Author's note: I'm glad so many people are enjoying this, but seriously, if you haven't read/listened to the book/radio play of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, you really should, because it's a classic piece of sci-fi-comedy. Don't watch the movie, though. The movie was wildly inaccurate and we don't speak of it.
EDIT: Due to internet problems, this took way longer than usual to get updated. So, by way of recompense, have a longer than usual chapter!
(-*-)
Deep in the uncharted backwaters of space, at the unfashionable end of the Universe, lies a small, mostly uninteresting yellow sun. Orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety million miles is a planet known (or rather, that was known as,) Earth.
Earth is, or was, an utterly insignificant little blue-green planet, whose ape-descended life forms are so shockingly primitive that they still think polyphonic ringtones are a 'cool idea'.
This planet has, or had, a problem, which was this; most of the ape-descended life forms were pretty unhappy for most of the time (for remedies for cultural depression, see entry: Alcohol). Of the many solutions suggested for the problem (see entries: Alcohol, Arts, Drugs [legal], Drugs [non-legal], Entertainment, Faith, Food, Meditation, Music, and Pictures of Baby Animals with Humorous Captions Underneath Them), most were presupposed by the movements of small green pieces of paper. This didn't really work, mostly because people became so obsessed with the small green pieces of paper that they were even less happy than they were before, and partly because it wasn't the small green pieces of paper which were unhappy in the first place.
The problem remained, and it drove many people to be mean and miserable (even the ones with polyphonic ringtones or small green pieces of paper; having one seemed to prevent you from having the other). Many were increasingly of the opinion that they'd made a big mistake coming down from the trees in the first place.
The most recent entry for the planet Earth, listed roughly 2040 years before its demolition (in Earth years), read "Harmless". The reporter responsible for this entry was one Gabriel Angeles (currently Prime Minister of the Universe), who was promptly fired on his return to the Megadodo Publishing Corporation, for (a) wasting company funds, and (b) interfering with the blossoming civilisation of an underdeveloped planet. His defence was that, if they were going to herald him as a messenger from their God, they were really inviting him to interfere.
His further defence was that, if he got some girl pregnant while letting her believe he was the messenger of their God, that wasn't exactly his fault, and the planet was 'harmless' anyway so what was everyone's problem?
Roughly twenty-seven Earth years later, the resultant offspring was nailed to a tree for suggesting people be nice to each other for a change.
"Being nice to each other for a change" became the reason for some of the bloodiest wars the planet had ever seen, which was why Balthazar Angel was not in the least sorry to be rid of the Earth after ten years of being accidentally stranded there. He was, however, sorry to come to and find himself in the rather messy hold of a Rahptoor space ship. Minion quarters, thankfully, but that was rather like saying "don't worry; this is just a baby lion/suntiger/bugblatter beast of Traal. It won't be big enough to eat you for two days yet".
Balthazar looked down at his travelling companion, who was currently pale and bleary.
"Don't worry, Dean. You've just been through your first matter-transference beam; you're bound to be a little shaken. Now, come on. We need to find you a few things."
"Balthazar…" Dean remained on the floor for a while, as he tried to remember how to differentiate between 'up' and 'down'. "Where am I?"
"You're on board one of the Rahptoor Streamlining and Efficiency Task Force ships. You remember? With the Dæmons? Who blew up your planet?"
Dean groaned. Balthazar took it as a yes.
"So you're really an alien?"
"Yes."
"And the Earth is gone?"
"Yes."
"My home is gone… my job, my life… my car…"
"Yes, yes, it's all very sad. Now come on." Balthazar grabbed Dean's hand and pulled him to his feet.
"But, I can't… I don't… what do I do?"
"Well, in the long term, you come along with me and see why I always found Earth parties so boring. In the short term, we find you some supplies and we stay very, very quiet."
"But… can I not get a minute to just deal with that?" Dean cast around, worried for a moment that he might pass out. "I mean… I got fired, I got dumped, and my planet got destroyed all on the same day. I need some time to adjust."
