Botchi

Carefully looping the lace through the thigh-high left boot, Chief V turned and saw Mar re-clipping her rose brassiere. Several minutes passed (the lace had to be tied in a complex criss-cross for sustainable cling) before the Chief popped the gold-plated question.

“Mar, we have tolerated and even enjoyed your quasi-independent research for some time now, but we cannot perpetuate this method. Tell me the location of Base 1.”
Mar, pulling a crisp white shirt over her olive shoulders, looked mentally upheaved at the sudden requirement. Her hands began to shake violently as she buttoned the blouse, covering her ample charms in the process.
“Mar, you must tell me. If you carefully read the contract, focusing on sub-section 64, you will notice a watertight clause and condition to our funding of quasi-independent research. You have benefited from our resource, now is the time to scratch our calf. Where is Base 1?”
“Very well. Base 1 is due south of the…’’
‘BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.’
The massive pager strapped to Chief V’s waist communicated to her. “Excuse me.”
Chief excused herself as she read the message from The Ford. To access the information she had to punch in her twenty-figure code, one of the procedures of The Ford she enjoyed most of all.
“Seven, nine, eight. Ah! Bingo!”
Upon ingestion of the data, the Chief’s features reddened and glowed. Her right eyebrow became alive, the outer hairs and detail curling anti-clockwise to produce a swirl visible even to the naked eye. Her plump lips parted slightly, revealing the glossy red gums that had always been her most striking feature. She, too, now had the shakes.
“What is it Chief?” bundled Mar.
“I’ll tell you what’’, replied Chief V, “we had better return to the Ford. Jetwell has called in a seven, nine, eight. Do you know what that means?”
“I have no idea,” said Mar quietly whilst tenderly adjusting the lacy tips of her stockings.
“It means that the disparate parvenuic clique have been traced and will soon be fleeing for the hills. K will be among them and will no doubt be leading their cowardly exodus. We can no longer tolerate the existence of these marauding clowns. Their very being undermines the Ford and threatens the balance of control.”
“Do we have to go right now Chief?” stated Mar coyly as she rested her head on the Chief’s perfectly formed shoulder and caressed her firm half-globe buttocks with her fine fingertips.
“I am afraid so Mar,” replied the Chief who nibbled on the bendy cartilage of Mar’s ear, “the Psion cannon must be charged immediately. The presence at the Ford of A squadron is mandatory. The Formula will tolerate no inefficiency.”
Their lips brushed gently for three seconds before they parted and readopted the appropriate demeanour for business. Pulling on their matching hyena skin overcoats, they departed from Mar’s quarters.

They returned to Milko’s lounge but Cosatch could not be seen anywhere.
“Cosatch you parsnip where are you? Jetwell has summoned us to the Ford. Cosatch, Cosatch…”
“mmm, mmm…” a faint mumbling could be heard emanating from the room that Milko had used as an information belt. Mar pulled open the door and leapt back with a squeal as thousands of orbs spilled from the room.
“Help me out Leen, help me” yelled Cosatch, his dazed head poking out from the sea of orbs.
“Grab his arms Mar.” Mar and the Chief battled against the tide and finally managed to free Cosatch from his orbic prison. Cosatch squatted on the lounge floor panting. After several kicks to the solar plexus by the Chief he finally became semi lucid again.
“Sorry Chief, they began multiplying and before I knew it…”
“We do not have time Cosatch. Do the integers seven, nine, eight mean anything to you?”
“I’ll fetch the rickshaw immediately.”

Next chapter…