrubbers and skin reconstruction chamber. Swirling around them were what they had called 'space sprites,' but known to Big O Station 12989 scientists as interstellar gas cooties (IGCs).

Their knowledge of space life forms was millions of years old and tens of thousands of civilizations vast. The consensus on IGCs was elegantly simple: unknown, unclassifiable, and unstable. In other words, they knew nothing useful. Which meant they viewed the sprites and our mop & broom ladies as dangerous.

Which, of course, would have been perfectly justified had they known the fate of the last space-going pseudo-planet they'd just visited. They didn't know squat, of course. Which means (to Freddie and Sal) that they were being downright rude. The sprites could have cared less. Their unique exochemical composition was hard at work eroding the sealant between the glass and metal chambers. Work that was completely unnoticed by Big O's scientists.

Because the Station's current rulers are unbelievably cheap (cost-effective, as 12989's PR people spin it) our ladies share the same chamber, which is not uncomfortable if you don't plan on doing much stretching – or deep breathing. Fredwina, whose last meal consisted of some vegetarian dish that she didn't much care for ('I'm a carny-vore, not some bloody rabbit!"), belched and farted simultaneously.

It was far too much added pressure. Factor in 12989's centrifugal, centripetal and Coriolis forces all pulling on or puling over or poking at each other, and the cost-cutting measures, and the chamber simply cracked like a hatching Kzinti chicken egg, sending our ladies sloshing to the floor in a most unladylike manner.

"Oy, Sally!"

Sally busily spat out the blue tinted water, sneezed up more, then removed her hair net before shaking her hair free of curly patches that appeared to be skin. She felt a bit woozy. She picked up the patch that was stuck in her single braid, and it was only when she saw the bright pink imprint of her bargain brand lipstick on it that she knew it really was bits o' skin.

"Sal! Are you pucker? I'm pucker, I guess. Last thin' I remember is all the stars an' the sprites, and that piss-ant planet blowin' up! Those stupid bastards!"

"Stupid bastards, most everyone! I remember the suit gittin' real 'ot, like the menopause, and the sound of sizzlin'..."

Fredwina shivered, and began to tear up. She splish-splashed across the floor and hugged her friend tightly. "I thought we were goners fer sure"

"Hah!" said Sally, "It'll take a lot more than an explodin' meteor to take out us tough old birds!"

Fredwina made her hand into a fist and held it out to Sally. "As the damn teenagers say, 'Turd!'"

"Ah dinna think it's 'Turd,' Freddie. No matter. 'Turd!'" Their fists bumped. "Ach, it's filthy in here, Sal."

"An' wet, Freddie. Very wet and nasty-like. Let's get to it!"

They left the med lab and found a supply closet, along with a high-tech broom and self-drying mop with collapsible bucket. What? How hard did you think it would be for two determined English cleaning women to find a mop and broom on...wherever it is they've gotten to this time - oh, right! – Big O Station 12989.

They were putting the broken glass into piles in the lab's far corners when Tzznfft-0i-oi, the exobiology intern from Galaxy Name-too-hard-to- pronounce came to check on the two simmering specimens in the scrubbing chambers. Never having seen a small, non-human multipede wearing spectacles and a lab coat before, Fredwina thwacked him, sending it several score feet away with the broom.

This act of aggression was seen by Senior Station Guard ROWR 4401, who promptly appeared on the scene (he was pawing just down the hall) and began the annoyingly loud ritual of summoning additional help. Dozens of similar yawps and yaps ensued, as the canine bots waited for security personnel who would never arrive. Cost-effective budget cutting, naturally.

They found what appeared to be an elevator, and Sally for expediency's sake just pushed all the buttons. Except for the red one. Never again, she

thought. (There's a good story behind that, but that's for another time.) The elevator emerged into a what appeared to be a viewing room. There was a great big sign that said, "Doomsday: Is there a solution?" next to a check-in table. The attendant, a saurian from Waitan, had all six of its eyes trained on our ladies, clawed hands drumming small dents in the metal tabletop.

The elevator began descending as soon as they'd gotten out, so our ladies became a captured audience, if you will. The saurian asked their names, and now with nametags on their polka-dot 'Spotless Cleaning Co.' shirts, they took their seats.