"You got dumped?" Balthazar looked at him for a moment, half curious and only slightly concerned. "I thought you were with… what's-her-face. Lisa."
"She had another guy. I told her if she didn't break it off, she could leave." Dean had almost forgotten about that. It was oddly sad, knowing he would never, ever see her again. Balthazar rested a hand on Dean's shoulder.
"Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"You honestly thought she'd stay?"
Dean scowled at him.
Balthazar flashed Dean a smile that utterly failed to reassure, before darting behind him to rows of cabinets on the wall. Dean took in his surroundings for the first time, and realised they were in something that greatly resembled a student kitchen if it had been made by the BBC in the mid seventies.
"Yuck."
"Yes," Balthazar agreed, not looking up from where he rummaged through cupboards. "The Dæmon servants aren't much for interior décor, but they're fundamentally useful in tight scrapes like the one we just got out of."
Dean was not impressed. As a child, he'd often thought about space, as every growing boy did, and he was rather disappointed to see that this was what a spaceship looked like.
Holy crap, he was on a space ship.
"Balthazar, how did we get here?"
"We hitched a ride." Balthazar smiled, returning to Dean with his hands full of objects, which he dumped on the floor, before opening his satchel.
"We hitched?" This was all getting way too weird for Dean. "What, you just stuck out your thumb, and some bug eyed green man said "Hey there guys, can only get you as far as the interstate but climb on in"?"
"Well, the 'thumb' is a sub-ether portable jamming signal, the interstate is Alpha Centauri, and the bug eyed man is really more of a greyish-teal than green, but essentially, yes."
"Right." Dean nodded. He took a deep breath. He could deal with this. He had to deal with this. Yes, his planet had been destroyed, yes, he would never see any of his friends or family again, and yes, he appeared to be on the space ship of the things that destroyed his planet in the first place. That was a lot to take in, but he was a director of sales and marketing. He thought on his feet, and as long as no other surprises cropped up, he'd be fine.
Balthazar motioned to his findings, as he put them all in a black holdall which he handed to Dean.
"I have here a lighter, a towel, a pen knife, and this fish, which I'll need you to put in your ear."
Dean was not fine.
"Eurgh! Dude, get that thing away from me…"
"Keep your voice down!" Balthazar hissed, waggling the small, flapping fish in Dean's face. "Trust me, this isn't hazing the newbie, you'll need this fish."
At which point a horrible screeching roar crackled from the ship's PA. Dean gaped, and was about to ask Balthazar what the noise was, when he felt a slap to the ear, then a horrible, wet wriggling inside it.
"Uuuugh…" Dean started, but then gasped as the screeching resolved into words.
"… welcome. Message repeats: This is your Captain speaking. With Earth successfully 'Down-Sized', we return to Alpha Centauri in approximately twelve hours. All ship leave has been cancelled, because I bloody well felt like it, and if you have a problem, please don't hesitate to jettison yourself into deep space. Anyone going AWOL will of course be shot on sight... I have just received news that we have a couple of hitchhikers on board, so I'd just like to say to them: We have found the useless Minions who let you on. They have been tortured accordingly, and now the ship's guard have been dispatched to give you a similar welcome. Message ends."
Dean stared at Balthazar, who sucked air in through his teeth.
"That's unfortunate."
"What was that?"
"The thing with the fish or what we just heard?" Balthazar rifled through his satchel, not looking up at Dean.
"Both. Either. Shit, I don't know, man, help me out here."
"The fish sits in your ear canal and translates everything for you subconsciously. After a while you won't even notice it."
"And the announcement?"
Balthazar produced something that looked oddly like an iPhone, except it had a plastic cover like the dustsheets you find on CDs or DVDs, which was sort of leathery, and emblazoned with a gold, authoritative script.
"'You are loved'…" Dean read, looking at Balthazar. "What is this?"
