The Terrible Weapon – August CW Comp

The massive spaceship hung motionless in space in much the same way that Westminster Abbey doesn’t. It was in an uncomfortably close orbit to the most mind-boggingly litigious and therefore humungously wealthy planet in the whole universe, Plajarismo IV, and the crew were taking no chances. They were on a mission.

The Vogon, sitting in his command chair on the bridge of said massive Constructor Fleet flagship, smiled to himself. His self shuddered and tried to look elsewhere, for a Vogon smile is not something to be taken lightly under any circumstances. Nor indeed is the general appearance of your average Vogon to be taken lightly under any circumstances, though this has been more than adequately described elsewhere.

The blinking light on a panel showed Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz of the Galactic Hyperspace Planning Council that his guest had just beamed aboard. “Bring the visitor to the bridge”, he commanded, immediately wondering why he had forsaken his own language for one of the most obscure and perverse in the Galaxy. Incipient stress, probably, he thought to himself, not that he was ever going to admit it.

The doors hissed open, a considerable achievement when there are no suitably alliterative consonants in ‘open’. A guard, an anonymous face fated never to appear anywhere on the list of credits at the end of the forthcoming movie, stood in the doorway. He saluted and, without uttering so much as a single word of dialogue, disintegrated spectacularly into his component molecules, hit square in the back by a phaser blast. A threatening figure resembling a decomposed Samurai warrior in full body armour appeared though the still falling dust of the late unlamented guard and strode onto the bridge, holstering his weapon in the process.

“Welcome Gorkon, Chancellor of the Klingon Empire”, Jeltz spat, much more successfully than any door could ever have done, “Nice entrance, albeit at the cost of one of my crew.”

“aghmo’ tIn mIS” , Gorkon replied and then realising instincively that he sounded like a cat trying unsuccessfully to regurgitate a hairball, also reverted to English. “Much ado about nothing”

“No matter”, Jeltz persisted, “but this is the sort of thing up with which I will not put (grammar). You are looking particularly well, Chancellor Gorkon. The improved SFX budget has made your forehead more like a new radial and less like a a crossply remould. How may we help you?”

“I acknowledge the customary diplomatic greeting and apologise for my earlier actions, but nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it and anyway was there noone who could have (grammar) rid me of this turbulent guard? It’s enough to go through the energisation process without being met, by that, alas, poor Vogon – I knew him well – wandering round the transporter room crying ‘O Gorkon, Gorkon, whereforever art thou Gorkon?’ It may also have come to your attention that the Klingon race is particularly badly affected by radiation emanating from Plajarismo IV.”

“The fault, dear Gorkon, is not in our stars”, Jeltz instincively replied, “Oh Zark! What am I saying?”

“Fraility, thy name is Vogon”, said Gorkon shaking his head sadly. “You are also becoming contaminated and we expected so much more from you. But hark! Something wicked this way comes. Screw your courage to the sticking place. As Klingons we must be cruel to be kind and forge a brave new world.”

“The better part of valour is discretion”, Jeltz mused to himself, unintentionally, “but why do you need the help of the Vogons?”, he asked aloud.

“We need you”, said the Klingon, “ to destroy Plajarismo IV. To this end we need you to broadcast Vogon poetry, recognised from the dawn of time as being the most deadlly ever in the entire planetary system, on all open and sub-ether channels available. That way madness lies.”

“Such stuff as dreams are made on”, Jeltz replied.  “Oh Zark! I’ve zarking done it again. It’s getting worse. We need to move fast, Klingon. Certainly our poetry will achieve the desired effect but it will take time. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow and all that. I must let you into a terrible secret. There is a weapon more fearsome even than Vogon poetry and we have it.”

“Even more fearsome? ”, gasped Gorkon, repetitively.

“Even more fearsome. Listen.” The lights dimmed and the bridge fell silent. The ship’s computers took the hint and went into standby mode. Jeltz put his hand on Gorkon’s shoulder, pulled him closer and breathed into his ear. “We have them. We have………….The Pomes”

Gorkon staggered backwards, his hand clutching his forehead. “The Pomes? It cannot be! They are but a terrible myth.” He blanched – visibly. Not an easy trick for a Klingon.

“Oh , yes” whispered Jeltz triumphantly. “After aeons of searching, the Vogons found The Pomes on a small planet in the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy. With this weapon we can attack the Plajarists and restore order to the Universe”

And so it came about that, instead of merely demolishing Plajarismo IV as would be the wont of Vogon Constructor Fleets everywhere and which would have been by far the kindest and most species-specific solution, the giant spaceship broadcast wave after wave of Pomes aganst the hapless planet. Panic and madness reigned. Plajarists across their world screamed in terror, blood pouring from their ears and hurled themselves from poetically impressive cliffs or into the maws of newly born volcanoes in order to escape their agony. Millions died and the very substrata of the planet heaved as Plajarismo IV itself writhed under the onslaught.

“It is working”, said Gorkon with satisfaction. “ Their power is weakening. To continue or not to continue? That is the question.”

OZ