Einstein's Underpants--And How They Saved the World (16 page)

And suddenly Alexander realized what must have happened to his friends. A choking wave of disgust and horror filled his soul.

‘You beast,' he said under his breath. ‘You filthy, filthy beast.'

CHAPTER 37

A HOPELESS HOPE

HE TRIED TO
get to his feet, determined to reach the monster and exact some kind of revenge, however feeble. But his legs were still useless, and all he could do was grovel and flap about on the floor like a landed fish.

And then there was a foul wet sound all around him, and the room filled with sulphurous emissions. Alexander was so focused on the repulsive leader that he had forgotten about the other creatures in the room lurking like glistening sea anemones around a rockpool. They were shaking, and the gas squirted out in little puffs from fissures in their skin. A sound came from the metal grille at the front of the strange machine Alexander had noticed.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

A staccato laugh.

For a second Alexander thought it was the box that was laughing at him. Then he realized that it wasn't the box but the creatures that were laughing. In a flash he deduced that the box was a translation device, and that what it translated was the rich language of smell wafted out by the aliens.

The massive Borgia leader shuffled closer to one of the funnel-shaped projections and sent out a puff of gas. There was a delay of a few seconds, and then a voice emerged from the grille. The voice was eerily mechanical. Although perfectly understandable, the words were a little muddled.

‘This hear, worm. Thlugg I am, Admiral Borgia Fleet, Consul of the Empire Borgia, Shredder of Men, Eater of Mice and Rabbits. You will information me now of Earth defence shield base stations the co-ordinates. Then you will speak precise
mega-tonnage of warheads in defence shield. Then you will announce me correct frequency for jamming communications of Earth defence force radio machines. And then, only and then, will you tell me secret of good pizza.'

Alexander felt waves of confusion batter him, hurling the fragile boat of his brain about on violent seas. As far as he knew, there wasn't an Earth defence shield, or base stations, or any of that stuff. Humans were too busy fighting each other to look up and fear the heavens. And even if there were such things, how the heck would he know all about codes and mega-tonnage? He couldn't understand any of it. He wanted to be at home with his mum and dad. He wished he'd never had an uncle Otto, never got involved in this stupid mess.

Except that there was another realization. Staying at home with Mum and Dad wouldn't help. These monsters were going to destroy the world.

And he was the Earth's last hope.

A hopeless hope.

‘Or speak die,' came the voice, harsh and grating and annoyingly ungrammatical.

What could he do? What should he say? He put his hand to his head. And there he felt not his hair, as he'd expected, but Einstein's underpants, still damp with Borgia goo. And suddenly his thoughts gained a new clarity. His hatred and his intelligence came together, diamond-hard and bright.

If these things – Borgia, they'd called themselves – if they really thought Earth had some kind of lethal defence shield, then maybe they'd just go off and bother some other planet. Venus, maybe, or Uranus. Because that was the thing about bullies, wasn't it? That they always picked on the dweeb, the weakling without a decent defensive shield – or at least without a big brother who was known to be a bit of a psycho and used to be in the army. He knew it was his chance to really be a hero, to
sacrifice himself for the good of all humanity.

So Alexander spoke, aiming his voice at the same grille that translated the Borgia language into his own.

‘You will never defeat the inhabitants of planet Earth. We have weapons of great power. We are a peaceful people, but we fight fire with fire, meet force with irresistible force. We will never submit to aggression. Our mighty defence shield will annihilate your ships, leaving nothing but smouldering wrecks to drift back to your homeworld to tell of the catastrophe that has befallen your race. And, by the way, you stink.'

‘Brave smells,' said Thlugg, after Alexander's words had been translated into malodorous puffs. ‘I was hoping that there would be some fight in you. Means live longer under torture pain, make more big laughs for Thlugg.'

Then the admiral moved away from the translation device and vented some instructions. A little of the gas seeped towards the
funnels and some of the words were translated. It was enough to let Alexander know that he was about to set off along a dark path; and at the end of the path, the darkness deepened.

‘Prepare . . . ordeal . . . ready . . . equipment . . . torture . . . Earthling . . . pain . . . ha . . . ha . . . ha.'

