Activate the Device!: Friends in Space, #1

By St John Karp

They say every planet has its own smell, but then so do armpits...

The highlight of Snrt Mallrt's disappointing career was starring an ad that can save you fifteen percent or more on space hopper insurance. Now they've been wrenched from their cozy life on a space station and forced to migrate across the galaxy with a grab-bag of scofflaws and heavily armed crabs. All Snrt wants to do is ditch these weirdos and migrate in peace, but sometimes the weirdos are the ones who understand us best — Darrode, the thief with a mysterious past; Will the krill, the lobster who loves Shakespeare; Ayleon, the twinky cocktail waiter; and Elissa, the best cat burglar in the galaxy.

Activate the Device! is a queer sci-fi romp about friendship and adventure in space.

• Language: English
• Publisher: St John Karp
• Release date: Jun 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227974464

Book preview

Cover image: a human in a space suit sits on public transport next to assorted aliens commuting to work. Everyone looks bored.

Activate the Device!

St John Karp

Activate the Device! by St John Karp

Copyright © St John Karp, 2022

All rights reserved.

www.stjohnkarp.net

[e-mail]

Cover photograph by Kitreel/Shutterstock.com

Episode 1

They say every planet has its own smell, but then so do armpits. Snrt thought at least an armpit can have a certain guile. They’re hidden, intimate, mysterious body pockets that open like oysters to divulge their strange secrets. Planets on the other hand had no redeeming features — everybody knew that. Everybody, that is, except the mad people who lived there. Those mentally deranged (and, Snrt suspected, artistically blighted) people spent their whole lives being nibbled by every passing insect and humblebragging all the while about how rain and heatstroke made them wiser than everybody else. "Oh you wacky space folks with your light speed and your warp drives! When will you learn that life isn’t about how fast you go, it’s about where you’re going? As if their spiritual where" was someplace deep and meaningful, inaccessible to anyone who lived off-planet, a nirvana full of comfy socks and warm pies. In reality their nirvana was full of dirt and scabs and, as if those weren’t enough to keep people away, the insufferable smugness of planetsiders.

They looked out the window at the star field hurrying past them. It nearly took Snrt’s breath away. They remembered one winter when the station’s climate control had gone to hell. Snrt had gone down to Plapf Aarden’s spaceside rec center with their friends. They danced in zero gravity at the clubs, drinking things with little umbrellas that were diabolical and delicious, before donning their floppy hats and falling asleep under the star dome in their bikinis and shorts. Then in the morning they woke up half frozen to death. The climate control had been fixed in the night. The impromptu tropical party was over and they all knew it wouldn’t happen again for another six months when real summer came and the station turned up the UV emitters. Snrt was less than a day out and they missed Plapf already. They shivered in the corpselike chill of this spaceliner where the air had been filtered and refiltered until all they were breathing was dead oxygen. The stars stared down at Snrt balefully and the blackness weighed on them like a dead gorilla.

Here the comforting thrum of the station’s engines, the constant white noise of the support systems and gravity generators, they had all been replaced with knock-offs and counterfeits, wrong somehow in a way that vibrated Snrt’s quills uncomfortably and set their teeth at weird angles. The warp bubble in which they traveled made a low-key noise like someone sitting on a farting dog. The meaning of space itself was changing invisibly in front of and behind the ship, placing them in the middle of a concertina on which the universe was playing a mad tune.

Even so Snrt thought they were holding up admirably in the circumstances. The last straw was when Snrt had taken the foil off their in-flight meal and they could have sworn their vegetable curry was arranged in a face. They couldn’t believe it. It was winking at them in a way Snrt found indescribably violating.

I must be cursed, darling! they sighed. Look at what they served me. They thrust the unwrapped container at the human sitting next to them in the window seat.

He squinted at it for a moment, and Snrt was sure he’d call them crazy until he broke out in an expression of delight and said, "Is that a face?"

