Timmy Perkins
and the Pussycat Extravaganza
by Joseph M. Isenberg
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3, 4 |
part 1
Year: 8027. Place: Planet Home, capital of the Pan-Galactic Empire
It was thirteen hundred hours in the capital city of Planet Home. The afternoon was, so far as most folks were concerned, a glorious summer day. The sun beat on the pavement, and the blue sky showed not even the merest cloud. The temperature outside couldn’t melt lead, so it wasn’t quite insufferable yet. It just seemed that way. Folks with leisure clustered at the city parks or lakes. Sensible folks who worked for a living went inside if they possibly could. I wasn’t quite sensible folks; I worked for a living, but I didn’t want to go inside.
Instead, I stood at the edge of the sidewalk and looked up at the worn marble steps, at the enormous bronze doors that lay beyond them. I was calling upon the organization that gave me a pay marker every month. I felt my knees weaken a bit. No matter how hot it was, I didn’t want to go inside. Not one damned bit.
Five hours earlier, I had been on top of the world, both literally and figuratively. I was literally on top of the world, for I served in the Pan-Galactic Imperial Space Fleet as the Assistant Engineering Officer aboard the Oltsenia Nova, a torpedo cruiser docked at the space station above the planet. Not a bad gig for a Senior Lieutenant in the Fleet.
I was figuratively on top of the world as well. I came from very humble beginnings, as a poverty-stricken waif on Planet Stratford. Over a few years, I went from minor criminal to Senior Lieutenant in the Imperial Fleet. A good splashdown for a nasty little slum rat from Stratford City South.
So, off I went, this June morning, neat and clean in a new iron-grey Fleet uniform, bolstered with not one but two shiny copper braid stripes that went around each cuff. If I kept on, I would be a pretty high flier in the Fleet.
That was the situation at zero eight-thirty when I settled in behind the desk of my day cabin and reviewed my share of the daily drivel. I was ready to take on the whole galaxy. I expected to retire as a Vice-Admiral or know the reason why.
Soon enough, those dreams lay in ashes. The change came when a civilian courier brought correspondence and documents to the ship. Two light taps sounded at my day cabin door.
I called out: “Enter, it’s not locked.”
A cadaverous figure with a look of low cunning shambled into view, much like a revenant who had forgotten he was out of brains, couldn’t remember how to steal any, who stopped by in hopes he might borrow a cup from me. “You Tim Perkins?”
“What does the brass plate next to the door say?”
“Perkins, T.D.B., Senior Lieutenant, Assistant Engineering Officer.”
“Well, thanks be to the merciful Great Author,” I said. “I’ve come to work in the right place after all. I hate making that mistake. No telling where I might end up.”
The revenant grunted at this and tossed a gray envelope down on my desk. “Orders from the General Board, Perkins. Sign for them.” He handed me a data pad a little more nicely. I pressed my thumb against it and handed it back.
“Any idea what this is about?” I asked.
“I just hand ’em out. I don’t care enough to read ’em.” He was a man who didn’t care about any number of things. He shambled off in search of his next delivery or anyone who could lend him half a brain. He didn’t even bother to close the door behind him.
I closed the door and settled back to read the orders. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t want to know whatever I was going to read. The General Board of the Imperial Space Fleet directed operations, both of ships and of men. It could, with a word, send a ship or a fleet on its way, or, with another word, stand it on landing legs in hangar bays.
“Go,” says the General Board, and a space bum goeth, damned quick “Wait,” says the General Board, and the same gray-jacketed lad abideth indefinitely, unto the heat death of the universe. That last was what I feared.
It began with the usual folderol. “I am directed...” and so on. After that, we got down to business: “to advise the said Perkins, T.D.B., Senior Lieutenant, that he is hereby relieved of his assignment and duty... in said ship Oltsenia Nova...
“And further that the said Perkins, T.D.B. is to report forthwith for reassignment as may best serve the needs... and finally that pending reassignment, said Perkins, T.D.B. is posted to the Unallocated Sedentary Reserve at half-pay.”
Sacked from my job. Just like that. I wondered about a lot of things. I wondered how I would tell my wife. I wondered how we would make ends meet. We were in Fleet housing at the station. That went with the ship. We would have to move out, quick. I wondered where we would go.
* * *
I went down to the surface of the planet. I stood in front of the big bronze doors for a bit, then went in and handed the orders and my card to the clerk at the desk. He pointed to a waiting room. “Go to the Junior Officers’ Lounge. Someone will be along when you’re wanted.”
