Hey Jack here is some more progression for Kong. I want to leave the town they are all in. It is annoying me. I wrote a bunch of stuff and then it had to be split in two. I want to put a part about Astro in before the second part.
- The Egg Party
The Monarchs Chapter 6: Prison Mapes
By the Egg Party
Eironea Year 215 (EY)
Emma woke but remained facing the wall, her back towards her cell mate. She did not blame him for their incarceration; applying continual guilt resulted in quiet. She needed a reprieve whilst she considered the current predicament. Trapped in prison on a foreign planet by religious fanatics, after a disastrous flight from Mars. The rest of the crew in her care were dead, left as galactic driftwood. She would keep Kong alive, her sole remaining charge, or she could never possibly captain another ship. Or live with her actions. Innovation had saved all of the people of Eironea; saved them where many were not. They were taken safely from a dead planet, through the wilds of space, to arrive at this moderately interesting replacement. Soon after they arrived they began to spurn the technology which granted them a second life. Foucault did not explain much on their way to jail. When pressed further he outlined that all would be clarified during their trial. She had no desire to sit through whatever joke of legal system they had, to defend the counts of, 'First degree Regicide, Parricide, and Genocide along with Interstellar Drug Trafficking.' She would work it out herself. Emma was at a loss for what would prevent permanent incarceration. They were waiting on 'freezers' according to a guard who delivered the food. It was the only communication he would ever share through the small food slot. Damn Foucault. His arrogance had created a planet full of confused peons playing around with ass backwards technology. It appeared they were accepting of a certain level of technology; guns, cars, television. The line was drawn at advanced robotics. They maintained a fetish for specific dated technology. Relics from anywhere around the turn of the twenty-first century EY. Baptism, and Christianity in general, had been losing traction around the same time during those centuries. When thousands of workers were replaced by robots the Church could offer no solution to the confused, the despondent, the angry. You cannot lead a flock without a vague idea of where you are all going. The time prior to the third and forth industrial revolutions would have been a utopia in the eyes of the Baptist Eironeans. There was whole new planetary history to catch up and she would need to do it fast. Proximity to Earth meant it was one of the first Monarch settlements. They had a history spanning over more than 200 years. She had chronological calculations based on rough computer data. The computers on the ship were mostly of office supply standard made with cheap Ion Federation engineering. How time had travelled relatively on Eironea was still something for which she needed confirmation. There had to be a resistance movement or at the least a few sympathetic reactionaries on this planet. It would be impossible to keep a population completely converted to the tenants of the Southern Baptist religion. It would take an impossible authoritative strength to maintain such vigorous piety. Reverend Foucault had an air of cult leader - you had to be in love with him as much as 'ole Jesus – and that would disenfranchise many. Strange. Kong and Emma felt the strong pull to members of the older Monarch generation that they had encountered. Especially the Reverend. Kong later even admitted to having a strange attraction to the preacher. She assumed that the older members of her specific genotype might be able to have a primitive form of control over them. They were instantly filled with an unaccustomed subservience. Like the Sheriff of Nottingham getting kicked in the head by old King Richard returning from the Crusades. They were demoted from kings to lower royalty. Perhaps there was no frame of reference for this strange genetic fealty. She felt intimidated by the old preacher and for her it was an feeling more foreign, even, than sexual desire. It might just be that the only thing was to rely was their robotic support crew. Specifically that turd shaped robot boy. She saw the potential dwelling in Astro. What cheered her was that the technology they had was so advanced that they were closer to powerful court magicians, to continue on with her previous analogy. Their captors would have to go for the ship. They would search it thoroughly now that they knew Kong was carrying drugs(!). This particular morning, two weeks into their stay, Emma was particularly restless. 'You awake there Cap?' 'Don't call me Cap, Kong. You can call me 'I-am-sorry-for-everything.' 'Hey I am sorry for everything, what are we going to do?' She rolled over to give him her full attention. Kong relished the audience as he went on, 'I was lying here, looking at you, I am sorry for everything, and I was thinking about all sorts of things. Nothing productive. Then I thought, that captain of mine, I am sorry about everything, might be able to tell me about any plan that she was currently thinking. Don't get me wrong. I am not stressed.' His right hand was frantically picking the nails and skin of the other, 'but I will stress that I am bored. Prison is awfully slow and small I am sorry for everything.' 'I don't have a plan other than the one where we do nothing. I may come up with one soon. Reasoning with that old reverend is out. There is some psychic connection between us and the older generation. Feels weird and uncontrollable.' 'Right! I was feeling the same way. When we met I was almost going to ask him if he was my Dad.' 'I think the only real thing we can do is rely on someone else. That someone would have to be Astro. We have no other friends.' 'Well socialisation does fall within my particular skill set. Surely we can meet some somebody else who is preferably not an unbalanced robot.' Kong then bellowed. There was insane fear in his voice. He subsequently began banging frantically on every wall of the cell. He stood back, satisfied with his attempt at gaining the attention of any other prisoners. He stumbled backwards whilst trying to inspect the cell, collapsing into the electric field barrier that served as the door. He was mildly electrocuted. He used the shock as fair excuse to get back into bed and sulk. Emma heard him grumble, maybe to himself, '....the worst thing about being in prison is being in prison.'
