Stardust Detectives Mission One: The Great Brain Robbery

By Jean Michaux

Similar in tone to Hitchhikers’ Guide To The Galaxy, Stardust Detectives is best described as Dr. Who meets The Simpsons. President Davenport's brain is stolen during an annual medical procedure. Every governmental official is deputized to help find his brain, including intergalactic prison inspector Zero Mumford. Their hunt for this and other stolen brains takes them across galaxies and time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jean Michaux
• Release date: Apr 15, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452421254

Jean Michaux

I've been a hired pen for most of my life, writing for the government, corporations and, more to my heart's content, satire columns for regional newspapers. I reside in the Midwest with my husband who is not only tolerant of my creative endeavors, but supportive.

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Stardust Detectives

Mission One: The Great Brain Robbery

By J. Michaux

Smashwords Edition

*****

Published By:

Jean Michaux on Smashwords

Stardust Detectives

Mission One: The Great Brain Robbery

© Copyright 2010 by Jean Michaux

Cover Photo by NASA

Public domain photo of the Constellation Carina by NASA’s Wide-field Infrared Survey Explorer (WISE).

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without prior authorization of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events are purely fictional. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental. All historical incidents are humorous parodies of events and are not to be regarded as factual representations. All trademarks or brands referred to in this work of fiction are registered by their respective owners. The use of these trademarks and brands is not authorized, endorsed, sponsored or affiliated by owners of those trademarks.

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*****

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my dear husband, Jim, who never lost faith in me.

*****

Chapter One

The Supreme Council hereby sentences you to seventeen years of hard labor, including telesales, pronounced J. Arthur Finley, chief justice of the Supreme Council of the Universe. We suggest that you repent of your sinful ways and never bother this esteemed body again, he bellowed, as he closed the cover of his tiny computer, which doubled as a wristwatch, time zone keeper (for all the planets in this half of the universe), and gin container. No matter how much sentient beings had progressed, they still had their need for gin.

The defendant, being found guilty of abuse of public office, was hustled from the stately courtroom into the dreary back room where he awaited processing before being placed on the space shuttle to the Nomkund asteroid prison. Zero Mumford had been found guilty by the intergalactic governing body known as the Supreme Council. Judges had been assembled from across the universe to hear his case.

Guard Rollo Farnsworth, more commonly known as Rollo the Clueless, jabbed his nightstick into Zero’s backside to prod him into heightened action. Grunting like the luau pig that he so resembled, Rollo impatiently snorted, Move it!

Just my luck, Zero groused, as he stomped his feet in protest, and then preened a defiant lock of red hair into place. What rotten luck. The Supreme Council tried me under the newfangled anti-corruption laws. What I wouldn’t give for some of the good, old-fashioned corruption of yesteryear.

Indeed, the Supreme Council’s legal system was rather new to the planet called Earth. Zero yearned for the olden days where legal cases were heard before judges and juries. Unfortunately, Zero’s beloved system was not only open to capricious judgments, but outright corruption, since verdicts were often not based on the rule of law or on the preponderance of evidence, but on the size of the defendant’s wallet. Such was the predicament in the last old-fashioned case held on Earth, wherein a famous athlete got off scot-free from murder charges. Though the evidence was sizable, his wallet was even larger, so he bounded out of the courtroom free as bird.

Since justice is critical not only for societal progress, but also interstellar peace, the planetary bodies took it upon themselves to thrust their form of justice onto the little planet known as Earth. Thus, unable to buy, bribe or weasel his way out of a sentence, the ever-sulking Zero Mumford was sentenced by the incorruptible (and disturbingly humorless) Supreme Council.

Much to the dismay of Zero and other miscreants, the Supreme Council saw fit to tinker with other earthly processes. For example, the Supreme Council had long observed that Earth not only stagnated due to its primitive form of justice, but the entire political scene was polluted. After nearly six thousand years of human societal existence, politics had evolved into something that resembled a corrupt form of organized gambling, with favorites and corporate lapdogs holding office, rather than being the purported form of public representation that its forefathers had intended. Therefore, the Supreme Council had rewritten the laws and mandated that elected politicians actually serve the public—an idea so novel that most standing politicians promptly ran for the hills, never to be seen again. It was widely rumored that they spent their remaining years endlessly counting their booty and yearning for the good old days!