I peered inside. The place was filled. Nobody was skeletal, but many were no longer young. I knew I wouldn’t be wanted.
The entire place was a study of green. The walls were a hideous color that might once have been lime, mellowed with time to some shade which might appear in a puddle of amino acids during an intense solar flare. The chairs were battered dark green affairs. I stayed and sat. I knew I would face this problem at some time. Onto those green seats a lad must go, if he wished to make a career in the Fleet.
I became aware of a shadow. I looked up, puzzled. I was not dealing with a minor clerk, but with the Permanent Secretary of the General Board.
He had my card and a copy of my orders in his hand. “Are you Senior Lieutenant Perkins?” he asked. “You’re on the list.”
I bit back the temptation to take the calling card he was holding and double check it against my identi-disc. I avoided a smart-aleck remark as well. “Yes, sir. I realize I’m not the Fleet’s social catch of the decade. If you have me on some unemployable list because you don’t want me to keep my commission, I’ll send in my papers. I’d just like a little decency so I can talk to my wife and get life organized.”
“What are you blithering about? Come along with me. You’re on the immediate appointment list. I’m to take you in as soon as you arrive.”
That was more disturbing than being sacked. I came along into a small, smelly elevator at the back of the waiting room that lifted the bodies and the hopes of generations of occupants. We went up to the seventh floor. We walked to a heavy door with a little sliding metal panel. The Permanent Secretary pressed a button twice. The panel opened for someone to look at us. The door slid open painfully slow.
Inside was a busy hive. A senior bridge master, in charge of the outer office, thrust a glass with ice and a bottle of Fizzy Pop in my hands. I took them without thinking. The whole room was sparse, utilitarian. This was a place where folks actually worked. Any number of Fleet-gray desks with any number of space bums in Fleet-gray uniforms reading, peering intently into computer screens, or writing. It was silent, too. The sound of a moth breaking wind would have thrown the place into an uproar.
The Permanent Secretary said only, “This is Senior Lieutenant Perkins, T.D.B. I believe he is sent for.”
“Welcome to Bureau G, Lieutenant Perkins. A glass with you, Permanent Secretary?”
“Thank you, no. I should return.” The Permanent Secretary left.
“Look, Bridge Master, can you tell me anything of what’s going on? It’s quite a shock.”
“Not really. You’ve been seconded to us for some project or other. The Boss Man will tell you. Come with me.”
I went with less enthusiasm. There were worse things than being fired. Bureau G housed the Imperial Fleet Field Intelligence service, or IFFI. “IFFI by name and iffy by nature,” as the saying went.
I had brushes with IFFI when I’d served as an enlisted man. In one, I nearly died, along with the rest of the crew of the patrol cruiser Ivens. I still have no idea why, or what really happened.
* * *
We walked to a back office with an old fashioned sliding door holding a frosted glass panel and the phrase, “Bureau G” painted on the front. Next to the door were two very simple brass plates. These read:
“Seventh Commissioner of the General Board and Director, IFFI, Vice-Admiral Reginald, Lord Watson-ffyre” and “Principal Deputy Commissioner for Bureau G and Assistant Director, IFFI, Rear-Admiral James G. B. Hargreaves.”
My heart sank further. I wanted to run away. I already knew Hargreaves, for he was the fellow who nearly killed everyone on the Ivens. At the time, he was disguised as a civilian employee of the Fleet. As the Assistant Director, he was the senior field operative, the top man who actually went out and did things. Few of those things bore scrutiny.
Reginald Watson-ffyre, known in the Fleet as the “Old Grey Stallion,” was that rarity, a war hero who actually deserved to be a war hero. He started as a fighter pilot, survived, married well, survived, was severely busted up in a fighter craft accident, survived against all odds and shifted into “Fleet command.” He survived; the fleets of the Empire’s enemies weren’t nearly so lucky. His wife shifted into politics. He, perhaps feeling his age, shifted into intelligence work.
Watson-ffyre’s daughter was an officer on the Ivens who took an interest in my career. If she was responsible, I resolved to thank her properly the next time we met.
We were next to a conference room. A familiar voice called out.
“Perkins, get in here!” That was Hargreaves. I got in there, stood at attention and saluted. Only then did I look more closely. The pair of them, Hargreaves and Watson-ffyre, sat at one end of a conference table. Neither had chosen to wear uniforms that day. Hargreaves looked dapper, sleek and malevolent, outfitted in a perfectly tailored summer suit. He could have passed for a less-important member of the Imperial Family.
