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Uljabaan lay forelornly on his bed and sighed. Yes, he knew he should be out in the village conducting research, but every one of his test subjects knew that he was making it up as he went, and they were only going along with his protocols to humour him. Where was the fear, he wondered? The awe. The instinctive urge to fall at the feet of their Geonin Overlords, struck dumb by their basal ganglia freezing at the sight….
But no, it was not to be. Why, just last week, the little school children had clubbed together to make—a birthday card. He was eleven now, and what did he have to show for it?
The door opened and in walked—his nemesis. He didn’t even have the spirit to make sinister threats, and instead twitched his hand forlornly.
“Oh, get up,” Katrina said. “Mum wants you.”
“It’s no good,” he sighed, “I am doomed to spend eternity—or at least Ravella’s term as Zone Commander—shut away in this forsaken denizen of subhumanity.”
Katrina sighed gustily. “Are you still upset about the jigsaw incident? That was weeks ago.”
Uljabaan sat up suddenly, and banged his head on the low ceiling above his bed. “Ow! I told you, Miss Lyons, that there is no Geonin-ly point in meticulously assembling a picture, and then disassembling it again. If I wanted a disassembled picture, I would simply use my disintegrator ray. For that matter, if I wanted a complete picture, I would direct the computer to make one with my Matter Manipulator. I fail to see the functional value in spending eight—”
“It was more like ten—it’s one of Dad’s two thousand piecers, lots of white—”
“Ten hours assembling small pieces of cardboard only to shake it all up and stuff it back in another, larger, cardboard box.”
“Yeah, but my Dad is upset with you because after you threw his 2000 piece Greats of World Cricket puzzle out of the window, Don Bradman’s nose got lost, and now he can’t do the puzzle.”
“Computer!” Commander Uljabaan waved his hand airily. “Print some replacement little pieces of cardboard.”
“I offered,” the Computer said helpfully, “but Richard said it just wasn’t the same.”
“Anyhoo,” Katrina said, trying to shuffle her enemy out of the door. “Mum wants you on the village green. She says it’s a surprise. And to bring the Computer.” She looked at him drily. “Oh alright, have a minion bring the Computer.”
***
Richard was standing by the table of teacakes trying not to droop too obviously.
His daughter bustled up, looking as busy as ever. Really, it had been for the best when she had moved to the big city—or at least Hull—and taken over organising some poor benighted University Students Association. They had needed direction—and his Margaret had needed a little less competition in the role of Village Matriarch. He tried to think of more plots for his Scandanavian detective series. Perhaps the Inspector could see a vital clue while he was repairing a puncture on his bicycle…
“It’s no good,” he told her. “I’ve weeded the garden, and sorted through the grass clippings. Poor Donald will never be the same.”
“Yes, yes,” she told him briskly. “I’ve more important things to think about, like how Lucy and I will foil and thwart our enemy overlords when nobody else seems to ever have a go. I mean, would it really kill you all to occasionally trip up a minion? A little quiet snubbing of our enemy’s commanding officer, perhaps?”
“Shush, dear, your mother has spent a lot of time and effort organising this little gathering and you don’t want her feelings to be hurt.”
“Shush? Dear? I’m 40 years old, Dad!”
“And still living with your parents, so I’ll thank you to show your mother and I a little respect, especially when your dear mother has been putting a lot of thought into the party. You know how fond she is of Uljabaan. They really are,” he coughed, “kindred spirits.”
“Are—” Katrina choked “—are those minions singing ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’?”
“Of course, dear.” Margaret tottered up to them, a half filled champagne glass in her hand. “‘Happy Birthday’ is still under copyright protection.”
“Well, actually it’s not, anymore,” said Richard, happy to educate womenfolk on his personal areas of expertise. “You see, previously the copyright was held by Warner Chappell, who bought Birch Tree Group, who bought Summy Company who published a version of Happy Birthday, and used that publication to claim copyright for the song indefinitely, or—perhaps I should say—without a fixed terminus ad quem, later revised to 2030, however, there was a 2015 law suit by a documentary film maker, and—”
“How do you know about a court case that happened in 2015?” Katrina asked curiously.