"It's a book. The Book. 'The Bloody Invaluable Book: Lightyears of Entertainment'. The ultimate guide to living in the universe. That's my job, I report for it." Balthazar was still looking in his satchel. "Just… take the cover off, go to the index and look under Dæmons. It'll tell you everything you need to know."
Dean did as he was told, and saw the screen light up in front of him. It was like some sort of super-evolved Kindle. He found the entry, and was slightly startled to hear the book read along with him.
"Daemons" it said. "Here is what to do if you want to get a lift from a Dæmon: Check yourself into the nearest mental health facility as soon as possible, for the good of yourself and others around you. They are one of the most unpleasant races in the galaxy and, though as a supposedly unbiased report we cannot say they are evil, they are ruthless, sadistic, officious, merciless and also disturbingly, oddly likeable (which is when they are most dangerous). While some of the weaker members of the species, often referred to as Minions or Servants, will help out hitchhikers merely to score one over their superiors, it is widely advised that you do not try it. They have a fondness for torture which includes inflicting physical pain, raping, scarring, forcing you into an endless queue or (if you happen to be from a colony or race who enjoy upholding tedious social graces [see entry: Earth, English]), making you recite every awful poem, novel or script you wrote as a teenager."
"Wow." Dean looked at Balthazar, who seemed to have finally found what he was looking for. It was a small silver band, which he slipped over his middle finger. "So the plan to not get hideously tortured is..?"
"Come with me." Balthazar gripped Dean's arm, and they walked quickly and quietly towards the door. "If we get a lung full of air, we can last for probably about 30 seconds, unprotected in Space."
"Ok, I know I'm new to this, but isn't that… I don't know, suicidal?"
"Well… look at it this way. Would you rather be near dead with a chance of surviving, or on their torture rack wishing you were dead?" Balthazar was unnervingly happy in the midst of all this, and Dean wondered if it wouldn't have been better to stay put and be snuffed out with the rest of the human race. Balthazar smiled at him.
"Have faith, Dean. This ring is a summoning beacon, which will hack into the teleport system of any ship within a certain radius. Hopefully, we should get picked up."
"Hopefully?"
"Have faith." He pressed a finger to his lips, before opening the door. They crept down the mercifully empty corridor, and had just gotten to the airlock when a booming voice resonated towards them.
"Stop! Hitchhikers spotted by airlock 4!"
Balthazar grimaced as the bulky figure with grey skin and black eyes barrelled down the corridor towards them.
"No time for space-suits. We have to go now, if we're going."
Dean stared from the rapidly advancing figure to the frantic Balthazar. He nodded.
"Ok."
Balthazar's fist slammed down on the "jettison" button, and Dean took a deep breath as he felt himself get pulled into the vacuum of space.
The "Bloody Invaluable Book: Lightyears of Entertainment" has this to say on the subject of space:
"It's big. Really, really big. You know how, when you go to a restaurant and order your food, it always comes out bigger than you'd expected? Yeah, it's several quojillion times that. Listen…"
And so it continues, fully reinforcing the belief that many reports for the Book are filed while drunk, tired, or most likely both, but not all entries are like that.
Some tell you things that are interesting, such as the history of the settlements in the untamed, rugged western arm of the galaxy, in particular the trials of terra-forming such beautiful planets as Miranda. Some tell you things which are useful, such as the difference between electromagnetism and geophysics, or the mindboggling essentiality of a common lighter. Some are, admittedly, depressing. For example, the entry that addresses the issue of dying of asphyxiation thirty seconds after being hurled out of the airlock of a spaceship, which lists the odds against any ship being close enough to find and rescue you as two to the power of two hundred and sixty seven thousand, seven hundred and nine to one against.
Which, by an astronomical coincidence, was also the phone number of a community centre in which Dean once attended a yoga class and met an extremely attractive instructor, but never went to again as he got food poisoning from the cafeteria, and by the time he was well enough, the place had shut down.
Although the planet Earth, the community centre and the offending fruit parfait are, of course, no more, it is comforting to think that they were all somehow commemorated in the action of Dean taking such a massive leap of faith.
