onehoopyprefect

"Ford?"

"Yes, Arthur?"

"I've come to a realization."

"And what would that be?"

"We're getting too old for this."

Ford peered up at the main ventilation shaft. The duct went straight up through the heart of the building, connecting every floor. A narrow ladder was affixed to one side. Their destination was the Accounts department, on the 22nd floor.

"The thought had crossed my mind," he agreed after a moment.

"I mean, really too old," Arthur continued. "I don't think you and I could make it up to the second floor like this, let alone the twenty-second."

"We'll figure something out." Ford stepped onto one of the rungs and grabbed hold with both hands. The instant his second hand gripped, the ladder lurched upwards. He let go with one hand, and the ladder stopped. "See?" he said quickly, covering up his surprise. "You worry too much."

Arthur, on the ground, could see the new rungs coming up from the base of the ladder, fed in a loop from the other side of the wall. On one of the rungs was a small inscription declaring this to be an "Eleladder" along with a familiar and oft-dreaded company logo. "I never thought I'd say this, Ford, but thank goodness for Sirius Cybernetics."

A tinny, metallic voice rang from, well, from the rung. "You're welcome."

"Oh, shut up," the Earthman snapped, climbing onto the ladder.

They found that the ladder would only move when both hands of each passenger were holding on, which was unusually safety-conscious of Sirius, but at least they could control their ascent. The two rode the eleladder all the way to the 22nd floor, where they climbed into an adjoining duct.

"What do you intend to do when we get to Accounts?" Arthur asked in a hushed whisper as they crawled.

"I haven't thought that far ahead," Ford replied.

"What?!"

"Well, frankly, I'm surprised we've made it this far."

"Terrific. You better come up with something soon; we're almost there!"

"I know, I know! Don't rush me."

There was silence for a moment, and then Arthur spoke up again. "Ford? I don't mean to rush you, but I just thought you'd like to know there's a gentleman pressing the muzzle of a gun against my back."

Ford huffed. "Tell him to wait his tu-- oh." He looked over his shoulder and saw the very same guard he'd asked directions from earlier. Obviously, he'd worked out who they were and had circled back after them. "In that case, you'd better grab hold of my legs," Ford added with a sigh.

Thirty years ago, perhaps even fifteen, Arthur would have asked why. He knew better than that now, and simply grabbed hold. As soon as Ford felt the pressure, he hit the wall of the duct with his fist in a quick staccato pattern. Almost immediately, an enormous gust of air filled the entire space, blowing back toward the main shaft. Ford covered his satchel with his body, but otherwise didn't move. Had Arthur not been holding on to Ford, he would have been blown backwards in an instant. The security guard, on the other hand, was only holding on to his gun, which wasn't nearly as rooted down as Ford. He disappeared down the shaft in less than a second, after which, the air died down.

"What the hell was that?!" Arthur panted.

Ford shrugged nonchalantly. "I signaled the ventilation system that there was a blockage in this vent, so it sent a blast of air to clear it."

"But why didn't it blow you back as well?"

"Grit. Determination. And a zarking big magnet in my satchel."

"Why do you have a -- never mind. I don't want to know. Did you kill that guard?"

Ford looked over his shoulder at Arthur. "Of course not!"

"Oh, good. There's something in the shaft, then, that detected him falling and caught him?"

"No, I just mean that it was the impact that killed him, not me."

Arthur grimaced. "You've gotten brutal in your old age."

"It's been a brutal life. Everything we've been through... Vogons, Krikkitmen, Antarian insurgents, Forsaken... you saying it hasn't made you harder?"

"Not hard enough to kill."

"Then you're a better being than me. But, I've always believed that." Before Arthur had a chance to respond to that, Ford pushed open a vent and swung down out of the duct.

Arthur dropped down next to him in the darkened room. "Where are we?" he whispered.

"Supply closet," Ford replied. "Inside the Accounts department."

"Ah. So, did you come up with a brilliant plan to accomplish your goal?"

Ford thought for a moment. "Actually, yes. Pass me that stapler."

A moment later, the door to the supply closet burst open. Arthur appeared, followed closely by Ford. He was gripping Arthur by the arm and pressing the butt of the stapler (pushed mostly into his sleeve to conceal it) underneath the Earthman's chin. "All right!" he barked. "Let's just everybody be cool, and I won't have to plug this poor sniveling bastard."

"Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?" Arthur hissed at him through gritted teeth.

Fortunately, the commotion in the office covered up the sound, as everyone scrambled for the exits, for refuge under their desks, or, in at least three cases, for weapons hidden in file cabinets. Only one person in the department seemed to be unconcerned by this development, and as it just so happened, it was exactly the person Ford was looking for.

"I'm the head of this department," the canoid said, hands raised calmly and ears flattened. "How about we just clear this room now, and you and I can discuss things rationally?"

Ford laughed. "I'm a bit past rational at this point! Get everybody out of here, nice and slow. Single file, if you please."

The workers and service drones filtered out as ordered. Once the door closed and locked, the department head nodded and slowly dropped his hands. "All right, Mr. Prefect, now we can talk."

"There's only one thing I need," Ford snarled, pressing the stapler harder against Arthur's chin, "and it doesn't involve talking!"

"Mr. Prefect! If you'll simply calm down and listen. We are prepared to acquiesce to your request. If you'll just release Mr. Dent there and put the stapler down, we can start the paperwork on your pension."

Ford's eyes narrowed, but he did put the stapler down and let Arthur go. His hand was getting tired anyway.

The canoid smiled. "Excellent. Now, if you'll just have a seat here."

Ford shook his head. "So that the snipers can get a clean shot? I don't think so. Let's sit over here where there's no direct line from the windows."

"As you wish." He lifted his water dish and took a couple of laps before setting it down and crossing the room to join Ford at the less exposed desk. "Now, half salary, was it?"

"It was half when I walked in. Now it's seventy-five percent. Or I tear this building down."

"Don't be absurd, Mr. Prefect," the Accounts head said with an amused grin. "I'm prepared to offer fifty-five."

"I'm a founding hitcher. Sixty-five," Ford insisted.

Arthur slid over in a chair from a neighboring desk. "Ford, what are you doing? Just take the offer; it's what you wanted!"

"They don't want me to have it, which makes me want it that much more," he replied, then looked back to the canoid. "Sixty-five. Come on, I don't have all day."

"I simply can't go higher than sixty percent," the canoid answered sadly. "It's really quite beyond me."

At Arthur's insistent glare, Ford sighed. "Oh, fine, then. Sixty. Let's get on with it."

***

Three floors up, Zarniwoop sat behind his desk watching the "hostage situation" through the closed-circuit cameras, chuckling to himself.

"You're simply going to give in to him, sir?" asked a security guard behind him.

Zarniwoop smiled. "Of course, Sargeant Il-Drango. I always intended to."

"Then why all the pretense? He assaulted you, sir, jumped out a window, tried to kill me... You're saying you let him do all that?"

"Naturally. This is Ford Prefect we're talking about. He wouldn't have trusted it if he didn't have to work for it."

-- End --

In the Hitchhiker's Guide offices, the word 'retirement' is most often followed by hysterical laughter. This is because it is rare for all but the most hardened Guide researchers to remain in the Guide's employ (read: survive) long enough to collect. Ford Prefect, as it has been noted numerous times (mostly by himself), is an exceptional researcher. After half a century of hitchhiking the length and breadth of the galaxy, he has been responsible for authoring or revising well over a hundredth of a percent of the entire Guide. Considering the Guide contains several million entries, this contribution is not as insignificant as it may at first appear. If anyone were entitled to a retirement pension, Ford reasoned, it would be him.

Granted, it wasn't as though he especially needed the money. His half-wife was Regent to the king of Antar, and his half-husband was a former Galactic President. He himself was a xenocultural advisor to King Zan and Queen Fainothi (Max and Faith, half a lifetime ago), which would have afforded him rooms in the palace had he not already been sharing with Trillian and Zaphod. He owned a significant interest in the wildly successful chain of sandwich shops that Arthur and Fenchurch opened about fifteen years back. He also had (much to her chagrin) a one-eighteenth stake in the estate of musical virtuoso Random Lyrae Annabel Frequent Flyer Dent. Any one of those sources could have supported him in a world of excess he no longer had the strength to indulge in, let alone the combined assets of all of them. But it was the principle of the thing. He'd given a lifetime's worth of service to the Guide, and now it was time they gave back.