Admiral Watson-ffyre, in contrast, looked like someone’s grandfather, or an absent-minded professor. There was a lightweight civilian suit involved, but it was threadbare. A grateful Empire gave the man ownership of an entire star system, yet here he was, looking down on his luck. I would have given him a five-Imper note if I saw him standing on a street corner, as part of my duty to help the less fortunate.
Both ignored me. Hargreaves lit his pipe. The Old Grey Stallion cut and lit a cheap cigar. Presently the room began to smell like a trash fire. I stood there, still at attention. The Bridge Master closed the door.
“At ease, Perkins,” Watson-ffyre said. “Have a seat.” I sat at the far end of the table expecting others. “Not down there,” he went on. “It’s only us today, m’lad. Sit next to me, across from Hargreaves.” I slid down next to him, hoping not to be overwhelmed by smoke.
Many shelves, built into the walls, overflowed with files and binders. Hargreaves selected a file. He passed it across to me. He and Watson-ffyre had similar files. He opened the chat. “Perkins, something’s come up, and I thought immediately of you.”
“Oh, no. I mean, how can I help you today, sir?”
“I remembered something you did while you were a Reserve Space Cadet.” He passed me a copy of the Fleet Gazette. The front page picture showed me, in full-dress Space Cadet uniform, trotting around a dog show ring with a Halconic Standard War Poodle by my side. I had missed that issue, and this was the first time I’d seen the picture.
“That, sirs? It was just a fluke. I don’t know anything about showing animals. Froofi, the dog, belongs to my wife’s cousin, Mircea. He busted his ankle tripping over a leash. Froofi is too big for my wife to handle. I stepped up. Mircea would have lost his registration fee for the show otherwise. We won best-of-class, but we didn’t win in the end.”
“Still,” Hargreaves said, “you did the Fleet proud. You gained some notoriety from the effort.”
I made a mental note to thank Mircea when I next saw him. Froofi, on the other hand, was a welcome visitor. We were boarding him at that moment, in fact.
Watson-ffyre picked up the thread. “Perkins, you have a bit of publicity, but not much. You are slightly known as a man who works with dogs. The details are unclear. We need someone like that.”
“I don’t, though. It was a one-off.”
“That’s fine, m’lad. We need you to show a cat.”
“A cat, sir?” I was perplexed. “If I understand correctly, you’ve pulled me from space duty and put me on half-pay, so I can take a cat and show it. At a cat show. With respect, sir, I see two flaws in the plan, leaving to one side that it costs me two-thirds of my income. First, I don’t know anything about cats. I’ll be a complete fool. Second, I don’t own a cat.”
“Those are reasonable objections, Perkins,” Hargreaves said. “I can address them. First, you need to be visibly on half-pay.”
“I can’t support my family on half-pay, sir.” I objected. “I have a wife and a child. Clarissa, my wife, is pregnant. We expect twins.” That was before Froofi. If Clarissa was eating for three, Froofi was eating for three dreadnought squadrons.
“You are officially on half-pay, Perkins. I know how much you make in a Senior Lieutenant’s billet. The secret fund of IFFI can make up the difference, plus expenses, provided you stop whining and be quiet.”
I stopped whining and sat quietly.
“Second, no one cares whether you win, lose, or draw at the cat show, so long as you maintain your cover with good grace and such style as you can muster. The dog show was proof of your style.”
I made a further note to thank Mircea with a kick to his bad ankle. So much for good grace.
Hargreaves wasn’t done. “Now, as for a cat, we would never send you on a mission ill-equipped.” Hargreaves pushed a buzzer on the desk.
An enlisted man came with a small box. He placed it on the conference table and went out.
Hargreaves opened the box, and a gigantic bundle of white fur squeezed its way out. It meowed once and wandered over to him as though it liked no one better in the galaxy. It hopped up on his shoulder. Hargreaves reached up to cuddle his friend, who purred contentedly.
“You are a clever fellow, yes you are,” Hargreaves added. It was probably just professional courtesy, one ruthlessly effective predator to another.
“Anyway, m’lad, problem solved,” Watson-ffyre said. “One White Novybeloozero Longhaired Cat, courtesy the Fleet. Also, one carrying box with which to transport him. Sign the requisition form.”
I signed.
Copyright © 2025 by Joseph M. Isenberg