Above them was a great arc that filled the sky. Patches of blue, white and green were sandwiched between black squares. And in the middle shone a star. Fredwina's mind made a few calculations, using the approximate size and length of the arc with the resulting size of the possible landmasses embedded within, she deduced that what they were on wasn't a space station at all.

It was a galaxy unto itself, a manufactured one, in the shape of a hula hoop. A Hoopworld. But Freddie couldn't help but notice that it was trembling – that almost imperceptible wibble-wobble before the hula hoop just falls down with a sharp 'snap.' Only in this case, the hoop would drift away from the star, and destroy itself in the process.

Sally saw her friend's gaze, but couldn't figure out what seemed to both fascinate and irritate her. A scientist with the horn of a rhinoceros (if rhino horns were neon orange) and the body of a gorilla was pointing to some equations on a whiteboard.

"And so it follows," he said nervously, "that we have no alternative but to abandon 12989. No civilization, with the exception of the 10th dimensional inhabitants of Everywhere & Nowhere, would survive the resulting collision."

"Amateurs!" shouted Freddie. "Your calculations fail to account for the Universal constants of if/then and the degradation ratio of the solar gravitational pull against the tri-force. Whose bloody awful idea was it to place an unsecured star in the center of an outer space hula hoop?"

"Ma'am, it's a model 89, series 12900 universal ring, not a...whatever you called it!" chirruped a scientist who resembled a hamster.

"Excuse me?" Freddie squeaked, pushing her specs down the length of her formidable English nose. The gathered scientists gasped. "This ain't the time ta be arguin' semantics, fuzzbutt! You need ta build a cage around yer star, an' anchor the cage in the middle o' yer toilet bowl ring or hoolee hoop or orange peel, and that'll stabilize the orbits and spins."

When she was met with vacant stares, Fredwina threw her hands up, grabbed the marker from the rhino-horned white coat, flipped the white board over and filled the empty space with what was (as one scientist later called it) the simplest, cleanest, and most sanitary solution to what had proved a most filthy and troublesome stain on the Big O Corporation's 12900 series. Also, it was pleasantly citrus-scented.

During her presentation, the space sprites (or IGCs) swirled about Fredwina, giving her dynamic lighting that would have been the envy of any multiverse holo-star. Freddie managed to slip away from the cluster of scientists who were barraging her with questions and all but ran with the startled Sally back to the elevator.

Sally was finally about to ask the burning question we all would have liked an answer to, when the Broom Mistress gave it straightaway: "I've a day- gree in Advanced Physics. See, me mum said I was only good fer studyin' male physiques, but they put me in this stupid math science class instead. Advanced, hah! Simple stuff, it is. Basic common sense, an' a bit o' How's yer father, you know?"

"I dunno what to say, Freddie me luv, 'cept you're me dearest friend and pal. Can't think of anyone I'd rather be lost in space with than you. So, where'd these horned and hairy blighters go wrong?"

"They used Niven's Nonsense Law of Numbers, that's where. Combined wit' liberal use of Larry's Corollary Law of Lawlz, it's no wonder the whole mess didn't shatter the already fragile fabric of reality eons ago." The elevator stopped, and the doors opened on a shuttle bay.

"Freddie, what's our plan? Why are we here?" asked Sally, her voice echoing her deep confusion regarding their past few wild months.

"You, me and the sprites are going to the Douglas Cluster. We're going ta' ask the real Boss what the hell he's been drinkin' and to demand that he do right by us. And there's the ship that will take us there!"

The ship was a large junker, a 6-seater with a hold capacity for a decent- sized meteor or two. In faded letters on the hull it said, "Lady Luckless – Making Your Space Litter-Free!"

As she strapped herself into the co-pilot's seat, Sally said cautiously, "Ya know, old girl, the Douglas Cluster's a myth."

"They said that about that fish & chips restaurant, but we foun' it!" "That's different. That was on a street with no name."

"It was missing a sign. And look out there – that's a sign iffen I ever saw one!"

In front of them, a hundred miles ahead of them, the space sprites had formed into a giant arrow pointing straight ahead, and the words 'This Way, Numpties!' floating above it. A good sign indeed.