Title: Escape Velocity
Chapter Two: Escapes
So very, very sorry about the absurdly long update-time! On one hand, I've been a bit busy this summer… on the other hand, I needed to re-hash out a plot… and on another hand, I didn't think too many people'd be mortally wounded if I didn't update. ~_^ But that's evidently not the case (*winks at Miruvor*), so here you go!
Extra note for Aofyn: Astute, aren't you? ^^ I was actually thinking about that when I started writing this… but then I ran up against the problem of not actually knowing Ford's real name, and I got the impression that Ix was more of a school nickname, rather than one he actually responded to. That and referring to him as Ix for the entire fic would be somewhat confusing and annoying. Meh. Might change it later on actually.
*~*~*~**~*~*~*~
That night's dinner in the Beeblebrox home could have been a bit more appetizing.
"You could have been arrested!" A set of plates were slammed onto the table.
"Mo~oom…"
"Hurt!" Silverware.
"Mooo~oooom…"
"Maimed!" Glasses.
"Mooo~oooom!"
"Or even taken to the Frogstar!" Entrée.
"Oh, come on, mom-"
"Ford, don't you get started too. You're in just as much trouble as he is!" Mrs. Alice Beeblebrox of 10 to the 8th Astrel Cresent, who had changed her last name after a romantic love affair to Eroticon 6 with her blonde, romantic, and double-headed first husband, glared across the wide kitchen table. Normally all seven of her children's mothers seldom ate together under one roof, but after Zaphod and Ford had been marched home escorted by no less than a dozen military troops, she decided to make an exception to the norm.
Said children were currently seated at the center of the table, Ford slumped down in his seat glaring angrily at his sneakers, and Zaphod leaning casually back against the arm rest, his face a mask of innocence and confidence as if daring any of the women present to re-accuse little ol' him of any wrong-doings. Nevertheless, both of them looked somewhat out of place in the very cozy, very lacy, and very clean kitchen. Neither had ever been a big fan of novelty salt-and-pepper shakers either, compliments of Mrs. Jeannette Beeblebrox's sudden and fanatic obsession with collecting shakers in the shape of barnyard animals.
Ford continued to stare menacingly at his shoes, for the most part ignoring his semi-cousin's charmed wheeling and dealing of their mothers. He'd get them out of trouble before desert, no problem there. The problem did lie however in the extremely obvious and extremely annoying fact that they were still on Betelguese 5. Without a ship. At home. Surrounded by cow salt shakers. He thought for a brief moment before coming up with his newest daily resolution. I will never own anything made of ceramics. He felt a bit better after that at least.
If only towels could be made into ships. They were really so very very useful except for that one tiny downfall of not having jet propulsion. (Although he had heard from his uncle that one voyager had in fact attempted to stitch a rocket onto his… but the entire thing had failed miserably and he'd merely ended up crashing face-first into a local souvenir factory of bobblehead dolls and koozies. Residents of the planet had been forced to carry umbrellas with them for half a week as plastic trinkets rained from the skies, and the bobblehead factory itself had soon after gone out of business when they were unable to keep up with the influx of orders after their burst of popularity.) It was extremely frustrating, he mentally told his shoes, hoping that they'd stop collecting scruff marks and listen for a moment. Here he was, potentially the greatest traveler of all time, wasting away his innocent youth in his mothers' kitchen. He even had the towel for the job; he'd been using towels for years ever since Uncle Finn had given him his first one for his seventh birthday. An illegally ugly baby blue and lime green number, but a towel nonetheless. Zaphod had confiscated and burned it anyhow, so over the years Ford had upgraded to a thicker fabric, to a larger size, to a florescent cashmere shag (that was interesting), and finally to a simple reinforced off-white that he carried with him nearly everywhere.
He grinned, picturing himself cavorting throughout space, towel in hand, and added another set of resolutions to the old one. I will get off this planet. I will become a marginally successful space traveler. I will buy myself a satchel for my towel and explore the galaxy, picking up women and figuring out what the big deal about this "alcohol" stuff is. Sounded like a good start for the week.
When he finally looked up the conversation was long since over, and he found himself completely alone at the table, surrounded by a half-finished baklava and an army of barnyard shakers littered between the dishes.
"Thank you very much." Zaphod strolled into the bright room, taking an elaborate bow before seating himself casually on the lacy tablecloth. "Thanks to the awesome and amazing powers of yours truly, we are free and clear, provided that we learned our lesson." He shoved a piece of pie into his mouth. "So. Care to try again? Tomorrow perhaps?"
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Zaphod was true to his word. The next sickeningly perfectly bright morning found them outside and, once again, stalking through the city for anything with wings and a key in the ignition. But, once again, they were still on the planet by lunchtime. Boredom and hunger had begun to set in as Ford stood in the middle of the street next to Zaphod, absently rambling about exploring distant planets. Granted, the latter seemed to be more interested in picking small pieces of lint off his shirt than listening to his semi-cousin, but Ford continued on anyway in an annoying loop, changing the topic every minute or so.
