A Red Warning Light (extract)

A little red light is almost always a bad sign. Red light is so frequently associated with danger and warnings, no matter where you are, that even to an electronic Alien entity assimilating itself with the brainwaves of an ape, the red warning light reeked of imminent threat. Add to that the blare of the emergency siren.. Luckily, it was just such an alien life form that had caused the little red warning light to go off, and she knew it well. Scientists in lab coats were dashing across the shiny floor in the direction of the double-thick security doors, albeit with a kind of familiar, almost controlled haste. The kind of dashing that seems to be saying ‘Blast, I didn’t have time to cover my Petri-dishes’.
The alien was beginning to get the hang of ape-limbs, and had easily figured out the simple neurochemistry of the primate brain. A serious discharge of adrenalin and an abnormally efficient twist of the animal’s joints had made quick work of the wire mesh. Gunga, who had been imprisoned this way for many unpleasant months, was taken aback, despite the frantic situation and the charge of energy. He had tried for weeks to break his way through the cage before, with chattery ape gibberings and peeled back lips galore. But this... this was something new. No fear this time; no terrified looks to his fellow prisoners. This was an almost Buddhist moment for Gunga- he seemed to be watching himself perform this feat of amazing strength. His face, had any of the lab assistants stopped to look as they ran neatly for the Safe Zone, would have shown a very human surprise as he leaned out of the ripped cage and swung to the ground. His furry-topped feet slapped to the floor, and immediately the presence within his brain began a complex sensory scan of the laboratory. Following the scientists was not a viable option, mainly because they would have noticed a 9-stone ape lumbering towards them with a confused look on its face, but also because the security doors were rapidly closing behind the last of them; Lab Technician Moss.

Ms Moss insisted on the title Ms because Miss Moss sounded too stupid, and she needed to be taken very seriously if she was ever going to be taken seriously at Crelch-Moanhem Pharmaceuticals. She glanced back into the lab, briefly considered running back for her clipboard and then caught the eye of Lawrence, the security guard. He reached out to hit the inner seal panel on the wall... which just happened to be on a level with Ms Moss’s chest region. Lawrence hesitated. Ms Moss turned her face away from him. She did not, however, make any effort to allow him space to avoid contact with her chest region.
Lawrence had dealt with many awkward situations in his years at Crelch, including spilt monkey samples, a poison gas leak (which had turned out to be Professor Leach’s bowel condition- it’s amazing what the Compound’s sensors will pick up), and numerous inter-departmental arguments between one nutty professor or another. (Such situations Lawrence referred to as ‘Conflict Resolution for Aggravated Personnel’, in his private log book. He often used abbreviations when filing the day’s events.) These heated encounters with Ms Moss were altogether different though. His only ever girlfriend had hated him, and only let him touch her twice- once when she was drunk, and kept calling him Rex, and once when she’d slapped him goodbye. He realised afterwards that she’d only been interested in him because one of her friends had told her as a joke that Lawrence was related to Michael Jackson. When she found out on telly that Michael Jackson was really black, she dumped Lawrence. The slap was because he’d asked for a farewell kiss. He’d never got over Dawn, however unfulfilling it had been, and was therefore very tentative around women. Not least of all around women who a) he found attractive, even in a lab coat, and b) kept looking at him for what felt like a bit too long, as if she was about to ask him to fetch her a beer from the wardrobe or something. Dawn had often done that when he’d been allowed to her house. The thing is, Lawrence didn’t think Ms Moss was the type to drink beer. Or keep it in the wardrobe, come to that.
Lawrence leaned gingerly forward as far as he could, and tried to bend his elbow away as much as possible so as not to touch that sacred place.. It was unavoidable though. His brown security uniform-clad arm brushed against Ms Moss’s chest region as he hit the panel, and the inner seal hissed shut. Lawrence rapidly withdrew his arm, but as he did so Ms Moss turned her face towards his, and their eyes met for a fleeting instant. It was as though time had slowed down- they blinked as one.. He could feel his heart ramming the inside of his ribcage. Her pupils dilated (although Lawrence didn’t really notice that- he was too busy trying not to lose his breath). He thought her hair was about to start blowing around seductively or something- she blinked again, in slow-motion behind her burgundy-framed NHS plastic glasses. Nothing else mattered in the whole-
‘Excuse me, but isn’t that a secondary fire alert signal?’ interrupted a white-coat behind them.
The intrusion was too much for Lawrence’s precarious emotional state. His belly quaked, and he let out an audible, almost tangible botty-belch right there in front of Ms Moss and all of the scientists. Doom!
The lift was silent. A new, far darker and more intense silence as Lawrence felt his whole world caving in on him. He flushed a deep red and looked down.
‘Errm.. err.. yes, Professor Clark, yes it is. I’d better radio the.. errr.. desk.’ He was sweating, and he could not only hear Ms Moss’s contempt and disgust, but he could smell the pooey odour rising from his security trousers. Why? WHY did I have to have two bags of NikNaks for lunch? He wanted to cry. Ms Moss sniffed in shared embarrassment, but the intake of breath made Lawrence feel infinitely worse. ‘She can smell my poo, she can smell my poo.. ‘was all he could think as the elevator sank smoothly away from Lab 4.