(-*-)
Due to its reporters travelling mostly by hitchhiking, The Book revises its editions on a day to day basis; entries are submitted as and when the reporter can find a spare moment, which in a lot of cases means that the reporter could be writing whilst on the wrong planet or, more and more frequently, in the wrong time (See entry: Time Travel). This has created such logical paradoxes where people responsible for the creation of such and such a thing had no thoughts on the matter until after getting rather drunk and plugging their name into The Book's index, to see what comes up. The most famous instance of this is (was, or will be) the Leap of Faith drive, a fantastic new technology which never would have existed if a group of Theological Engineering students hadn't done exactly that.
For years, engineers had struggled to move out of the primitive Probability Drive, and (bar a brief experimentation with Bistromathics,) it was not until the creation of the Improbability drive that they managed to do so. It was groundbreaking. It was revolutionary. It rendered any further research into the field of engineering utterly obsolete. Students across the universe bemoaned the fate of their now useless certifications and, in a time honoured tradition, got blind stinking drunk.
It was then that Quaze Quordon and his classmates got bored, and threw their names into an old copy of The Book they had found under someone's fridge. They were amazed to read that (in an entry that had been submitted five years from that very day,) Quaze spent (or would spend) the next four years saving and finding investors, before building the groundbreaking Leap of Faith drive.
The entry was scant on details, and so Quaze spent a year puzzling over exactly how it would work. Half the numbers he used were made up, and most of the decisions he made were based on assumption and gut instinct, but after four years of piling debt on top of his student loan, he took the initial Leap of Faith and turned on his new engine. To his surprise, and his bank's relief, it worked. And the rest, as they say, is future history.
(-*-)
Dean had left the planet Earth approximately fifteen minutes ago, and he was already sick and tired of waking up on the decks of unknown spaceships with a splitting headache. As he regained a sense of his surroundings, however, he was pleased to see that he was in something a little more like the spaceships he had imagined. Sleek, shining white panels with light metal floors and lots of automated buttons and systems.
He looked across at Balthazar, who seemed pleasantly surprised.
"So… that worked rather well, I feel."
(-*-)
On the bridge of the Impala, Gabriel swivelled in his chair.
"Hey, Cas?"
"Yeah?" The black haired humanoid with ice-blue eyes looked over from his position by the control panel.
"What's this on the readout screen about hitchhikers?"
"What hitchhikers?"
"The ones we just picked up."
"Oh." Cas nodded. "Them. They're probably just a couple of hitchhikers."
Gabriel glared at his semi-cousin, wondering exactly which three mothers they shared, and exactly how to take them out.
"No shit. I mean 'why' did we pick them up? We're being pursued by the cops here. Ok, so charity's in style, and this is a lot less work than adopting a child, but still, you're losing points for good thinking."
"I didn't pick them up." Cas yawned, wandering towards the door. "The ship did. Or, they picked themselves up. They hacked the teleportation system. That's how Leap of Faith drive works; you pass through every point in the universe almost simultaneously, holding it in faith that you'll stop where you need to be. Or, you know, whatever you need will be summoned to you. Apparently, we needed to help those two guys."
Gabriel was not impressed, but knew that arguing with Cas about quantum physics and engineering was not a smart move, so he let Cas wander off wherever he was wandering. Probably to get another hit from the ship's sick bay; damn junkie.
"Hmm… Sam?"
In the dingiest, darkest corner of the otherwise well-lit bridge, a hulking metal figure dragged itself to its feet. A computer-like whirring accompanied the start up. Sam the Sarcastic Cyborg turned his sleek, titanium face towards Gabriel.
"What?"
"Got a couple of hitchhikers in teleportation bay five. Can you bring them up here?"
"'Can I bring them up here'?" Sam repeated, his facial plates reconfiguring into the "bitchface" sequence. "Don't undermine my intelligence or anything, Gabriel. That's fine. I mean, hey, I'm just a super-intelligent cyborg with a brain the size of the planet, so thanks for not taxing my intelligence."