CHAPTER 38

TORTURED

THE GUARDS FORCED
Alexander onto a low table. Metal bands enclosed his ankles, wrists, neck and forehead, so that he could do nothing more than wiggle his toes and fingers.

He was looking straight up, and watched as a wet fissure opened in the ceiling, dropping cold dollops of slime on his face. The crack widened, and a piece of equipment began to descend towards him, suspended by a thin strand of mucusy cord. Alexander quaked to his very soul.

The device stopped a few centimetres from his face. There was a pause of a couple of seconds. Alexander sensed the evil Borgia leader drawing closer – not for any practical
purpose but simply, Alexander knew, so that he could breathe in some of the fear emanating from the captive human.

Two prongs slithered from the end of the device. Alexander whimpered, too petrified to scream.

This was even worse than being snotted by Murdo.

The prongs, like two fat green earthworms, wriggled towards his nostrils. Alexander was convinced they were going to bore into his brain, sucking out the knowledge that the Borgia wanted.

The prongs entered his nostrils.

Alexander wanted to sneeze, but it seemed that even the sneeze was too frightened to emerge. He prepared himself for the agony he would surely feel as the prongs burst up into his brain. A moment later he heard a faint hiss, and immediately a foul smell filled his nose. He flinched and tried to pull away, but his head was too securely bound.

Acid, he thought. Or poison gas. Something terrible. Something that would kill or maim, or drive him insane. His mind searched desperately for something – a life raft, any scrap of hope.

He had nothing.

Except for the pants. Einstein's underpants.

Please, Einstein's underpants
, he prayed.
Help me. Come to me in my hour of need.

Another nasal squirt jolted him. The smell was pretty bad. Cabbage, with a hint of egg. Pretty standard fart smell, in fact. The sort of thing The Hurricane could churn out in his sleep. Was that it? What about the acid?

Suddenly Alexander felt the urge to giggle. But he also felt the glowering presence of the Borgia admiral, and the almost equally evil crew.

But that wasn't all he could feel. There was a tingling sensation. The pants were answering his call. The pants were working
their magic. Ideas, fizzing and zipping.

This ordeal by stench was obviously considered the most terrible torture by the Borgia. The Borgia worked on smell. That's where they were most sensitive. Perhaps for them, he mused, this was the equivalent of red-hot needles stuck into your eyeballs, or having your fingernails pulled out. No, maybe more like the most terrifyingly loud noise blasted into your ears. And his captors thought it would have the same effect on him.

Right then. He knew what to do. It was time to put on a show. His eyes opened wide, he began a high-pitched keening, growing into a full scream. He strained at the bonds securing him. He arched his back, as if he'd been jolted by a massive electric shock.

And all the while he sensed the lascivious pleasure of the creatures around him. They were like gluttons watching a doner kebab revolve on the spit.

Thlugg vented, and ‘Speak, slave!' said the mechanical voice.

‘Never,' said Alexander. ‘I'll die first.'

The smell was getting fairly noxious by now. If you were at home and your granny let go one of those beauties, then you wouldn't just sit there. You'd either be opening the window or, more likely, running out of the room gasping. But if you had to endure it to save the world, then you would.

Thlugg loomed over Alexander, and a cold dollop of drool splashed onto his forehead.

The ‘Speak, slave!' ‘Never!' conversation went on for a while, and then a new tone emerged from the speaker.

‘This Earthling endures muchly. Braver than kamikaze worms of planet Zomit. Fine. Test let us how he wants cruel pain or bad kill happening to comrades.'

Chapter 39

THEY HIT ALEXANDER WHERE IT HURTS

ALEXANDER FELT HIS
bonds loosen.

What was that about his
comrades
? Maybe . . . Could it possibly . . . ? Hope leaped in his heart. He scoured the room, and noticed something he had missed before. As well as the Borgia actively swarming around him in the torture chamber, there were also Borgia hanging around the walls like shy kids at the school disco. They were, Alexander realized, more of the same storage drones in which he'd been transported.

