Jeffers A. Nabob: Space Janitor

Jeffers A. Nabob: Space Janitor
By
Gary L. Quay

Federation Bureau of Investigation Case File SP139-24a; 3/23/2108

Subject: Jeffers A. Nabob

Occupation: Space Janitor

         The sudden disappearance of the Guardian Stellar Outpost was originally blamed on enemy activity in the Phallakian sector, but events have come to light that paint a radically different picture. Reports from civilian personnel who fled the station in its final moments, along with the discovery of Mr. Nabob’s journal, have led us to view him as our only suspect. The journal in question includes personal entries, memos, and video tapes of speeches--including one given by Mr. Nabob, himself--likely recorded in the station’s final seconds. Interestingly, the journal was found in the vicinity near where the station should have been, and was enclosed in an airtight container. Mr. Nabob likely left it for posterity. The following are selected journal entries, documents, and the complete text of the aforementioned speech.

Document # 1A.352

INTERNAL MEMO

To: All personnel.
From: General William T. Masters; Guardian Stellar Outpost Commanding.
Re: Gravity outage.
Date: 5 June 2107


Dear Staff,
         I would like to offer my sincerest apologies to all military and civilian personnel for any inconvenience caused by yesterday's failure of our station's artificial gravity. The Engineering staff is working non-stop to restore normalcy, and I guarantee that repairs will be completed in a week, tops. With that in mind, I will offer some guidelines that should alleviate some of the problems we experienced during our last outage. They will remain in effect for the duration, even if it takes months. I am not saying that it will take that long, but we must be ever realistic about our ageing space station.
         First: children under age 12 must be kept on a leash. While this station has civilian enterprises, it is primarily a military base. Free-floating youngsters can do great damage to vital systems, or can clog the ventilation system. Do not let the tanning salon fool you; space is a dangerous place for youngsters. I should not have to remind you of what happened last time, but, for the benefit of newer personnel, this is what happened. Dick and Betty Seaver's boy, Billy, was playing in the hallway outside air dock 5. As is the nature of young boys when loosed in a zero-G environment, Billy was floating past flight deck 5 when someone opened the door. The pressure differential caused little Billy to be sucked into the dock where mechanics were testing a fighter's turbine engines. We lost a boy, two mechanics, half of the air dock, and a valuable piece of equipment that day. I will not allow this to happen again.
         Second: our medics are handing out free condoms. Use them. Nine months after out last gravity outage, we experienced a baby boom that severely taxed our hydroponics gardens and led to a shortage of robo-nannies. I urge all personnel to show some restraint this time and, for God's sake, take some precaution.
         Third: on a similar note, all women and traditional Scotsmen will wear proper undergarments. It is important that Earthly attitudes of humility apply even while in space. Anyone displaying genitalia, even if accidental, beneath a free-floating skirt or kilt will be persecuted.
         Fourth: if I catch any of my staff or military personnel pushing themselves off the wall while yelling "Wahoo", they will be immediately court-martialed.
         Fifth: for the year or so that the gravity could possibly be offline, the Jacuzzi, the pool tables, the weight room, and the mud wrestling pit will be off limits.
         Lastly: our head janitor, Jeffers Nabob, would appreciate your help during meals. He requests the following: do not squeeze out the contents of your peanut butter tube to watch them float away. I do not care how artistic the shapes appear. They inevitably get sucked into the ventilation system. Do not "bowl" with your peas and carrot sticks, they too will end up in the ventilation, and, with the aforementioned baby boom, there is not nearly enough to go around. And, for God's sake, don't open a beer or soft drink can unless you are firmly secured.
         As a side note: I would like to recognize Mr. Nabob for the valuable service he provides. He sure keeps this station spotless. He is an irreplaceable member of our staff, and we look forward to his upcoming retirement with much sadness. I would like to personally thank him for the initiative he showed in repairing the station's propulsion system. It may save our lives one day. For those who don't know it, he has a degree in Space Engineering, but choose a different calling. So, give him a pat on the back when you see him, but be sure that he is wearing Mag-boots, or he too may get sucked into the ventilation system.
         Mr. Nabob will also be adjusting Mag-boots today. So, if you are stuck to the floor, walls, or ceiling, please be patient until he arrives. Do not abandon your boots and go sailing across the station yelling "Wahoo!" You will be persecuted.