Such a revamped political system had one major result: Save for the rare exception, only those who wished to truly serve mankind ran for high political office. The Supreme Council oversaw all politicians with the understanding that political misconduct would be punished by imprisonment at hard labor.

Hard labor. That’s what I get for a little creativity in lawmaking, muttered Zero, as he winced in disgust and gnarled his lips until his youthful appearance rendered the look of a rotted turnip. Seventeen years of hard labor.

Hard labor? Being a highly evolved governing body, Zero knew that the Supreme Council had long ago ceased archaic forms of hard labor, such as the aimless busting of rocks with pickaxes. Instead, the Supreme Council analyzed the assorted forms of corrective punishment that existed across the universe. These honorable brains searched for a treatment that would prove so effective that prisoners like Zero would go forth and never transgress again.

Waterboarding?

Of course not! Far too cruel!

The Salborian waffle torture?

Too fattening.

The Yellperflew psychic guilt program?

Caused too many headaches.

What, then, could move the hearts of men (and women) without causing bodily injury? What could turn evildoers into good citizens?

Salesmen.

Yes—salesmen.

Extensive psychological testing on planet Jungfreud proved that the incessant prattle of salesmen would turn any criminal to the straight and narrow. As further evidence, they discovered that even America had created the do-not-call registry for telesales, and the no-junk-mail list for the ancient practice of human delivery of undesired sales mail. Unsolicited pestering from salesmen was, indeed, tantamount to torture!

Therefore, the Supreme Council established a system whereby Zero and his fellow prisoners were banished to a remote asteroid and subjected to the surest form of corrective punishment: salesmen. Prisoners were forcibly exposed to every salesman in the universe, including the detested telesales, direct sales, fax sales, Internet spam, instant messaging pitches, sales tweets and, for the more advanced life forms—telepathic telesales.

Zero plunked his hat on his head in sober resignation of his future. Guard Rollo nudged Zero to the far back of the room, and then begrudgingly followed all the procedures to check in his prisoner. Though the Supreme Council had, indeed, clarified rules and eliminated corruption, they hadn’t eradicated one thing: red tape. Let’s see, Form 1045B gets filed with Form 1200, and I can’t forget Confirmation Form 4567, clucked processing lieutenant Flora Nixon. I have completed all the forms, she declared rather mechanically. Please electronically sign here.

Immediately after processing, Guard Rollo prodded Zero into renewed motion and ushered him outside. Get going, he barked at Zero, as he pushed him toward the outdoor space terminal. Zero drooped his entire five-foot-six-inch frame into a professional sulking posture, and dejectedly thrust his hands into his pockets. His already pale skin turned ashen. In precisely fifteen minutes, the space shuttle would arrive at this stop and take him to his new home for the next seventeen years, the Nomkund asteroid prison. He grimaced as he thought of the legions of sales creatures that would now fill his days, and the superfluous twaddle they would spew. That serves me right for trying to outlaw bookies, he mumbled to himself.

Zero lifted up his left space boot and noticed that he had stepped in some gum. He rubbed his boot at the edge of the station deck to remove the objectionable hitchhiker. Ack! Primordial goo, he grumped, as he continued in an uncoordinated ballet-like dance to remove the substance. While many laws, habits and foods had changed since the Supreme Council intervened, the mandibular concoction known as chewing gum was deemed necessary for the simple reason that it gave salesmen something to do with their mouths other than talk. (In due recognition of this beneficence, gum manufacturers were considered a form of charity, and were tax exempt.)

Zero was still engaged in his non-athletic gyrations, trying to rid himself of the gum, as the space shuttle pulled into the station. Immediately, a scrawny guard dressed in a silver suit stepped out of the shuttle.

Get in, yelled the shuttle guard, as he pushed the reluctant Zero into the aging ship. The guard grabbed his riding crop, a remnant of an earlier Earth era, and tapped it on Zero’s backside. Get moving, we have precisely two minutes and thirteen seconds, he sniped, as he moved the fifty-odd beings onto his ship. You sales creatures, try to be more considerate. Spit your gum into the containers provided. Just because it automatically degrades doesn’t give you license to spit it on the ground. I know you’re salesmen, but try to be a little more civilized. With that contemptuous snarl, he herded the final passengers into the shuttle and closed its doors. As he was doing that, the android known as Berklee organized the traveler’s luggage and set the airlock.

