And then we went Ooorah

By jinnis

(Disclaimer: if you think you find yourself in this story, it may well be that the likeness was intended. If you don't like it, tell me and I'll remove all traces of the offence. If you hoped to find yourself in this story and don't, please consider my shortcomings as a matter of tact towards your privacy).

Right, kiddos, you wanted to know how we ended on an island in a purple ocean on a rock floating in space. Let me get another drink, and I'll spin you a yarn of times gone by. A yarn, not a thread. That's a tale, buddy. What do they teach you in that fancy school we built for you?

Anyway. Let's begin at the beginning. And no, I'm not going to talk about dinosaurs. Sure, dinosaurs were cool, but they went extinct long before my story sets off. Except, that some weirdos back on Earth tried to reverse-engineer them by cracking their DNA code. The dinosaurs, I mean. As if anyone would want a nine-ton T-Rex as a pet. Try to imagine the heap of kibbles that monster would devour every morning. Would probably swallow your pets as a dessert, too.

But I digress. The gen-tech multis were evil, but there were worse. Don't believe me? That's because you've never met a politician, lucky you. Your average T-Rex would look like a cuddly tribble compared with certain high-profile politicians. And don't get me started on the big company bosses.

Well, back to the story. It begins on Earth, in the infamous year 2020. Humanity was navigating a particularly nasty crisis, a virus killing off people left and right—and no cure in sight. Politicians shed lies and hollow promises faster than an unstable ion its electrons. People were insecure, and conspiracy theories popped up like the shrooms in my secret plantation. That's when we found out.

Yeah, we found out Earth had been taken over, all sneaky and secret-like. How, do you ask? Well, Elve was the first to hear the rumours. Or so she claims. She was on a fishing trip when a bunch of friendly dolphins dropped by and handed her an empty rum bottle with a message. Of course, we were reluctant to believe. I mean, she might well have been the one to empty the bottle, right? And her claim sounded too much like "so long and thanks for all the fish" to be true.

Then, Paine insisted he met an alien on a camping trip. Unfortunately, there was tequila involved, and so the dude wasn't believed either. But when the Mars decided on a whim to go dolphin punk in the upcoming issue of Tevun Krus, the mystery began to unravel.

After a short but hefty debate about the dos and don'ts of dolphin punk—wouldn't want to hurt a dolphin's feelings, after all, they are sensible fellows—Nab the Chronicler dived into the depths of the World Wide Web. And she came up with more dirty laundry than the most suspicious of us had expected. No laundromat on the planet would have been able to clean the slates of well-known people and parties if you get my meaning.

We concluded the dolphins were right, and we had to do something—anything. One of the guys, it might have been Jeff, suggested taking over the production of washing machines. Unfortunately, it turned out they were already alien-owned. And soon Wucksy reported we were under observation. Next day, Cynk was napped, and all evidence pointed towards the government. We never found any trace of them again, poor bugger. But their sacrifice shook us awake.

Silent like snails in hibernation, we retreated to our secret hiding places, distributed over the whole planet, and began planning. Many long nights were spent exchanging coded messages, writing meaningful stories that sounded like lighthearted satire for the un-initiated.

Then we settled on a masterful master plan, crafted between the lines of stories, published right under the noses of the bad guys on an innocuous website, well-hidden between bad boy billionaires and whacky werewolves.

The initiated gathered, flocked together under the inconspicuous flag of Ooorah. In the next phase, they dropped their pens and keyboards. It was time to launch the ultimate escape and to build our own future.

Ang, our angry artist, drew the plans, and Rollie the Rambler cobbled together the spaceship. He had a name as a mean mechanic, but this time, he outdid his own reputation. Don't believe me? Well, you know how fast he writes. Replace his pen with a welding torch, and you'll witness whacking wizardry.

The rest of the crew helped, of course. And despite the fact most claimed to be more at home writing a riveting story than using a rivet plier, we made good progress.