Down the corridor there was one that detected Kong's presence. Two other prison mates, Sigurd and Bacon. They were not Baptists. Their life on Eironea was based on a drunken mistake. A terrible terrible mistake. Sigurd shook is cell mate awake, 'God damn. We got some new bandits in lock up. We should investigate.' Bacon responded, 'Hey. Hey,' picking crust off his eyelashes, 'Calm it. What is going on?' 'One of the cells is full. You can tell by that friendly blue glow of the barrier field recovering. Some one other than me is trying the head butt the electric wall. We best try and achieve some sort of communication.' Sigurd was enthusiastic. He was a insular character at the best of times but they had been stuck in prison in a week. He hadn't slept any of the stay. He could barely rest in his own bed, let alone a concrete slab that was provided by the state. A distraction was what he had been desiring. Bacon fell back asleep to Sigurd's chagrin. He knew that contact with the other prisoners was necessary. Sigurd sat for a time before standing and slapping a hand on his thigh. He began systematically stuffing everything which could be removed from the cell down the toilet. Paper. Extra bedding which would not be missed. Easily removable hair. Stomach contents. He then squatted over the pile and added a health deuce to the toilet cake. The icing on the cake, a full strength flush, allowed the cake to begin rising. He happily climbed back onto the bunk and waited. Water filled the cell. As it lapped against the electric barrier, all the other electrical appliances began to flicker angrily. Lights in the hallway and cell dimmed. Disturbing the guards was a matter of focusing on their ignorance of technology. Though radically against technological advancement, there were situations for which some innovation was necessary. One of those exceptions was for keeping the cells locked. There was barely power to sustain the electric fence. As planned two disgruntled prison officers appeared at the cell entrance. They surveyed the prisoners. The water level was just up to the bottom of the bunk. Bacon was sleeping through the plan. Sigurd was on his bed, blanket to his chin, pointing in terror as a turd floated close to his cot. The sound proof barrier blocked whatever was passed between the two guards. A few gestures were translated through the silence:
1. An extended middle finger aimed towards the prisoners: It seemed at first they desperately wanted to leave them in squalor. 2. Pointing up at the light bulb: The power drain on all the facility electronics would eventually shut the whole damn place down. 3. Fist in palm followed by forced laughter: They had decided on how to administer punishment in a fair exchange for the mess. Due to the extra work requirements the trade would be particularly brutal. 4. Both pointing at different body parts: How fast, how much to work each body part, how crippling it would be. 5. Sigurd smiling: All the pain would be worth it.
Three hours later the two were in the cell across from the tourists. Emma cautiously watched as two prisoners were moved to the cell opposite. Two of the guards beat the ink out of the smiling one. Watching the noiseless violence was unsettling. She observed the other red faced one sitting wearily as he watched the excitement. He made eye contact. He raised a hand with two exceptionally long fingers(index and pointer) and waved at them. He then raised both hands in a practised Parisian shrug. The other slipped into unconsciousness and remained motionless on the floor as the barrier was raised. The guards left, satisfied with a job well done. Bacon yawned then ushered the two observers to the entrance of their cell. He then used his long fingers to grasp the right appendage of the unconscious one. The lifeless limb was a long grey tentacle. He began using his cell mate as a slimy pen. He wrote their names on the barrier, Sigurd and Bacon, with arrows pointing at the respective individual. The slime remained long enough for Kong and Emma to read before it sizzled into nothingness. Bacon smiled with the introduction then applied subtle pressure to the end of Sigurd's tentacle. More slime oozed out of the various suckers. He started writing, backwards for the benefit of the new company across the hall, his back story. Every so often one of the audience would rotate their hand to request more information on a particular part. Not often though. Sigurd was unconscious but surely dragging his body back and forth writing on the wall was not good for the rest of his non tentacle based body. The story is expanded in detail about the new prison mates. Kong formed this story with further information, gained later, to give structure. Anything which made it easier to tell over a drink.