Gunga knuckled down the steel ventilation shaft. It’s a classic escape device, particularly of interest to alien beings, but this alien had never had the opportunity to indulge in any popular human fiction, so it was only through a series of rapid but complex mental processes that she’d managed to calculate a way out of the large laboratory. They’d passed two other vents, but Gunga’s vastly enhanced hearing had told the alien that these too were being sealed. ‘My location and direction must be apparent to the bipeds’, she thought. She allowed Gunga to scratch his head in ape-like confusion (Basic Corporeal Possession Directive Three, subheading iii; Occupant to permit no less than 50 percent of host organism low-level brain functioning on a continuous basis, except where this may contravene or impede Basic Corporeal Possession Directive Two including any subheadings thereof.). She took over control of the left limb before Gunga started munching on the parasite he found though- hunger/ salivation/ food impulses would be too much of a distraction at this crucial moment.
Ahead was the final vent, and Gunga, against all instincts, made a headlong charge. All four limbs operating in a previously unavailable co-ordinated fashion gave him a terrific pace, despite the restricted conditions of the shaft. He hit the metal grate with velocity and broke on through to the other side.
Accuracy, timing and calculation were key to the survival of the alien controlling Gunga’s primitive body. Her training had been arduous and long, and she’d reached the universally respected heights of Interplanetary Diplomat, an accolade her parents would have been proud of, if this particular race had such a thing as parents. As it was, she was spawned by a pretty unfeeling bio-electronic network called the Void, and the Void never really expressed feelings, and it certainly didn’t have a mantelpiece on which to put pictures of its genetic offspring receiving their digital graduation certificates. Without the training offered by the Void’s Neurogenic Enhancement Procedures, 50021E would have never learned the skills she now so desperately needed. But, in spite of all of the lessons her Mentor-Entities had reinforced into her Brainframe, she knew that only trust in luck can make the difference between Interplanetary Diplomat and Secretarial Patch. Not that Secretarial Patch was anything to be sniffed at; far from it. Patching was a highly respected position. But when the mission was over, 50021E knew who’d be getting all the Biofeedback. Oh yeah.
LUCK, she thought, as ape and alien crashed through the grate. LUCK, she thought, as Gunga pitched into the air above the Level 2 Security Checkpoint. FUCK, thought security guard Tony Wolfe, as a scared looking 9-stone monkey slapped into the window of his booth.
Tony jumped back, ready for action and hindered only by his comfy Habitat swivel chair, which brought him quickly to the floor of the Security Booth. As the bent grate clattered to the floor of the corridor, 50021E disregarded Gunga’s facial pain receptors and smartly turned the ape towards what appeared to be the main stairwell. Tony Wolfe was rising behind the desk, reaching for his stun-rod and secretly praying that Lawrence Belchitt, 2 years his senior and an anally efficient Security Supervisor, didn’t want to check the CCTV over Level 2 Booth. He will, that tosser, I know he will, thought Tony. He darted from the booth.
Gunga was hurtling manically down the corridor. He saw the stairs and leapt over the banister-rail, swinging down onto the First floor. He stopped at the junction and looked left, then right. Down again, thought 50021E as two more security guards rushed around the corner.

On the ground floor, after what felt like a Galapagos turtle’s lifespan, the lift doors hissed open and Lawrence scuttled out, stun-rod gripped in a sweaty hand. There was no way he could salvage his dignity, but at least he could give his pent-up manhood a good dusting down.
Ksshhht- ‘Ape loose on ground floor, am in pursuit on foot!’ crackled Wolfe on Lawrence’s radio. Of course you’re on foot, thought Lawrence, angrily. Idiot.
Ms Moss was the second person to leave the lift. She looked up at the tiled roof with frustration in her eyes, wishing none of the previous events had happened. He must hate me, she thought. How could I be so insensitive as to sniff, after his body responded like that to the emergency? He’s so efficient, so.. manly! To void his intestines like that and reduce wind resistance.. The man’s an unrecognised genius. What was I thinking? He must think I’m so primitive! Damn, Damn DAMN my lack of self-control! And now I’m so ashamed, how could I ever look at him again?