True, the ship had an odd shape and looked somewhat like the cross between a humpback whale and a camel with that double hump and the unwieldy landing struts. Might have been due to Ang's kids replacing their mom's plans with their own drawings late one night. When she found out, the structure already had the surplus hump. So she took her pen and corrected the plans with a few bold strokes, adding some baroque windows, a pool bar, a spa, and a solarium while she was at it. Et voilà, the additional dome became an integrated part of the design.

No one cared. As long as the bars were well stocked, and the pool had a water slide, who would complain about a surplus hump? In the end, the dragon lady had a bonzer idea. She suggested stowing the various private book collections up there. Have you ever tried to separate a writer from their favourite books? Don't. The most peaceful, philosophical chap will turn berserk or grow a pair of fangs to protect his precious paper babies. Not that they'll read them more often than a dragon uses the gold in his hoard, of course. But that's beside the point.

Right, where was I? We built a ship and invented a drive that could bring is to any point of the galaxy. There's nothing a bunch of dedicated science fiction writers can't imagine, as you should know. At least on paper. The tricky thing is to bring it alive, but in times of need, it takes a lot to stop the dedicated. We did it.

And then it was time to wave goodbye to old Earth and her troubles. The Mars left his hidden Hobbit hole and brought a bottle of bubbly to name the finished beauty.

"Ooorah!" we all shouted before we clambered up the ramp, our steps ringing on the recycled sheet of corrugated iron. Everyone and their grandmother were there, including kids, dogs, a pod of Elve's dolphin friends, and a few turtles (don't blame me, I always was fond of them), and we even took along the mythical elders. Couldn't leave behind legends like Bob J, or the Deco Queen and the Diamond, could we? It took a bit of persuading, but Jackson said "leave it with me," and that's what we did. He has his methods.

Last, there was the Ecrivain, of course. Nobody was eager to mess with him. But after a few drinks at the Mothership Bar & Grill, it was just a matter of carrying him aboard. Set up with enough Ecrivain's Specials to last several lifetimes and a complete collection of every rock album ever recorded, he took over the task of rocking the boat. Ship. Whatever.

So, to the sound of the Final Countdown, Mad Mars started the countdown at minus 42. Unfortunately, in all the excitement, we'd overlooked Rollie had gone missing. He turned up at minus 21, carrying a huge sack, stumbled up the plank between minus 19 and 13, and banged at the hatch at minus 7. Lilac tore it open for him, and he headed straight to the cargo hold with his burden.

The Ooorah took off at minus 3, because why wait until the last second with your escape from a harsh reality? In the hustle of departure, Rollie never found the time to tell us what had been urgent enough to cause his delay.

We only remembered the ominous package when we were already past Jupiter. I marvelled at the perfection of the planet's espresso swirls, half-listening to Arvely entertaining the crew with a story about an ill-fated shuttle mission, when a giant Orang-Utan stormed the bridge, demanding peanuts.

Captain Mars went ballistic. Luckily, the ape prevented him and Rollie from strangling each other. Then, he mumbled something unintelligible, called up the ship's plans on Elve's abandoned station, ransacked our supply of peanuts, and retreated to the library. That's where he spent the trip, behaving as if the dome were his natural habitat.

And that was that. The voyage was spent holding the ship together with duct tape and voodoo magic. And with writing, of course. Not to hold the Ooorah together, but to keep the crew sane and occupied. Increasing the release frequency of Tevun Krus to once every 24 hours kept our bunch of writers mostly busy until we reached our destination. I'm sure the bar's and other means for relaxation helped a fair bit too.

And that's all there is to tell. In due time, we found this purple planet, and the dolphins liked the ocean's colour. So Mars held a vote (who no one bothered to attend, as most were busy writing or doing other relaxing stuff) and landed the Ooorah. We established a happy colony, called it Ooorah Town on the planet of Ooorah, and never looked back. The place has all we need, and what's best, we don't need no politics.

But now, it's time for my visit to the pool. Got some writing to do at that bar. And no, you're not allowed to bother the Orang-utan in the library. Just go to the beach and play with the turtles and the dolphins, I'm sure they have a few insights on life, the universe and stuff they're willing to share.