Other business:

         Funeral arrangements for Bob "Beanpole" Stubbs will be held on Thursday at noon in air lock 9. As you know, Bob was a well-liked and respected member of our civilian staff. Despite his brief tenure, he was the inspiration for many changes here at the Guardian Interstellar Outpost. The most noticeable of these is the use of smaller openings on the seats of the zero-G toilets. I will personally reprimand anyone caught telling a joke about the manner of his death. Getting sucked into a toilet is a horrible way to die, and we owe it to his widow to be respectful.
         I understand that some of you believe that this outage will leave us even more vulnerable to Phallakian attack. Colonel Addleman assured me that our readiness would not suffer significantly. Despite claims to the contrary, the Phallakians do not pillage us at will. Yes, some women have been taken, but everyone knew the risks before signing on. Even with limited means and fifty light years distance from reinforcements, the gallant members of our military attachment have repelled every attack. This venerable station has never been taken, and the next person who says that our enemies would not want this "hunk of space junk" will be persecuted to the fullest extent of my law.



                                                           That is all



                                                           William T. Masters

Document # 1A.379

Nabob’s Journal 3/7/2107

         They bleed red, don’t they? All over the walls, ceiling, windows and floor--this time in the hallway outside the admin offices in the ring section. What’s wrong with a good, old-fashioned laser blast? I ask you. Why does every Phallakian spy have to be imploded? What have they done that has so offended us? I have to clean them up, after all. And what’s worse, the parts never arrived for my auto-scrubber, so I had to do it with mop and water. And a putty knife.
         There was a party tonight in the observation lounge, but I was too busy scraping the poor bastard off the floor. “His Majesty,” General Masters, came by to give me an “Atta boy.” This, in the General’s view of himself as the pinnacle of creation, had the same tone and connotation as “good doggie.” Then the little tyrant had the nerve to ask me to put off retirement until a replacement arrived. Although a light photon passes unimpeded through the vacuum of space, dense matter or lines of gravitational force can impede or even stop its progress. Thus, General Masters’ doctor can find wax buildup in his left ear by looking into the right. The ear-to-ear travel time of that light is about the length of time I considered his plea. By the way, the General produces earwax like bees make honey, and in a similar consistency. He could open up a profitable candle making business when he retires. I’ll bet that’s what he does.
         Last week he said: “Dammit, Nabob, what are we going to do without you? I guess we’ll have to clone you.” I’ve slept with my door locked ever since.

Document # 1A.401

(Text of communication from Phallakian ambassador PPPPPHHHHRRRRRAAAK. Curious mention of Mr. Nabob in a favorable light. Possible link to espionage.)