Ready, Barnacle Bob, reported Berklee. Without so much as a polite gesture, the captain, Bob Figgeldby, put the ship into action. The cantankerous captain had gained the moniker of Barnacle Bob for all the otherworldly stowaways that often tried to cling to his ship.

Being an older model ship, the Celestial Skywalker 5002 required manual intervention as it left the station. For two years, Earth’s legislators had tried to fund a fleet of new prison shuttles but had failed. Voters had continuously funded space coliseums for such sports as space football and zero gravity hockey, while prisons and public transportation sorely lacked for funds. The Supreme Council recently reprimanded the Earth Council and let it be known that it would be given two more Earth years to construct a funding plan, or the Supreme Council would be forced to intervene.

Zero analyzed the Velcro® straps that held him into place. Two thousand years and nothing beats Velcro®, he observed, vainly trying to keep his mind off the business at hand. He stood there, strapped into a standing position, since seats were reserved for visiting dignitaries, aged prisoners and dogs.

Berklee approached to check Zero’s body bar code against the computerized database of listed travelers. He pointed the bar code reader toward Zero’s head and chirped in positive acknowledgement. Prisoner XV5-8000219-B. Correct. Seventeen years. Turning on his heel, Berklee muttered, Have a nice day.

Hey pal, need a timekeeper? asked the creature next to Zero. Zero had been so absorbed in his plight that he failed to notice his neighbor who was also neatly strapped into place.

Huh? he replied.

Need a timekeeper? Accuracy guaranteed to within one nanosecond.

Ugh, a salesman already, Zero thought to himself, as he glanced at the being next to him. It appeared to be a middle-aged Voorathian, typically graced by three yellow eyes on its singular head, and possessing three gangly arms. Zero knew he was in trouble—the Voorathian held two briefcases in his arms, while the other was extended for the typical salesman handshake. Two briefcases filled with products? Zero moaned, as he focused his eyes toward the being on his other side. Maybe if I don’t look at him, he thought. Seventeen years of interplanetary sales creatures.

Sir, may I interest you in a nasal vacuum cleaner? asked a different salesman from across the aisle. Ultra-sanitary, and it also doubles as a nose hair trimmer. Very essential for the Mondovials, you know. With seven noses and over thirty feet of sinuses, Mondovials were in dire need of such a device.

Zero shook his head sideways to quickly register his complete disapproval. He shifted his weight to attain a more comfortable stance, and then closed his eyes in a last-ditch attempt to quiet the incessantly babbling sales creatures.

This is no ordinary timekeeper, the Voorathian continued, undeterred by Zero’s closed eyes. The Voorathian held a sample in one hand. It doubles as a computer, fold-out interplanetary road map, night light and, of course, an indispensable gin container. And, that’s not all! For you convicts, it bears one additional feature.

While his interest was piqued, Zero dared not encourage the salesperson at all, for everyone was trained from birth that encouraging a salesperson was tantamount to using manure to attract flies. Just as earlier generations had been taught to affect a poker face, modern creatures were all raised to adopt the salesman stare, which meant to turn into a fossilized creature, hoping not to be noticed. Zero patiently permitted the muscles in his face to harden and prayed for the immediate source of pain to pass.

It didn’t.

I can see that you’re interested, my fair man, the Voorathian oozed. These timekeepers have a unique function: They hold photographs of the top PlayCreature models from across the galaxy to help keep those hormones raging while you’re tucked away on that nasty little asteroid. See this? It’s Miss Bumkiss from Planet Delta-Zeta 12. Or, perhaps, Miss Planet Morgon? Look at the size of those bamboozlers on her!

Unable to elicit a response from Zero, the undaunted Voorathian sales creature raised two eyebrows (the third eyebrow remained unmoved, to render a sense of sincerity to his mutterings) and pressed a button on his contraption. Excuse me, sir, for being so inconsiderate. Along with the top intergalactic female bathing beauties, this incomparable timekeeper also contains the photos of every man and hermaphrodite. He paused and smiled. You can have your choice! Look at this sexy hermaphrodite!