“Oh, it was written on a newspaper wrapped around a guaranteed simulacrum second-hand replica (made in China) of the Ashes urn that Uljabaan brought back from one of his shopping trips outside the force field. He really is a top bloke.” Richard raised his glass and started sonorously intoning “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” looking around at the gathered company. The villagers, after a confused pause, started singing, as tunefully as they could (which was not very.) After a moment, Margaret and her daughter halfheartedly joined in.
“Well,” Margaret said stiffly. “You will have your little hobbies, Richard. And now I think it’s time for my speech.” She tottered up to the little platform the village kept for prize givings and the Annual Cresdon Green Spring Talent Show, turned on the microphone with a clash of reverb, and tapped a spoon against her champagne glass meaningfully.
“Your mother always looks so splendid in those jackboots the Geonin gave her, don’t you think?” Richard had returned to wistful melancholy.
“Dear Cresdon Green residents,” Margaret cooed sweetly, “and our alien friends. We have come here today to celebrate our very own alien commander’s eleventh birthday. And also to bid him farewell.” There was a rustle in the crowd. “Yes. The Computer this morning informed me that due to some… rearrangement in Commander Uljabaan’s command structure, his superior officer Zone Commander Ravella has moved to a new sector, and her replacement has decided to rotate him to a new posting.” The Computer, with a party hat tenderly placed on its head by the minion holding it, flashed a kaleidoscope of colours in acknowledgement. Margaret went on: “so let us take this opportunity to give Commander Uljabaan a good Cresdon Green send off.”
There was a half-hearted cheer from the village. Uljabaan sat up and looked around wildly. “What?! Do you mean—? Ravella is no longer my superior officer?!” He gasped and shuddered. “You mean I can leave this backwater pit?” He turned and grasped Margaret’s hands, kneeling in supplication. “Please, Margaret, my darling, come with me home to Geonin. With your ruthlessness and scheming by my side, I’ll be able to take over the Western Spiral Arm!”
“Really?” Margaret’s voice was cut-glass in his disapproval.
“I mean—I mean—we will take over the Western Spiral Arm—”
“I say,” Richard interjected, “this is a bit thick—”
But Uljabaan was turning around and shaking people’s hands, willy-nilly. “Is it really true? Can I really go home?”
The Computer flashed again. “No.”
“No?” Uljabaan choked slightly.
“No. Happy April Fool’s Day!” it said cheerfully. “This is a local custom when on a nominated day every Earth year, the residents play harmless light-hearted pranks on each other. Margaret explained it all to me. The recipient of the prank—also known as the ‘noddy’ or ‘noodle’— experiences feelings of community and friendship followed by all having a ‘good laugh.’ She thought it would be a nice research project surprise for your birthday.”
Uljabaan coughed, and gazed at Margaret Lyons in fear and despair. “It—but—" He turned, took a few steps to the edge of the platform, spread his arms wide, and toppled off the edge to his doom. It was only two feet high, but the thought was there.
Katrina was waiting for her mother as Margaret tottered down the steps in her high heeled jackboots. “Mum?” she asked, both shocked and appalled. “Did you really set up Commander Uljabaan to think he was going home?”
“Of course I did, dear.” She spoke crisply and took another celebratory sip of her champagne. The minions, still primed for a celebration, were engaging in a series of cheers and fighting over who got cake. “Your father has been moping around for simply weeks. I can’t have it, I really can’t. If our Geonin… guests cannot show proper respect for Richard’s toys, then they cannot be allowed to play with him.”
“So this was…the alien invasion equivalent of a thwop on the nose with a rolled up newspaper…?”
Behind them, Commander Uljabaan sobbed quietly into the dirt. Her mother looked merely bland.
“Mum—” Katrina said, desperately, reluctantly impressed. “Truly, you are a dark Queen, who is terrible as the dawn, and treacherous as the Sea. All shall love you and despair.”
“Well,” Margaret coloured prettily. “I try to do my little bit. Shall we take your father home and have some tea?”