"Hey, Zaphod? I was thinking yesterday at dinner… you know, when mom and mom and mother were going off about how children are 'not supposed to steal military ships' and all that?"
"Uh huh… hey, look, ice cream!"
"Mom has far too many salt-and-pepper shakers. It's getting disturbing."
"That cow one just freaks me out, man. You want chocolate or vanilla?"
"Strawberry. I mean, sure, if ceramic animals are your thing that's all right, but after a bit, what's the point anymore? Yes, you've shown the world that you have collected anough porcelain to actually make a real-life, if not slightly stiff and useless cow, but then what?" He paused, registering that Zaphod currently had both his heads and shoulders inside the ice cream ship's window. "Maybe it's one of those holy missions. Maybe a God, or someone who looked an awful lot like a God, since it's easy to get confused, you know, said to her, 'Before you die, it is your sacred quest to collect more barnyard shakers than anyone's ever collected before. And put them on your table and scare your children before some day selling the whole table to an art museum so that you can make money to buy even more shakers. If you can make them actually moo, then bonus points to you.' That defiantly has to be it. If she's been doing this of her own free will, I'd think-"
"Get in!"
Years from now, Ford would always excuse any references to his childhood by describing his younger self as either stupid or intoxicated. In this case, for completely missing out on the current situation, he would settle on 'just plain dumb.' After all, it was a blatantly logical and simple series of events… for someone who knew what he was doing at least. Zaphod sees ice cream ship. Zaphod asks ice cream ship driver for ice cream. Zaphod tells ice cream ship driver that he has a big nasty bird stuck in his engine. Zaphod steals ice cream ship and makes off with two cones to boot.
In any case, without warning Zaphod grabbed Ford's arm with both of his own and yanked him into the ship, slamming the metal door behind them. With an almost admirable speed, he promptly began to flip any and all dials or leavers marked "Pull me to power up please!" If the driver inspecting his now-humming engine hadn't realized that his ship was being stolen, he surely would now. Without pausing, he turned one head towards Ford, who was currently eyeballing his surroundings somewhat warily. "What? Is it the stealing? Can't believe we're actually leaving this hunk of rock?"
"…We're in an ice cream ship."
"And your point is?"
"I just thought you had better taste," he replied, raising an eyebrow at the cramped, but brightly clashing interior of vinyl seating and brand advertisements. The colors pink and yellow appeared to be having a war with each other over who could take up the most area and be the most hideous at the same time.
"Impromptu situation. Desperate times. And we get all the ice cream in the back for the trip."
That last part sounded good. Ford leaned across the dash, helping Zaphod flip the rest of the switches, stealing a glance out at the ship's previous owner, who was currently pounding on the passenger side door. "Well, you convinced me. There. All set."
"Okay, now… drive!" The blonde waved his fingers in emphasis.
"Why can't you?"
Zaphod rolled both sets of his eyes and held the backs of his hands out in response. "Look at these hands. These are a politician's and a genius's hands. Not a white-collared nutcase's."
He thought about this point for a moment, then shrugged and shoved Zaphod out of the driver's seat. With a screeching of wheels and a blast from the engine, he floored their new vehicle, leaving behind in the blink of an eye a very peeved ice cream salesman, seven mothers, a hoard of salt shakers, and the most boring planet in the system. He'd also discover later that he'd left behind his entire collection of radios and Playbeing issues, but Zaphod would simply chock it up to fate having good taste.
But the loss of his personal possessions hadn't even crossed his mind they skidded up through the atmosphere, quickly gaining on and passing their sworn mortal enemy, Betelguese 5's escape velocity. And then just as quickly as they'd boarded, they were free, surrounded by the vastness of space and a million pinpoints of light in their very own ship. They could go to any of a hundred thousand planets from here. They could start anything, become anyone. And not have to give a hoot about cow shakers or overbearing mothers either. Zaphod appeared to be embarking on a long-winded verbal thrashing of his home planet, and Ford, throwing his towel onto the dashboard with a loud whoop, went to turn on some music for the monumental occasion with a flick of the sound dial.
Happy to oblige, the sound system loudly began to blare a tinkling-bell rendition of Mintri Had a Little Robot.
"So, kiddo, where to?" Zaphod leaned back in his pastel pink seat and propped his feet up next to Ford's towel, probably already a world leader in his mind.
"Um…" Barely containing another grin, Ford squinted a the road map he snagged off of the floor, a bit of coffee blurring the upper corners the Vega System. Locating the next planet the ship was programmed to jump to, he read the name out loud to his semi-cousin.
"Ursa Minor."