         Abrioog greota fruuuuuuuuuscka wrougrimta blat cremona git blaka blaka damn translator working. Oh, there we are. Good. I am what you may know as a Phallakian Raider, and I am here to tell you that we are horribly misunderstood. We don't have anything against you. We don't mind your violence. Much. Well, scratch that. We mind it. We don't mind your curiosity. We can even live with your silly notion that you are the pinnacle of creation. What we simply cannot tolerate is your export of fast food franchises.
         Hear me out. From the moment you entered this sector, fast food joints have sprung up like a bad case of measles. You slaughtered and ate half the population of Bovina four before one of you bothered turn on a translator and found out that all the mooing were pleas for mercy. Half of the most centered mystics and philosophers in the sector were served on sesame seed buns. Come on, mankind--show a little respect.
         If you really want to know what started the war, (if events on Bovina four were not enough) listen carefully. It started on Shannis 3--just outside the settlement your government set up. It began with a seemingly harmless conversation between one of yours and a local inhabitant in an ambulance leaving the steaming ruins of the planet's first "McDonald's."
         The Earthman was one Darren Hollis. Not the thickest skull in the headhunter's hut by any means, but he was an ordinary Earthling. He and a woman lay on stretcher next to Comrade Meeesh. Meeesh is what you people would call a “really big snail.” We call him a “citizen of the Phallakian Empire.” The woman was out cold.          Darren was hurt, but conscious. Meeesh looked at Darren through a pair of bloodshot eyestalks, and said, "So now you'll understand, eh?"
         Darren apparently didn't. No surprise.
So, Meeesh said, "Some of us want to keep our own cultures. We don't want everything to be the same."
         Assuming guilt by association, Darren asked what he thought was the obvious question: "Did you plant that bomb?"
         Meeesh eyed the alien for a moment, which Darren later told authorities was the ocular equivalent of being sprayed with a fire hose. But he recovered enough to explain the perceived efficiencies and cost savings of centralized ownership.
         Meeesh apparently disagreed. "Insidious and boring. You people stretch out your tentacles everywhere and steal our culture and rob our resources. We hate you. You should go."
         I don't think that Darren knew at that point that he was talking to head of the Phallakian Military Command. I think he really just wanted to make the snail see that his race wasn't all that bad.
         “I'm opening a restaurant," Darren said. "And it's not a chain. It's French."
         “What's French?"
         "France is a country on Earth," he said. "The people are renowned lovers and they make the best wine anywhere. Their foods are rich and sweet, with sauces that make the mouth water. We're going to serve steaks, pastries, escargot, omelets in the morning, baguettes..."
         The snail cut him off with a simple question: "What is escargot?"
         At that moment, the woman came to and murmured the answer.
         You cannot help but see our point of view. Then there's that wretched space station of yours called the "Guardian Stellar outpost." Your charges that we steal your women are totally baseless. We, the people of Phallakia--home planet of the Empire--have certain properties that, well, attract women of your species. None have been abducted. All were liberated at their own request. It's just a shame that we have to continually do so much damage to the station to get them. You never let anything go without a fight. You even destroyed our welcoming ship when you first came to our sector. Without so much as a peep, I might add. You never even tried to talk to us. The only one on the station with half a brain is the janitor.
         So, if you are ready to talk peace, you know where to find us. Bring an open mind.

Document # 1B.002

Nabob’s Journal, 6/15/2107

         Ms. Deborah O’Riley woke me up last night with a complaint of a squeaking noise in her room. So, with all the enthusiasm of a field mouse sliding slowly into a snake’s gullet, I followed her down to her quarters. It’s not that I dislike Ms. O’Riley. On the contrary, I rather enjoy her company. It’s her room that scares me. She lives next to the loading bays--where gravity (artificial or centrifugal) has never reared its ugly, Newtonian head. The absence of gravity’s cohesive pressures has produced some anatomical mutations in the rodent population. They have grown, shall we say, spherical. They navigate the weightless areas of the station, riding the ventilation system, using their tails as rudders. They exist mostly on peanut butter, peas and carrots, and mega-vitamins (a ship loaded with mega-vitamins crashed into bay 7 and scattered its cargo into the nearest heat return vent. Soon afterward, the rat and mice populations underwent, shall we say, a growth spurt. Imagine, if you will, floating, furry basketballs with whiskers and pointy, sharp teeth.
         Definitely not what I went to college for.
So, armed with spray lubricant in one hand and pepper spray in the other, I stood before Ms. O’Riley’s door. She stood directly behind me, clutching my arm as if it were a fish in an eagle’s claws. That woman doesn’t get manicured. She gets honed.
         I opened the door a crack. The room was dark. I heard the squeaking, and a strange scraping sound--neither was mechanical. I pocketed the spray lube and took out my flashlight. I sent a beam about the room, looking for a reflection from their evil little eyes.
         “See anything?” She gripped my arm tighter. I winced.
         “Not yet,” I told her, not wanting to know how the little demons managed to chew through the bulkhead and get into her room. On a hunch, I shined my light up to the ventilation duct in the far corner. Sure enough, there they were, eating through the metal grate.
         The sound of teeth on aluminum makes me shiver. I grabbed my can of mace. I had to force them back into the system before they chewed through the last of the grate and into the room’s gravity field. But it was too late. The last louver clanged on the tiled floor below, followed by the sound of five spherical, splattering rodents. My auto-scrubber was still broken. But, it looks like there will be meat in the spaghetti sauce tomorrow.

center}Document # 1B.098

Nabob’s journal 9/03/2107

         Retirement is coming too soon. I suppose it’s pointless to ask again for an assignment as an engineer. Maybe if I found some kind of a project to keep my mind occupied the whole situation won’t bother me as much. But, what can I do that will show my true feelings toward my employers? Hmmmmm.