Gabriel raised an eyebrow at Sam the cyborg.
"Yes, Sam, you're very clever. You also wouldn't be here if it wasn't for me downloading your consciousness into that robot body, so shut up and ship out."
Sam sighed, but clanked away to teleportation bay five, his polished metal body glinting in the shining overhead light. Gabriel sighed.
"Ugh. What are you supposed to do with a manically depressed ex-human?"
"You think you've got problems?" Sam shot back, not bothering to turn around. "What are you supposed to do if you are a manically depressed ex-human?"
"Get!" Gabriel threw a balled up piece of paper at Sam's retreating back, before heaving another sigh.
(-*-)
The 'Encyclopaedia Galactica' defines a robot as "an automated device designed to do the work of a man". The marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation defines a robot as "your plastic pal who's fun to be with". Gabriel Angeles defined a robot as "a neat toy, if you can live with the Genuine Personality Programming the jerks at Sirius Cybernetics thought it would be a good idea to introduce".
Genuine Personality Programming, or "G.P.P." is the marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation's attempt at giving each robot they produce a sense of personality, and make them more likeable and easier for the consumer to relate to (an idea which was doomed from the outset, as no one in the marketing department of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation has a personality, is likeable or is easy for consumers to relate to). This is a fine idea in theory; a door which assures you the room on the other side is full of people you want to see, an entertainment system which reminds you that you've already seen this episode, a vacuum –bot which thanks you for dropping biscuit crumbs, but next time, could you get the cheesy ones because it really prefers those, and so on.
However, it runs into problems when applied to real life, because most of the time, organic beings do not wish to converse on the benefits of their actions with their electronic equipment, they just want to get it done, and anything that stands in their way is at best irksome. Many of the G.P.P. naysayers point out that we should really expect nothing more, given the newly elected president of the marketing division of Sirius Cybernetics; beings which greatly resemble paperclips with googly eyes are rarely lauded for forward thinking.
(-*-)
Gabriel tapped at the controls on the bridge, wishing Cas would hurry up and get back from wherever he'd gone, so that he'd have something to distract him from his burgeoning curiosity.
He continued tapping half heartedly at the controls, attempting to be patient and not letting his curiosity get the better of him.
"Computer?"
It got the better of him.
The ship's computer whirred into life, and an automated voice groaned out of the speakers.
"What now?"
Gabriel was starting to wish he hadn't stolen the ship. Awesome as it was (and boy, was it), the cybernetics were unbalanced to say the least. Damned G.P.P.
"I have a job for you, if that's not too much to ask."
"I have a name, you know."
"Yeah, yeah, doesn't mean I care. Can you bring up the security feed for teleportation bay five on the vision screen?"
"Of course I can." Bobby the ship-board computer sighed irritably. "I'm the goddamn intelligence core of the ship, idjit, I can bring up any feed I like."
The security feed appeared on the vision screen, and Gabriel grinned as he recognised one of the two figures currently snooping around the bay. He had about five minutes to figure out where on the bridge would be the most nonchalant place to be discovered in.
(-*-)
Dean and Balthazar stood in the teleportation bay, marvelling at the clean, shining interiors of the ship.
"Now this is what a space ship is supposed to look like." Dean smiled, feeling back in, at the very least, the realm of his wildest fantasies.
"I think it's brand new."
"How can you tell?"
"Well, the metal has yet to oxidise into any set pattern, the sidings are all still precise to the millimetre…"
"You can tell all that?"
"No, I'm just kidding. The seats over there still have plastic wrapping on them." Balthazar started poking around, curious. "This is a fancy ship…"
Dean glanced around at the flashing control panel to his left, enticed by the blinking lights. He saw one fat, red button, not dissimilar to a cigarette lighter in a car. It read "do not press".
"What happens if I press this button?"
"Don't!"
"Oops…" Dean withdrew his hand, and saw that where it had read "do not press", it now read "what did I just say?" Dean decided he wouldn't press the button again.