"It is, like the very image of the weeping Pipsu in the temple of the Spurious Gusset. I wonder if it means anything."

I think it’s a good sign.

Oh you’re gorgeous, look at you sprinkling omens all over me. They let their gaze linger somewhere between the seat in front and infinity. I have to admit I could use a little luck. She doesn’t call round as often as she used to. They refocused abruptly on the human next to them. And how is it you come to be so generous to strangers?

He grinned inanely. When you are awash in the light of the universe, what things are not possible?

Awash in it? I’m positively drowning.

First time hopping? he asked, and turned to face Snrt. They took the chance to look at him properly. They judged this one to be male, one of the darker-skinned ones, somewhere in the range of seventeen to sixty-five years old according to their tenuous knowledge of human anatomy. The hair on his head was abundant in tight curls that cleaved close to the scalp, some gray, but mostly black. The skin around his nose was somewhat rough and lumpy in a way that made Snrt wonder whether humans ever grew scales on the rest of their bodies like they did on the ends of their fingers. His eyes, however, crinkled delightfully at their corners, and the impenetrable brown irises were ringed with a startling blue.

"You’re going to think I’m such a rube, but it’s my first time off Plapf and it feels like I’m about to lay an egg."

Don’t worry about it, said the man, slapping the brick wall beside him. These things are safe as houses. Technically I think they are houses, if you forget about the engines. It’s the safest way to travel. His eyes glittered at Snrt as he spoke. What’s your name?

I’m not surprised you don’t recognize me, they said with a dramatic sigh. I do mainly independent theater, performance installations, nothing you might have seen. I’m an actor, you see — Snrt Mallrt.

That’s okay, I don’t watch the brainteases much. You could be someone famous for all I know. I’m Darrode.

Snrt couldn’t tell if that was a human first name or last name. They shook his hand and suppressed a brief quiver of their quills at the warmth of his touch. Warmbloods would never quite understand the thrill they sent up the spine of Flibbertigibbets. Snrt had to resist the urge to curl up against him and nuzzle in the warmth of his body as if it were a rock in the sun. As they let go of his hand Snrt was gratified to note he didn’t snag any of their scales. He must know his way around other species. He was an obviously confident traveler. Probably a rich jet-setter who warped all over the galaxy. Nice enough for some.

The ship came out of warp, which temporarily stopped the farting engines and the dizzying speed of the stars out the window. Part of Snrt hoped this meant they’d arrived at Nimbleberk, the hub where they could change to a flight on one of the larger spacelanes, but they knew they were probably only stopping to refuel or take on more passengers. There were days to go yet.

Snrt suspected that a stop coming up meant everyone would make for the restrooms at the same time. They excused themself to Darrode and stood. Another Flibbertigibbet was sitting in the row behind them, and for a moment the two exchanged a wordless glance of recognition. Then Snrt stepped unsteadily towards the back of the cabin, keen to avoid the gaze of the other Flibbertigibbet. They braced themself on the headrests of the seats they passed and ducked their head to keep it from brushing against the ship’s low roof. It was one of the rough-and-ready asteroid constructions that looked like it had been stuck together by a couple of shonky builders on a drunk afternoon. Ships like this never had to concern themselves with entering planetary atmospheres, and such trivialities as the classical application of physics didn’t apply when warping, so they only ever needed to worry about momentum and inertia during the short hops between docks. It was cheaper to build them out of whatever materials could be readily mined — rock and mud, mostly, but on some of the larger asteroids the amount of arable land actually let them build ships out of specially treated bamboo. Snrt wasn’t sure how they felt about flying in a ship made of wood. They suspected the flight attendants, already sadly phony and born without a sense of humor, were falling over themselves to make weak wood-themed puns. Wood all passengers please return to their seats? Wood you care for a drink? Have a safe journey — touch wood! It was almost too ghastly to think about. Snrt thought they would sooner fly in one of the bone ships built by colonies where materials were short and they repurposed the cadavers of their recently dead. Back in acting school they’d heard about an old human braintease where people turned their dead people into food, but the ancient humans had got it wrong — people didn’t eat their dead, they drove them.