The Voorathian awaited a response.

Zero pursed his lips. Rather than emit the slightest utterance, he bit his lower lip.

As you can see, sir, this priceless timekeeper can entertain you whether you are heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual or a hermaphrodite! All this for only three-hundred-seventy-six zoofies. (In U.S. currency, circa 2010, around $1.40.)

Zero bit his lower lip again. Deeper. Physical pain is far better than emotional pain. I must concentrate on my lower lip. Think about my lower lip, Zero mentally repeated to himself, this mental discipline becoming his newfound mantra. Think about my lower lip…

Sir, have you no sense of decency? an anonymous voice interrupted. Can’t you see that this chap is bleeding? Do you fail to see his pain?

Pain? blurted the Voorathian sales creature. If that’s all, I must then reiterate that this valuable treasure bears a gin container. As every good intergalactic traveler knows, gin is the universal balm for pain.

Dear sir, you do your profession a disservice, for this man’s pain is obviously both physical and emotional, the anonymous protector said, as he fervently reproved the sales creature.

A savior? Here, on the prison shuttle? Zero thought. Dare I open an eye? Could this be but a sales ploy by another salesman? He weighed the concept of opening one eye to determine whether the voice sprang from friend or foe. While he contemplated his next move, the being placed a small hand on his lower left leg.

A reassuring hand.

A very tiny hand, it seemed.

Fear not, sir. I mean you no harm. Nor am I here to sell you anything.

Intrigued, but fearing a new sales ploy, Zero remained as still as a four-day-old corpse.

Sir, let me introduce myself. I am Hoagie Barksdale, a friend, not foe. I, kind sir, am no sales creature. I am a Saint Bernard.

A Saint Bernard? At the mere sound of those salubrious words, Zero opened both eyes and looked down to see his furry friend. He had always heard about the Saint Bernards and their mission. True to their name, Saint Bernards have always been very religious, and have for centuries taken it upon themselves to help all living creatures. Throughout the ages, humans have commemorated the bravery of one daring dog or the other, often with their bountiful flask of brandy bound under their chins. Zero recalled the lessons he learned as a child, lessons on how to call upon Saint Bernards when in need. Zero instantly knew he was in luck, for modern Saint Bernards had extended their religious zeal from the familiar liquor-laced rescues to encompass a prison ministry. Some dogs were known to take up the cross (in their religious terminology) and serve the entire sentence with the convict.

Would Zero be so lucky?

I think you need a friend, voiced the Saint Bernard, as he extended a sociable paw for a handshake. What do you go by, my boy?

Huh? replied Zero.

"What is your name, sir?

Oh, Zero Mumford.

Zero Mumford? Not the Zero Mumford?

Uh, there might be more… he muttered, shyly.

The Zero Mumford, former Chief Assistant Undersecretary of the Department of Fishing, Poultry and Gambling?

Ah, yes, replied Zero, fidgeting.

Well, sir, you are a good man, a mighty good man. You have given Earth many notable regulations, such as the Measurement of Constant Variables; The Standardization of Measurement of Military Intelligence; and The Open Secret Laws.

You remember them?

Sir, you are a hero. A personal hero. Anyone who can measure—let alone discern—military intelligence is truly a man for the ages.

Bolstered by the praise, Zero stood up straighter within his Velco® straps.

Too bad you tried to take on bookies. They’re part of mankind’s natural fabric, the good dog stated. The same as gin.

Zero grinned and extended his hand to shake Hoagie’s paw. As he smiled, Zero ruminated on the history of Saint Bernards, and dogs in general. Once held as pets in most households on planet Earth, dogs were relegated to fetching slippers and newspapers, or the obedient romp with the master. Once residents of planet Morphbat landed on Earth, they translated the various dog dialects, which were not too different than their own. Then, in late 2698, researchers grafted a few genes into dogs, and bred them to add flexibility and versatility to their vocal chords. Thereafter, dogs freely spoke French, English, Indo-Guatarian, or any intergalactic language, though they were vigilant to keep their native tongues (Beagle, Pekinese, or Poodle) alive.

Once humans truly