The Chronicles of Smith & Jones

Chapter Twelve - DieselPunk

...and H'ver transformed. Whilst it was true he had no true memories, he did have built in programmes and protocols that were as good as, if not better, than actual memories and the thing about those programmes and protocols was that they were constantly evolving, forever changing and upgrading.

H'ver had never really had cause to utilise his transforming abilities and as such, he was not particularly surprised to discover that it was not quite as easy as he thought it would be.

"What the Hell good is a bowl of petunias?" Chris asked, rather worried that the back of the bus appeared to be approaching a mite fast.

"Sorry!" H'ver replied, his mechanical voice akin to something that resembled a sheepish exclamation. "Is this better?"

"No!" Smith replied, then as an afterthought, "well, yes, I suppose. At least we'd be sitting in relative comfort upon this rather lovely Chesterfield before being splattered all over that busses rear end!"

H'ver went through several more transmogrifications, including but by no means limited to a spinning wheel, an industrial waste disposal unit, a MK. II Ford Capri – which would probably have sufficed had he stopped and thought about it for a moment – a tin of alphabetti spaghetti and a mug of warm Gazpacho soup before his possibly defective circuits settled upon something they clearly thought was what was needed, and that is exactly how the Titanic came to a firm and decisive rest in the middle of a Miami street, attached to the back of a bus.

"Well done, H'ver," said Chris, quite impressed that the 'bot had possessed the foresight to turn himself into a microwave in the galley rather than the massive ocean liner itself. "One question, though..."

"I'm afraid that will have to wait, Ma'am," said Smith, pointing to a spot directly above Chris' head where, as our intrepid heroes had come to expect, there was the beginnings of something that looked very much like a bright white flash of brilliantly shining light.

***

Despite the fact that Jones' watch told him it was a little before five and twenty past three in the afternoon, it was dark. Street lamps illuminated patches both left and right, and showed clearly a shallow fog, although after his coughing fit a few moments later he did replace 'fog,' with 'smog.'

A glance towards the sky told him that such a thing was impossible to see, at least with so little breeze. The smog was simply too thick, and Smith could not even see the hazy outline of the Sun attempting to break through the covering.

In the middle distance he heard a band strike up. A jazz/swing fusion, it sounded like, with perhaps a little hip-hop thrown into the mix for good measure. Either way, his foot was tapping along and before he knew what was happening, that foot – and, to be fair, his other foot – led him in a direction that he would very shortly discover was the very direction in which he was supposed to head.

Rounding a corner in the street, Jones was taken aback for from a gantry attached to the second storey of a dirty, grimy building, hung the brightest most invasive dozen spotlights he had ever seen.

They all shone in variations of 'down,' however the four central lights all focused upon the most glamorous femme Smith had ever had the pleasure to lay his two eyes upon, as she alighted an enormous black vehicle that hovered on a bed of thick exhaust fumes.

With a figure to die for, hugged tight in a sparkly green dress that shimmered like something that shimmered, she might as well have been wearing a body stocking as she emerged from the cloud of thick, choking smoke and dozens of reporters wielding notebooks and pencils yelled questions at her whilst simultaneously, photographers took snapshots of her from every conceivable angle.

It was only then, when she inclined her head slightly left and kicked back her right foot, encased as it was in a six-inch heel as green and shimmery as the dress that he realised whom it was he was looking at so with that in mind he bounded over to Kris – Chris, he corrected himself – and made several vain attempts to push through the media throng.

He eventually managed to do so, though not until said throng had all but dispersed and Kris – Chris, damn that woman! – had disappeared inside the building.

With a heavy sigh, Jones removed his fedora and loosened his trench, neither of which he had been aware he was wearing, and rushed inside.

The music was much louder now and the tune was catchy as all Hell, and Jones was unable to resist as the saxophone and trombones sounded, a bassist plucked his double-bass with an off-beat, off-kilter rhythm. Then the drums kicked in, a simple kick snare and hat affair but it was ridiculously addictive and before he knew what was happening Jones had an unfamiliar woman 'round her waist swinging her this way and that, throwing her up in the air and down to the floor through his legs.

For a man who had never danced more than a two-step in his life, Jones really was doing rather well. His dancing partner appeared to be enjoying herself, too, but of course the screams and whoops of delight could just as easily have been wails of terror.

When the band cut out the still-unfamiliar woman gave Jones a peck upon his cheek and turned in a flurry of skirts, underskirts and other items of clothing with which he was equally as unfamiliar, and beat a retreat towards the edge of the dance floor.

Jones was about to follow in her wake when he was grabbed by the shoulder and spun around, finding himself face-to-face with Chris.

"Hey, sugar," she said, her voice sultry and husky. "Not leavin' already?"

"Chris! What in heaven's name is going on? Where on Earth are we?" asked Jones, at least that's what he intended to ask. Instead, the words that came out of his mouth were not words at all.

"Waaahhh-gurgle-gargle-waaahhh."

More worrying, perhaps, was the fact that Chris understood perfectly.

"We're in the DieselPunk portion of the loop, handsome," she growled low and sexy. "And unless I'm very much mistaken, our little trip back in time hasn't quite worn off yet, as far as you're concerned. Now dance with me before anyone notices us."

Unsure as to who might notice them and, to be fair, exactly what DieselPunk was, Jones had little say in the matter as Chris started dragging him around the dance floor - at least that was what it felt like. It was actually, if the reaction of those other partiers was concerned, a routine that included some pretty fancy moves, none of which Jones could have re-enacted or even so much as described, had he been asked at some hitherto undecided future date to do so.

Without warning, and whilst Chris had Jones at arm's length, swinging him through the air, the music stopped when a crackle of apparently controlled electricity hit the soundboard and completely frazzled it.

"Evilstein..." Chris growled.

"Wahhh-blergh..." Jones wailed, and threw up.

"That's right!" Evilstein boomed. "You thought to escape me by travelling down the circuits of Time - although now I think about it, that was probably not your fault - but that really is far from being the point."

"What is your point, Doctor Evilstein?" Chris asked as she ducked behind Jones that she might retrieve a gun from her garter whilst still maintaining some modicum of dignity.

Apparently, someone had managed to locate a new soundboard rather quickly because the music kicked up again with a level of abruptness akin to that with which it had ceased moments before.

"The power cube is mine, and with it I shall rule the sub-genre-iverse!"

"That's it?" Chris asked. "No evil maniacal laugh?"

"I'm not that much of a cliché," he replied, though the slight delay was plenty enough time for Chris to have retrieved her weapon.

She shot Evilstein's Tesla weapon from his hand and it fell to the floor, smashed into two or three pieces as from behind the band a bright white light slowly began to take over the dancehall.

"I hope Smith and H'ver are all right," said Chris, quietly. "With any luck, they'll meet us in the next sub-genre... wherever that might be!"