General L'Dio (ret.), himself offered to arrange passage for Ford to the Guide offices aboard an Antarian cruiser, but Ford insisted he would rather get there the old fashioned way -- by hitchhiking. It seemed only fitting. There was a period of strained telepathic negotiation (read: yelling in his head) between himself, Rath, Trillian, and Zan, but in the end, a compromise was reached. The king dispatched a science vessel to study the Quiltanic Nebula (within which lay the planet currently home to the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy offices); Ford stowed away in the hold and ducked down to the planet in an EVA pod while everyone else pretended not to notice.

There were no hushed whispers of admiration as Ford walked confidently through the lobby of the Hitchhiker offices. Ford was mildly annoyed by this; considering the career he'd had, he should be a legend around that place. He even had to show the receptionist his Guide ID badge and tell her his name -- twice! -- before she would agree to call up to the executive offices. Needless to say, it was not the most heartening of starts to this particular adventure.

Maxilon Zarniwoop III was the spitting image of his grandfather, whom Ford and Zaphod had helped to discover and chat with the eternally befuddled Ruler of the Universe. The Zarniwoops had retaken control of the Guide during the chaos that had ensued in the aftermath of the Guide 2.0 debacle and held it for the last thirty-odd years, an inspired achievement in a corporate world where 'hostile takeover' tends to involve thermonuclear devices. Any hope that Ford had that this would help his case went out the window (the very same one, in fact, that he himself had gone out years before) when Zarniwoop looked up at him from his desk and said, "Ah, yes. Mister... what was your name again?"

"Prefect?" Ford replied hopefully. "Ford Prefect. Oh, come on, surely your grandfather's at least mentioned me. I helped him complete his lifelong mission!"

Zarniwoop's eyes narrowed. "Of course, Mr. Prefect. I was confused because I failed to sense the aroma of Ol' Janx Spirit wafting in three paces ahead of you."

"I gave up drinking a number of years ago," the researcher said, the ice in his voice thick enough to chip off for drinks Ford wouldn't touch.

"Pity. My grandfather always said it made you more interesting."

"That was a long time ago. Now I'm interesting enough on my own."

Zarniwoop chuckled and held up a hand. "Yes, you're Prefect, all right. No one can fake that ego. What can I do for you?"

"A check for half salary every month until I die while I simply sit back and grow old would do quite nicely."

"And apart from the pay cut, this would be different from your current situation how?"

"Ha, ha. I'm not fooling, Zarniwoop. The Guide owes me. You owe me. If it weren't for me, Vann Harl and the Vogons would still be running this place."

"The popular version of that tale holds that the Guide 2.0 engineered its own destruction and merely used you as a means to that end."

Ford crossed his arms and glared. "And since when has the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy cared about the popular version of anything?"

"Times are different." Zarniwoop stood up, walked to the small bar in the corner of the room, and began to fix himself a drink. Ford wrinkled his nose when the bitter tang of alcohol drifted into the air. "When my grandfather owned this company, it was little more than a disreputable group of petty criminals seeking to legitimize their exploits and make a profit off them."

"Good times," Ford interjected.

Zarniwoop scoffed. "No doubt. But that is no longer the case. The Guide is a respected institution now. In some sectors of the galaxy, it has already--"

"--supplanted the Encyclopedia Galactica as the standard repository of all knowledge and wisdom. Yes, I know. I wrote the Guide entry on the Guide. Not bad for a disreputable group of petty criminals, wouldn't you say?"

"All the more reason why it is necessary now to do away with the image of the past and move forward into a stronger and brighter future. Since I took the helm, Guide sales have increased by 3 percent!"

Ford rolled his eyes. "Guide sales increase by 3 percent every year. It's concurrent with the rate of galactic population growth."

"Yes, but I only took control of the company four months ago. I'm afraid you don't understand the bigger picture here, Mr. Prefect. I don't just intend for this company to supplant Galactica in parts of the galaxy. I intend for the Guide to buy them out and replace them completely."

"I'm going to have to jump out the window again, aren't I?"

"You may find that difficult," Zarniwoop pointed out with a predatory grin. "I've had them Etern-O-Sealed."

"I think you underestimate my determination."