Part of Snrt wondered if that’s where they’d wind up. They shivered. They weren’t normally a morbid person, but they couldn’t help it under the circumstances. Would people repurpose Snrt, take all the bits that were useful, chuck the rest away — all the gristle and scrag and acting lessons? People could catapult ships across unthinkable distances of space. They could suit up and enter wells of soft time in which subatomic particles are the size of apples and the laws of physics are as relevant as a daytime soap. They could make 4D brainteases that let you feel every touch, every sensation of every action, and that sold by the trillion all across the galaxy. But what did it all come down to? What was it all for when ultimately, in the end, after all the posturing was over you just wound up as part of some nameless corporation’s spaceship playing host to cheap and artificial cheer from spaceline attendants with personalities as authentic as the food? Snrt hoped that when their time came they were wearing something fabulous. Even after the rest of their body had rotted away, they hoped their skeleton would still drip glamour.

The restroom was occupied when Snrt got there, forcing them to wait in the narrow passage between the passenger section and the back of the ship where the kitchen, cabin, and crew’s quarters were located. A blindeye stood between the two sections ensuring that no passengers could wander into the heart of the ship. She was a human with such thickset shoulders that she could only fit in the passage by hunching forward, but Snrt doubted her bulk made her any slower at drawing and firing the stunner clipped to her hip. The blindeye eyed Snrt unkindly, and Snrt did the polite little nod people always do when faced with someone who could murder them at any moment and probably get a commendation for it. On the bright side if anyone could frighten the wee back up someone it was probably this heavily armored hulk looming over people as they stood in line for the restroom.

Snrt turned to the front of the ship instead and pretended the blindeye wasn’t there. They knew it was all psychological, but they couldn’t help wondering if this passenger-forward layout was designed so that if they crashed into anything the passengers would bear the brunt of the impact while the crew were safely back in their quarters at the rear. It was ridiculous, they knew, but then they’d also be lying if they said they didn’t know some deathtrap independent theaters that were designed the same way. The little interpretive dance studio across from the Squeeksquonian restaurant, for instance, was clearly designed to let the audience burn while the performers made a swift getaway, though say what you like about their fire escapes, they put on some fabulous shows. But what did Snrt know about interstellar engineering? The layout of these ships probably made perfect sense, but that didn’t change the fact that it felt wrong, like sitting on the seats facing backwards on the public overtubes. The world came rushing by from behind and made you feel like you were falling backwards into a whirlpool.

The vacuum-powered flush blew away whatever the current occupant had deposited and Snrt stood waiting as the sound of running water trickled weakly through the door. Finally the latch slid back and a Turlicue emerged into the narrow aisle. They both did the awkward dance as they tried to step around each other. When Snrt finally made it inside, they found it was distressingly small. There was hardly enough room to stand, but that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that here, like at their seat, was a large porthole that gazed out into the vacuum — and let the vacuum gaze in on them on the toilet. Life on Plapf was enclosed. Floors upon floors ran deep into the station so that the idea of defecating in space was completely bizarre, but these spacer types just loved to do it in front of wide open windows as if just anyone couldn’t pop up and leer in at you like human teenagers in a frat-house comedy, goofy, breathless, and pervy.

The stars were still and quiet now that they’d come out of warp. Nothing moved. No goofy teenagers. No breathless pervs. Snrt shook their head as if that could clear away cluttering thoughts.

They missed their proper toilet. They missed their friends. Last night would have been wine and beetle night, and it was Snrt’s turn to bring the beetles. The theater would be rehearsing their latest production, a musical retelling of the assassination of the Satrap of the Cumberanian Concord, and by all accounts the score was a real toe-tapper. They missed their sibling Ellrt, who was a deeply unpleasant investment banker, but at least when they bickered it was a familiar dislike, like eating a bite of something you know you’re going to hate but you do it anyway because someone keeps insisting how great it is and you eat it and you hate it, but it’s okay because you knew you were going to hate it and your reward is a deeply earned indignation. They’d never be home out here — but at the same time they knew they could never go back.