One, two.. three bipeds between us and the building’s front exit. Two running from the left corridor.. and that malco-ordinated one from Level 2 coming down the stairs. Time for Directive Nine, thought 50021E; the Emergency Directive.
In some cultures, it is believed that harnessing the body’s natural energy, it is possible to achieve great healing powers, or great strength or speed. Or perhaps an incredible mental focus, allowing one to attain skills that would seem, to the layman, Unnatural. Well, these energies are indeed tappable. Or, put otherwise, it is possible to bend what we know as the Rules of our ‘reality’. Emergency Directive Nine allows just such behaviour. It means, to the likes of 50021E, that one may, in times of Dire Need, bend the ‘rules’ a little. She did just that.

*

‘Sir, excuse me sir, we got a Red Warning Light sir!’ hooted Lieutenant Bols. His hands were gripped tightly behind his back as he awaited further orders from General Rammstein. A twirl of thick Havana smoke rose, typically, from the General’s chair back.
‘Sir, it’s urgent orders sir!’ This was odd, predictably. Normally the General’s first response to any interruption was a guttural cough, followed by a tornado of surreal abuse directed at nobody in particular. Today though.. silence.
‘General Rammstein, sir! General Lubeck ordered me to inform you, sir, that we have a Red Light Security Situation in Haiti, sir!’ He was deeply unsure. Another puff of smoke from the General’s chair, which faced the wall behind his desk, and then Lieutenant Bols noticed that the General was drumming his fingers on the leather arm rest of his chair. Uh oh, this is serious, thought Bols. General Rammstein had been known to have men court-marshalled for breaking wind on nightwatch, saying it had ‘interfered with nocturnal strategy’, whatever that meant. He began to fear for his dreams of promotion. He tried one last time to open a line of conversation with the General, wondering if a new angle might somehow show the General that Bols was a man with initiative. A man with.. Balls.
‘How are you enjoying your cigar, General Rammstein, sir?’ he ventured. ‘SIR!?’ Unbelievable! No response! No option but to utilise an emergency tactic- Go Round the Desk. He gulped.
The General’s chair swung round as soon as Bols’ shadow came into view.
‘Wha?’ he belched, with a cloudy cough. ‘The HELLZAMADDER WITH YOU? THIS IS MY DESK!’ roared General Rammstein, extra loudly.
‘Sorry sir! I didn’t mean to-‘
‘WHA?! CAN’T HEAR A DAMN WORD YER SAYIN’ MAN! WAIDAMINIT! Crazy goodfernuthin treehuggers..’ Just then Lieutenat Bols noticed that the General appeared to be wearing a set of headphones attached to some sort of personal stereo. The General yanked the earphones from his ears.
‘NASTYCREW!!’ Bols looked blankly at the General, searching his mind desperately for the correct response. ‘Crazy English boys. NASTYCREW, that’s the damn name, son! We oughtta be proudda those kooky liddle English boys, son. All new, NastyCrew, no shame fer the game, cuz it’s what we do..’ rapped the General. ‘Biggemup, biggemup NastyCrew.. Time ta get raw widda NastyCrew..’
‘Sir, it’s a Red Light in Haiti sir. General Lubeck ordered me to inform you that-‘
‘What? Haiti? Who the hell’s attacking Haiti? It’s not those damn French warheads again is it? By God, there’ll be HELLTAPAY if Haiti gets bombed again!’ He swiped up the phone on his desk. ‘Margie? Put me through to Frankie Lubeck. He’s in Detroit with Elaine. Oh, but don’t tell his wife.’ He flicked a warning look at Lieutenant Bols, who clamped his jaw shut and stared forwards at nothing. ‘And contact Sam Moran in Haiti. Tell ‘em ta call me as soon as possible. And hold all calls from my home!’ He crunched the phone back down. ‘Thad’ll be all, Lieutenant. Do something about yer damn manners, man!’
‘Sir, yes sir!’ The last thing Lieutenant Bols heard as the door clicked shut behind him was General Rammstein’s gruff, tuneless rendition of what he could only presume was the NastyCrew.
‘Sexy girls, poonanny.. Sexy girls, me wah..’

*