And as he looked at the blobby brainless creatures, he saw that they weren't empty. He could see inside them the shapes of his friends. Make out faces, even expressions.
Their eyes were open. They were watching him, helpless. Jamie, Felicity, Melvyn, Really Annoying Girl, The Hurricane, Magic Titch, Tortoise Boy, and there, on his own, Cedric, as glum as ever.

Alexander was torn between the joy of seeing that his friends had not (yet) been eaten, and the horror of their plight.

Then he noticed something odd about the Borgia drone that encased Cedric. He didn't know much – well, anything – about Borgia physiology or anatomy, but he got the distinct feeling that this particular specimen wasn't well. Rather than the lurid green of the standard Borgia complexion, this fellow was a faint pink, with some splodges of brown. It reminded him vaguely of the rotten fruit you'd find on the street after the market traders had gone home. Alexander felt the underpants working again. They were trying to tell him something. Something important. But there was too much to take in, too many things
happening, and Alexander's head began to throb with confusion.

More orders were vented by Thlugg. Some words leaked into the translator, but nothing that Alexander could make sense of. Then one of the drones began to wriggle. It was the one containing Really Annoying Girl, still clutching her lethal, bejewelled school bag. Alexander could see the panic on her face.

Actually, it wasn't panic. More like rage.

With a rippling convulsion the drone expelled her onto the floor, where she slid on her back for a couple of metres before coming to a stop.

‘I knew you was gonna—' she said, or tried to say, but her mouth was full of slime, and it came out as a burbling babble. She was held fast by two Borgia guards, and a third oozed towards her.

Then the voice came again, and Alexander knew he was supposed to hear the order that followed.

‘Human female eat. Do not kill yet. Make bad feeling of being eat last long time. Begin with pedal extremities. End with spongy grey organ of thinking with.'

Then the third Borgia guard began to engulf Really Annoying Girl from the shoes up. Alexander watched in horrified fascination as the powerful Borgia digestive juices began to dissolve her trainers. It was all visible through the semi-transparent jellied flesh.

Finally, Really Annoying Girl found her natural voice. ‘Oi, them's new, you stupid lump of snot!'

Brave though Really Annoying Girl was, Alexander knew that soon the trainers would be gone and then the pain would start. And in fact that was already happening. The juices had worked their way in at the ankles, and Really Annoying Girl was starting to look uncomfortable (as well as annoyed).

‘Enough!' he said. ‘I'll talk.'

‘Excellent very,' sighed Thlugg. ‘Commence.'

Alexander did his best to sound as if he knew what he was talking about, clearing his mind to let the pants speak for him. He had to buy time. For what? He didn't know yet, but somehow he knew that Einstein's underpants would come to the rescue.

‘The defence shield runs on the Linux operating system. The entry code is one-seven-six-eight-nine QQGY. You can access the system by sending a radio wave repeating the musical notes G, A, F, F, C, where the second F is an octave lower than the first. This will deactivate the anti-virus and spy-ware module. The warheads are a neutrino-based zilium alloy. Converting their output to standard thermonuclear mega-tonnage isn't really appropriate, as they work more through molecular disruption rather than simple blast or radiation damage. The secret of a good pizza is a thin base, but only if cooked in a wood-fired
oven, giving good heat from all directions. Use a mixture of mozzarella and provolone cheese. A waiter with a really enormous pepper grinder will add greatly to the spectacle. Got that?'

There was a pause. Thlugg looked at his chief science officer, Colonel Paaarp. Paaarp, who was also the acting technical head of the Torture and Maiming Department (
acting
head because Thlugg had recently eaten the official head), shrugged a heavy Borgia shrug, and vented noncommittally:

‘I suspect the Earthling is talking out of his rear venting hole. But it will not take us long to ascertain this.'

Before Thlugg had the chance to respond, a breathless Borgia female entered the chamber.

Thlugg looked at the attractive young thing, and drooled a little. He would, he decided, have her delivered to his quarters later on. Her behaviour would dictate
whether the pleasures pandered to would be culinary or carnal.

‘Lord, there is a . . . situation.'