Snrt looked at themself in the mirror and brushed their quills into alignment on their head. Their eyes were clear and pitch black, joining seamlessly to the scales of their face. They were pleased to find the liner air hadn’t dried out their skin completely. Enough Flibbertigibbets in spaceport terminals looked ashy as hell and Snrt just wanted to tell them to get it over with and shed already. Snrt always felt much better after stepping out in a new skin, like they could take on the world.

Snrt removed the knee-length cardigan they’d brought to preserve their body heat in the unfriendly spaceliner, then their burgundy trousers and black blouse. Then out came the pack of wet wipes and Snrt began to towel themself off. This was as close as Snrt would get to a shower for the next few days at least. Welcome to all the comforts of space travel, they thought, where the best you can do to clean yourself is a couple of wet wipes and a change of underpants. But they supposed this was better than spending the thousands of coincoins on a private cabin. Those rooms came with their own showers and, Snrt was willing to lay even money, freshly made food that didn’t even have faces in it.

The restroom did have a few of its own amenities, despite its diminutive size. Snrt didn’t approve of the tacky floral pattern but they did quite like the homey curtains that framed the porthole, a little faded and aged now by the cosmic radiation. Snrt forced themself to open the curtains a little wider. The only way they were going to get used to all this space was to face up to it. No point moping. They were homeless now. They were friendless and familyless, their only companions were the stars. Yes, that sounded good: Snrt Mallrt, space adventurer, aimless drifter, haughty judge of the poor sods stuck in their ruts and putting down roots while their souls slowly rotted. They couldn’t compare to Snrt, a free spirit whom nothing could cage, riding the rails like a sexy hobo. It almost worked. Maybe after owning it there’d be less to worry about. Maybe they could find solace and belonging out here in the void. Maybe it wasn’t terrifying, maybe it was unifying, something that brought all sentient species together in a cosmic sense. Snrt couldn’t quite lean into that feeling just yet, but they thought that with practice they might. Then the feeling came crashing down and left Snrt feeling even more lonely than before, because whatever else they might tell themself, no-one else was going through what they were going through. Humans don’t. Slingies don’t. Even all the other Flibbertigibbets Snrt knew hadn’t done it yet. When it came down to it, all Flibbertigibbets go alone.

A cold shock hit Snrt. Their eyes fixed on the porthole in horror. Their hands flew instinctively to cover their nether regions. They gasped and tried to scream at the same time but the only thing that came out was a strangulated cough. A face had just appeared in the window. The humans were right, the leering teenagers were real. The face smiled at Snrt obliviously and began wiping the window with a squeegee.

Snrt began swearing colorfully in Gibberish in a way that should have been perfectly obvious to the space-suited figure outside, but he just waved his hand in an oh don’t mind me kind of way and carried on with his business. Snrt screamed some things at him in no uncertain terms until even he seemed to realize something was up. He cupped his hand to his ear as if struggling to hear, a gesture all the more perverse for the fact that the hand was gloved and the ear was helmeted and he was in any case separated from Snrt by an absolute vacuum. He motioned for Snrt to hold on for a second, then leaned forward and touched the visor of his helmet against the window.

Good evening, sir and/or madam. Moonstruck Spacelines hopes your journey has been one of comfort and luxury so far and that you are enjoying our in-flight entertainment system.

Bugger all that! Snrt shouted. I’m naked!

I assure you I’m not paid to notice that, he said helpfully. Moonstruck only employs crew and staff who are entirely asexual and aromantic. He added wryly, You may remember all the lawsuits we used to get.

Go away, stupid boy!

I don’t know about that. It’s just that we’re only out of warp for an hour or so and we have to do all the exterior work on the ship while we can. You wouldn’t want me to come out here while we’re warping would you?