The story of Radio Rooibos Rudeboys
Sigurd and Bacon had met in New York. It was a town both of them had thought would be 'The Solution'. They planned to party in a famous metropolis, work out their specific purpose, and find an appropriate Monarch space junker. They met and bonded because of a similar genetic hybrid. They both had Monarch genes mixed with a cup of fishy bilge water. Bacon had met Sigurd, despondent, walking around the Chinatown seafood markets. They quickly became friends, bonding over their distaste for their parents choice in genetic material. Crab and Squid became friends. Other Monarchs would often choose larval friends to make the process of leaving home bearable. These two only enhanced their, now joint, confusion and became disoriented in the New York Exodus. They were not the first to be lost in the Big Apple. They unfortunately ended up on shuttle composed of these Monarch genotype Southern Baptists. Organisation for of the Monarch passengers was a logistical nightmare. Especially in places of great density such as New York. You would put in requests for ships and planets but there were many who never received answers. The newly formed Ion Federation had spent more on image creation. The levels of necessary bureaucracy for organising departure was insufficient. The Federal Office for Migration and Refugees was the most scorned public service in the history of the Earth-bound internet. There were natural fluctuations and errors rife within the many of the customs processes. Structure and logic was regularly forgotten so long as ships were launching full. Underpinning this was a necessary haste to get as many started on the long distances they had to cover. Indecision was a shared trait of the pair of friends. Neither of them could decide on how to leave Earth. The finally chose a path after a particularly good dance and a night of frivolity at the resurrected Limelight. They spent most of the time talking about how to successfully meet women. Sigurd was sure that he just wasn't shouting loud enough. Bacon was sure it was just the fact that they both looking like botched sea monsters from some nuclear disaster. The conversation topic was dark. They continued to tear through New York until they drunkenly awoke and stumbled, together, into one of the immigration zones based in the old Washington Square Park. They found a bar which happened to look over a Priority Monarch Boarding chute. It had a blurry sign above it which became increasingly difficult to see through the bottom of a glass. A series of large thuwmps sounded from outside the bar. Alcoholic paranoia created a deep fear of missing the Monarch specific shuttles. Bottle in hand they stood from the bar stools that they were prioviously melting on and rushed to across the street. Both rushed out to see a bunch of junkers leaving the atmosphere from the station atop the thin space elevator. Both of them panicked. Hasty construction of the sign on the particular sleeper pod door they chose let them seats on the Augusta II shuttle. They both were under the impression that they were going to sleep then awaken with a bunch South r'n'b artists. Or fans of that particular music. Sigurd figured it was an 'odds game, this meeting women thing', and they figured leaving in a space ship for which less men would apply for would get them laid easiest. They would do their part for the survival of the human race. They were animatedly slurring this plan to each other as they settled into stasis pods. The boon of them going to Eironea was that if they made a grievous mistake when choosing their post-Earth destination then they would ride on the another ship in need of refuelling. The late night migration clerk held the lid before he sealed them in. He mumbled something like, 'live long and proselytise,' before he burped and shut the lid. For years Sigurd would go on about how he swore the son of a bitch blew the burp into his pod. After they arrived on the planet it turned out they were stuck. Trapped like a stinky burp. Around two hundred years on and they had lived through so much ridiculousness on Eiron. They would have left earlier but the fanatical leaders decided that the population would be land locked. Only a shuttle leaving was one when they would be ready with, full of staunch Baptist pilgrims. The Governing members of Perseverance were an indignant group. No action had ever been taken to create a space fleet. The people of Perseverance were scarily backward and spent much of the time fighting about how to spread their belief. Once these impossible religious foundations were made on Eironea they would then focus on the rest of the universe. It amounted to exactly nil progress. Sigurd and Bacon had yet to find another way off Eironea. After the demarcation of the lands of Privacy some progress was made. Much useful technology had already been purged. They satisfied themselves with causing mischief wherever possible. They had both been captured multiple times and during the course of the civilisation. Escaped too. Each time was harder. The two of them were waiting for a new chest freezer. Foucault always wanted them to be back in stasis. The blue-blooded maniac could not bring himself to kill another Monarch. Every now and then Foucault or that demon succubus wife of his would freeze them in stasis to keep them out of trouble. It wasn't all bad. Sure all your friends and acquaintances would be older or dead. And you would usually get most of your stuff nicked. But you would eventually get out. And every time there was a chance that the dual societies had already sorted their priorities out and the planet made into a more habitable place. Bacon reckoned, them being Monarchs, with the rate of getting refrozen roughly half of every year they might just make it to their 1000th birthday on the planet. Bacon believed that you needed to have goals, even in the worst situations. A big problem, in Bacon's opinion, was that Sigurd kept getting frozen and leaving his nicotine patches on. Often the guards would even slap extras on before he was frozen thinking it humorous. Those long dreary nightmares threaded through hugely protracted time would become fully formed worlds on arrival. Hell scapes. Bacon believed it was loosening Sigurd's grip on his fragile mind. But damn his dream journal was an interesting read. Bacon would easily admit that it could even be called a masterpiece.