Document # 1B.133

(Text of a speech given by subject after an unexpected Phallakian attack.
11 October 2108)

         Ladies and gentlemen, Commander Masters, Members of the intergalactic press corps, chairman of the board, and assorted shareholders in this public / private venture; I would like to express my fondest gratitude for this fine award for the meritorious saving-of-your-butts--both physical and financial; an award that you have so generously bestowed upon me, a humble janitor, one week before my retirement.
         When I graduated near the top of my class some forty years ago with an advanced degree in Space Engineering, little did I expect then that I would be standing before this distinguished gathering today under these circumstances. Space Engineering was a new field when I came face to face with the job market, and, so, jobs were scarce. At the urging of my guidance counselor, and against my better judgment, I accepted a job as janitor on this station in hopes that, as space travel became commonplace, I would have a “foot in the door” for a position worthy of my talents. I was told to do a good job, make myself noticed for my work, and be friendly and non-combative. I was all these things and more. I poured my soul into this station; I cleaned, I scrubbed, I worked during my off duty hours to make sure your commodes worked and that the rubber seals around the airlocks were supple.
         The accolades I received were a small reward: “Good job, Nabob,” “Atta boy, Jeffers,” and most ominously of all, “Nabob, You’re irreplaceable.” Every day there were new obstacles: “Nabob, My commode won’t evacuate,” “Jeffers, clean up the dead Phallakian in the ring section,” and, most ominously of all, “Nabob, you’re indispensable.” On top of the extra hours of work, I studied hard to keep up to date in my chosen field of engineering, forsaking dreams of marriage and family life in the pursuit of advancement to the position my guidance counselor assured me I was certain to get. My superiors and co-workers lauded my efforts: “How do you do it, Nabob?” “Jeffers, you are brilliant.” And Mr. Masters said most ominously, “Nabob, you’re such a good janitor that we couldn’t possibly make you an engineer. You’re irreplaceable.” With retirement closing in on a janitor’s pension, not an engineer’s, I faced the ultimate frustration of all my hopes with bitterness and depression.
         In the midst of my depression, I found a project. I decided to replace the station’s propulsion system; the one destroyed by the asteroid five years ago. Secretly, I rebuilt the anti-matter rockets attached around the base of the central cone using parts that I requisitioned over a period if six months.
         Shortly after completing my task, the war with the Phallakians heated up. As you all know, one of their destroyers emerged from hyperspace within our defensive perimeter, and fired at our stern a “Destructive Intergalactic Load Delivering Ordinance (or D.I.L.D.O.) Missile,” which, as we all know, carries a two-gigaton fusion warhead. In other words, we were about to get in the posterior what I have been getting for forty years from you fine people.
         A poorly tightened bolt and coincidental timing on my part turned their sneak attack into our victory. Just as the Phallakians shot their D.I.L.D.O. at us, I fired the rebuilt rockets. To my surprise, one of them broke away from the station, causing us to veer away from the path of the missile. The errant rocket, by some quirk of luck, intercepted the missile, exploding just near enough to scramble its guidance system and send it back at the Phallakian destroyer. The explosion wave threw us out a whole orbit, frightened and slightly singed, but unharmed.
         While I have accepted your award, I hardly deserve it. Why? Just bear with me for a minute more.... Again, I am so happy that the chairman and some of our major investors could share this moment with me. And I see a face in the crowd. It’s Captain Rodgers, the head of engineering. Hi, Captain. I am especially excited to see you here, and the reason is: your luck was my failure--a failure that I have just set aright. For in the rush of congratulations and the heady days of celebration following the destruction of the enemy ship, nobody bothered to ask what a janitor was doing fixing and firing the rockets in the first place, or, for that matter, why I had wired them to my office. Due to that oversight, I was able to firmly reinstall another one, and we are currently hurtling toward the sun at approximately one half of light speed. In thirty seconds when we will pass into the sun’s corona, our environmental systems will fail under the strain. Oh, don’t worry; all communications are down, and the airlocks automatically welded themselves shut after the last visitors fled to their ships just seconds ago. Thanks to the soundproofing I installed around this room last week you had no idea. In less than a minute, the hull will buckle and collapse under the pressure of gravity.
         Thank you very much for this fine award. Goodbye.