You’d be torn apart. What a tragedy.

He continued to squeegee the outside of the ship for a moment until a thought seemed to saunter casually into his head. He leaned forward again and touched his helmet to the window. Do I know you from somewhere?

The pipey hotflaps on the back of Snrt’s neck bristled. No, they said uncertainly.

I do, I do. I never forget a face. Are you one of Bridie’s friends?

Who the hell’s that? Snrt exploded. The face in the window just waited expectantly, as if that wasn’t answer enough, until Snrt insisted, "No."

I know, were you ever in a dance competition on Ceres?

No!

The choosening?

"I have no idea what that is. What even is that?"

He snapped his fingers as best he could inside the thick gloves of the suit. That leisure colony with the insects and the evil clones!

Get stuffed, will you!

He drew his head back to get a better look at them. For a second Snrt held out a tiny hope that the man might give up and leave them alone. That hope winked out of existence as a familiar realization flooded the man’s features. He leaned against the glass again and said, I know you, I know you! You’re the moron from that ad! You missed out on saving fifteen percent or more on space hopper insurance.

Snrt sighed to themself, Snrt Mallrt, this is your life…

Do the face, do the face, the man insisted. I loved it when you found out about all the savings you missed out on and you were like, ‘Whaaaaaa?’ Snrt dulled their eyes and opened their mouth in surprise — the dopey expression that had made them famous enough to be recognized but not enough to be paid for it. They were the face of morons everywhere who didn’t understand the concept of value. They were the punchline to a joke that no-one laughed at. Well, no-one with a brain anyway. The window-washer fell into fits of laughter that threatened to tear a hole in his suit. That was amazing, wait till people hear I met you. Hey Shazza! Shazza, come over here and say hi!

With no more warning a second suited face appeared in the window and said, Howzat, Bazza? Snrt stared at her in horror. How many more of them were out there? Knowing their luck there was probably a whole window-washers’ convention happening right now outside the restroom window, every one of them a fan of that stupid ad. In seconds Shazza’s face lit up and she said, Hey you’re that Flibbertigibbet from the teaser, right?

Snrt made the face again, hoping it might help get rid of these two.

Hey, said Bazza, can I have your autograph?

"How?" asked Snrt.

He thought about it for a second, as if trying to fathom the problem out from all angles. His eyes, dull as the buttons on thrift-store pants, seemed to alight on the contents of the restroom for the first time. He saw the wadded-up wet-wipes that Snrt had been using to wash and had discarded into the bowl of the toilet where they were sitting now, growing sadly mushy.

Er, look, sorry if this is a slightly personal question, but what are you going to do with those wet-wipes?

I’m going to write you an autograph. Snrt smiled, knowing well that a Flibbertigibbet smile tended to unnerve human beings no matter how often you told them that smiling with three rows of teeth was three times as friendly, or that the jagged needles of their incisors were really only used for breaking the skin of tough foliage and not that of treasured colleagues and acquaintances.

Just so long as you’re not going to flush them, he said obliviously.

Sod off out of my window! Of course I’m going to flush them, what do you think?

Do you not know how sewerage works? Bazza asked as if Snrt had just told him they thought the universe was a disc resting on the back of a turtle.

"No, strangely enough they neglected to cover that in my bachelor of arts. I know most people think my degree is crap, but it’s not a degree in crap. There was a Poo 101 I could have taken as an elective, but I decided to study cinematography instead. Mad, I know, when I think of all the happy hours I could have spent mucking about with u-bends. What can I say? It was the folly of a misspent youth."

Yeah, yeah, Bazza said encouragingly. "The thing is, you can’t flush solids like that. You can only flush things that break down, otherwise they can block up the pipes, and then there’s solid waste floating around space for all eternity. Someone could be coming along at close to the speed of light and receive one of your old wet-wipes to the face and all of a sudden their head is two thousand miles behind their body.