Personalised Number Plates
Short Sci-Fi Story
Number 11 felt the need to rant. Why should Number 14 have all the fun? It could listen for a change. Number 11's steed burst open the door to Number 14's cubicle, it leapt from its back and began speaking before it had even touched the ground.
'For starters, here are a few quotes from our esteemed chairentity:' it began by way of introduction.
'Preserve our secrecy from the HairyMammals! it often demands.
We mustn't interfere with the HairyMammals until we understand what's going on (i.e. never).
Do not undertake any mission without first gaining approval through the proper channels.
I have reason to believe that our esteemed 'secret,' 'non-interfering,' 'proper channels' chairentity is now dabbling with the HairyMammals' stockmarket... . What for? I'd demanded, frankly horrified.
To make money, Number 12 replied. What for? I demanded. To buy personalised number plates for Fidget's truck. He can't afford them, Number 12 confessed.
What a definitive plonqeur! What a total pilloque!
It's not interfering with the HairyMammals; only their vehicle, the chairentity protested.
Guess what registration it's trying to buy. Go on, you'll never guess. . .'
Number 14 peered at its colleague, a mixture of shock and admiration in its many processors.
'That was a most impressive rant. Convincingly angry!' it praised.
'Hey!' said Number 11, its brief sally into anger totally eclipsed by the return of its customary state of glee and optimism. 'I've been practising!'
At that moment Number 12 arrived, clearly having overheard its name mentioned without the obvious, nay, self-evident, respect that an AloeVera chairentity burdened with such responsibility deserves.
'What about not interfering?' Number 14 suggested, reiterating Number 11's complaint.
'As I explained to Number 11, I'm not doing anything to the HairyMammals, just their hardware. I'd have to interfere with their software to be really interfering with their lives or destiny.'
'But Fidget's not interested in that sort of thing anyway. Imagine a man who doesn't even know what he looks like wanting personalised number-plates on his antique van!' shouted Number 14. Fidget doesn't even remember to eat when he's really in an inventive mood; has been known to go shopping in his pyjamas when he has a bee in his bonnet. Better not mention that though - What bonnet? - Number 12 would ask.
'That's the whole point!' whined the chairentity. 'If he wanted them we'd be interfering…'
'You'd be interfering!' countered Number 11.
'Good point,' conceded Number 12. 'If he wanted them that would constitute interference, but he doesn't care.'
'Well why are you doing it!?' squeegled Number 11. Somehow, being annoyed with Number 12 wasn't sustainable once the comical contraption was present.
'To add justification for the mission. Number 9 going along, sort of thing.'
'What? How does it make any difference what the number plates say!?' Number 14 demanded.
'Well I have to write reports back home to Planet AloeVera, as you know.'
'So what?' asked Number 11. It tried to imagine 'Fidget's got new number-plates' in a report to AloeVera1.1 (general direction), their creator, and couldn't.
'The only way we can justify Number 9's presence on the mission is to connect it somehow with serving tea. . .'
'What's that got… ,' began Number 14, its hormone pumps making alarming noises.
'Chill, dude,' advised Number 11, thoughtfully placing a hand on Number 14's shoulder and carefully choosing its words to cause the chairentity maximum discombobulation per word. Maximised Discombobulosity quotient?
'Hey, cop a load of that MDQ!' it said.
An idea sprang into Number 11's mind, as they were more frequently choosing to do on such occasions.
'What registration are you trying to purchase, pray tell?' it asked, a picture of friendly interest, hands clasped together, leaning encouragingly forward, head tilted slightly to one side and the shutter over one camera raised to signify receptivity.
'Oh, just something useful and meaningful,' the chairentity muttered.
'And the first digit would be what, exactly?'
'Errr, N,' it muttered.
'And what's next, pray tell?'
'Errr, E.'
'And the next letter?'
'Is in fact a number.'
'Excellent, and which digit did you choose, pray tell?'
'Errr, 1.'
'Another digit perhaps?'
'Errr, 4.'
'Another digit, maybe?'
'A letter actually,' conceded Number 12, Number 11's interest, bogus or otherwise, proving to be a most pleasant change.
'And the letter was?'
'Errr, T. That's all.' If it had the necessary hardware the chairentity would have blushed.
Number 14 was puzzled, the clamour from its parallel processors aiming in many different directions at once, but Number 11 burst into a giggling fit, and leapt around the chairentity in a display of exuberant friendliness and admiration.
'Hell's bells, Number 12. That's inspired! If only you could get a question mark to place at the end!'
*
Number 12 sauntered back to its private space on board their ship, polished its name badge and felt tempted to whistle. Number 11 had to be the most unpredictable AloeVera, even the most unpredictable living entity, anywhere in the universe. But apparently yours truly had got something right, for once, in Number 11's eyes. The chairentity pondered for a while then decided to add a clause to its previous statement.
The most unpredictable entity in the universe as experienced by Number 12.
With the possible exception of Number 14, the hormone-ridden one.
And the possible exception of Number 9, quantumpsychologist designate.
And Number 8 was a bit odd spending all the time in its lab. Still, at least it didn't cause yours truly many headaches.
Number 11 had a hunch that they hadn't heard the last of Fidget's personalised number plates. . .