"This is a really fancy ship." Balthazar nodded, looking over Dean's shoulder. "I bet is has its own cybernetics system and everything."
A door behind them hummed contentedly as it slid open, to reveal a shining metal man, at least seven foot tall, hunched over in the doorway.
"It does, and it's awful." The robot sighed, glaring at them analytically.
"What?" Dean tried, his brain still processing the humanoid robot walking over to them,
"It's all god-awful. I mean, look at this." He pointed to the control panel by Dean. "That's the shipboard entertainment system. When I switch it on, it will ask me what I want to listen to, and then debate with me for ten minutes about whether the band's earlier or later stuff was better, talking over most of the song. Then, when I request another song, it will tell me that it would much rather I listen to something more upbeat and start making requests for me to request."
The robot shot the control panel a withering glare. Dean looked to Balthazar, silently asking if all robots were this uncomfortably depressing. Balthazar looked back at Dean, silently answering that he was buggered if he knew.
"Like I said, god-awful. Anyway, I'm supposed to take you up to the bridge. Come on." The robot began to stalk off, his shoulders heavy. Dean and Balthazar followed.
"Here I am…" The robot moaned, "Brain the size of a small moon, and he asks me to take you to the bridge. Like I can't manage anything more taxing. That is not job satisfaction, you know?"
"Uh, yes, that's very interesting." Balthazar lied. "Sorry, but could you tell me who owns this ship?"
"Look at this." The robot turned to Dean, ignoring Balthazar. "See this door? When we go through it, it's going to try and bolster my spirits. Watch."
They went through the door. It hummed contentedly. A tinny voice issued as it closed again.
"Cheer up! It might never happen!"
"See?" The robot sighed. "It's so depressing."
"Well, it could be worse." Dean shrugged, finding himself oddly at home talking to the robot. "I'm sure there's an app for that."
The robot stopped still for a moment, threw back its head and laughed, staring at Dean.
"A human? Oh god, it's been years since I've seen another one of you!" He laughed some more, before clapping Dean on the back. "How is Earth?"
"Uh… demolished, actually." Dean said, the words still feeling a little weird to him. The robot stood perfectly still for another moment, before switching back into depressed mode.
"Oh god… that's… that's awful."
The robot stared sadly into space for a moment, prompting Dean to punch him on the arm. The metallic clang and the shot of pain that raced straight to his elbow made him really wish he hadn't.
"Yes…" Balthazar cleared his throat, edging into the conversation. "But about the ship..?"
"Are you ok, man?"
"No." The robot sighed, before resuming his mournful clanking. "All thanks the marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics corporation. 'Let's make robots with Genuine Personality Programming', they said. Which works fine until you get someone like me; an organic consciousness downloaded into a machine's body."
The robot heaved a dramatic sigh, although Dean supposed it would have to be dramatic since it wasn't like the robot needed to breathe. He turned doleful, slightly triangular LED eyes to Dean.
"The GPP plays havoc with my emotions. And there's this pain in all the diodes down my left hand side…"
"Fascinating." Balthazar was fast losing patience. "But about the owner of this ship…"
"The ship doesn't have an owner." The robot snapped sarcastically, and resumed his angry plodding. "It's been stolen."
"Stolen?" Dean and Balthazar both hurried to catch up. "By who?"
"Gabriel Angeles."
Balthazar stopped dead, a curious lack of expression on his face.
"Gabr… did you just say Gabriel Angeles?"
"Read my lips." Sam snapped, before sighing. "Not that I have lips any more, now I'm stuck in this tin-can of a body, oh God, my life's a shithole. And here's another one of those stupid doors. Ugh." The robot sneered, stomping through. Dean watched him go, his brain trying desperately to process the five different kinds of crazy he'd just witnessed. He turned to Balthazar, who seemed to be having processing troubles of his own.
"Balthazar? Are you ok?"
"Really…" He laughed, the ever-so-slightly-manic smile returning to his features. "Gabriel Angeles…"