Bacon took a break from the story, lifting Sigurd onto his cot and sitting on his own bunk. Kong and Emma sat to contemplate the newcomers. This turned to a different brand of confusion as they all watched two flying monkeys appear, hovering on tiny wings, in the corridor between the two cells. Both Bacon and Emma rushed to the cell entrance. Looking closer revealed that it seemed to be a swarm of tiny robotic monkeys. All the identical except for size; around 3 centimeters tall biggest, five millimeters for the smaller ones. Neither of the two recognised this type of robot. This was because the robots had only been in built over the last few weeks. The robots had waistcoats and small caps made of a dark brown metal. The style of robots had a particularly distinct level of design. The detail which was used had never existed before. Traditional robots had only been built for speed and function. These were crafted with intricate beauty. They saluted the prisoners with miniature hands before disappearing, buzzing down the corridor. Emma watched the coordination and guessed that they were part of some sort of robotic group with a remote control. Moments later the cell shields disappeared, presumably deactivated by the small robots. The three conscious prisoners tentatively stepped into the corridor to check if there was any sight of the flying monkeys. The corridor was empty save for the small amount of water remained to swish out of the last cell. 'So. That is ridiculous,' Emma mumbled. 'Your tech must have gotten so much better! Those robots were amazing. With a size and dexterity unheard of on Eironea,' replied Bacon, ignoring her uncertainty. He was looking back and forth, waiting to see if he could see the robots return. 'Those', she pointed, 'are also something new to me.' She paused in silence for a moment whilst she stretched out in the corridor. 'Look I will need to catch you up briefly on our travels. First, my name is Emma and that there is Kong. We were flying from Mars to here as a refueling stopover. But this place is not really doing anything the Federation way. Then there was an accident during the flight and everyone died except for us two.' 'That would have pissed Foucault right off.' 'Oh yeah,' she smiled, 'and in addition during the crossing we met a robot who we allowed to board. He is strange one. Astro, the robot, seemed to be imbued with some powerful mental faculties.' Gesturing a horizontal thumb left and right, 'I suspect that he is what accounts for these new robots. He may even have rudimentary sentience. Considering the unique nature of his intelligence we thought leaving him alone in space was cruel. Lonely. Specially since the lump of a robot has taken a shine for Kong here. Said he gave him a, “A RENEWED SENSE OF HOPE FOR MY VISION FOR THE UNIVERSE. PLUS YOU ARE A MALE SO YOU ARE THE PERFECT CANDIDATE FOR A REPLACEMENT FATHER FIGURE.” God help us.' Kong scratched, 'That they are monkey in design is too much of a coincidence. He was pretty interested in the fabrication facilities and getting all the spare automated support crew to complete a multitude of tasks for him. Leaving Astro alone in the ship was a mistake. He needs constant monitoring. I am thinking Astro is trying to develop a sense of humour. This is a joke of some kind. Are we in Kansas?' 'He has a certain smack of death to all humans robot type,' said Bacon. 'I know, right?' Kong and Emma replied together. 'But that is my conditioning. Death to all robots. Both in childhood and in our current environment,' said Kong. Kong whispered to Emma the aside, 'you know you imitate Astro perfectly. Really nailed the unending emphasis'. She ignored the comment, 'We should get out of here. We will carry that poor octopus man. Kong is useless for these tasks. Too distractable'. Emma and Bacon grabbed the ends of the unconscious Sigurd and quietly stalked in the direction of what was hopefully an exit. Kong walked along side trying to tuck the lifeless tentacle into the pocket of Sigurd's trousers. If he left the tentacle to drag it would pick up so much shit from... what was the ground made of? Linoleum perhaps. He though, fuck the future is so stingy. Kong did feel a sense of self satisfaction for attempting to help Sigurd whilst being a complete hindrance to everyone else. Two left turns and a right led them to a corridor which looked similar to every other corridor in existence. The only differentiating factor was the slight downward slope. Following the decline eventually let to an elevator which happened to access the multi storied parking garage. On reaching the garage, every occupied space was taken by identical twin-cab utility vehicles. To be exact, as Emma and Kong found out later, hundreds of '2016 Ford F-150 Full Size Pickup Truck[s]' lined the parking garage. All organised in a uniform pattern in rows, extending further in each direction than sight would allow.