"And you underestimate my apathy." Taking a sip of his drink, Zarniwoop strode to the window and looked out at the crackling sky made by the surrounding nebula. He swirled the drink, clinking the ice against the side of the glass and somehow managing to make even that simple sound drip with disdain. "Mr. Prefect, as I understand from your request that you no longer intend to write for the Guide, I have no choice but to t--"

Ford moved with surprising speed for a man his age. He crossed the room in two strides and grabbed the back of Zarniwoop's elegantly tailored suit, slamming the head honcho's face forward into the Etern-O-Sealed window. He leaned in close and hissed in Zarniwoop's ear, "The next words out of your mouth had better be 'take you down to payroll and authorize your pension'. You see, Zarniwoop, times may be different, but so am I. What you do with the Guide? I couldn't possibly care less. Buy the Galactica, write it backwards in a mirror image, make it in the shape of a dog, a fish, a Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal... whatever. It doesn't matter a zarking bit, because I'm out. I've devoted my life to this company. I helped build it up from four scruffy hitchhikers who had a crazy idea in between benders. But you wouldn't understand that, would you, Zarniwoop? The only time you ever stick out your thumb is to turn it down at something you don't like. The Guide owes me, and by Zarquon, I am going to collect."

He pushed Zarniwoop harder against the glass before releasing his grip and stepping back. "Now. You were saying?"

The Guide executive set his glass down on a coaster on the corner of his desk and straightened his suit. "I was saying," he began, then lunged at Ford, fists swinging.

Ford ducked the first, blocked the second, and then slammed his palm into Zarniwoop's face, sending the man crashing to the ground. "Don't you know that alcohol dulls your reflexes?" he asked sardonically. Zarniwoop just looked up at him, surprise written across his eyes as he daubed at the trickle of blood from his nose with the hankerchief out of his pocket. At the look, Ford explained, "Antarian martial arts are really quite something. When you're expecting your enemy to be telepathic, it means you have to learn how to move without thinking."

"I was just going to fire you, Prefect," Zarniwoop snarled, making no move to get up. "But now I think I'll demote you. Send you down to Records for the rest of your life; how's that sound?"

The Records department of the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is, of course, a gentle colloquialism for the office's internal prison. According to the Galactic Penal Code, any sufficiently large multi-planetary corporation is responsible for the policing of its own employees. This revision was enacted following the Spixus murder trial. While an employee of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation, Jagren Spixus got into a brawl with a Thalenid in open space onboard a Salaxan cruise ship that he had boarded on Kital and the Thalenid had boarded on Rigel Prime. The Thalenid was thrown into an ice sculpture where, due to the quirks of Thalen physiology, he burst into flames at the contact and died. Spixus was arrested for the death, but as the trial date approached, no one was quite sure which world had jurisdiction. The Thalen homeworld had been decimated by a drastic climate change, their race scattered throughout the galaxy with no central government, so they were ill-equipped to take responsibility. Ostiena Theta, Spixus' birth planet, had recently been destroyed due to an accident with a particle accelerator and a pot noodle. The governments of Kital and Rigel Prime argued that neither could accept the jurisdiction for the crime simply because they were the last planets the killer and victim had walked on. And though the cruise ship was Salaxan in origin, it had been leased to a Vegan corporation at the time.

Lawyers for the various governments, along with the counsel provided for Spixus by his employer, argued for years, and Spixus eventually died in prison without ever seeing the inside of a courtroom. To avoid such future complications, the Galactic government issued the penal code revision by presidental decree (which was, incidentally, signed, 'Love and kisses, Zaphod') stating that the responsibility of policing, trying, and imprisoning corporate employees lay with the corporation itself. It is interesting to note that two years later, the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation became the largest single employer of both lawyers and security personnel, their combined numbers exceeding that of the rest of the employees.

All of this was on the forefront of Ford's mind at hearing Zarniwoop's threat. He flexed his hands stared down at his boss huddled on the floor. "And how are you planning to get me there?" he asked defiantly.

"That coaster is sitting on top of a button to summon security. All it needed was the pressure of my glass to activate it," Zarniwoop replied calmly. "So, the question is, how are you planning to escape?"

"Belgium!" Ford swore. He walked over to Zarniwoop and reached down. The executive flinched, then sighed in relief when Ford merely snatched the hankerchief. Wrapping the fabric around his hand, Ford hesitated in front of the half-finished drink. For the tiniest moment, he considered draining the rest of it, but regained his resolve quickly. He moved to the window, took a deep breath, and punched the Etern-O-Sealed glass with all his strength.

It shattered.

"Never trust advertising," he said over his shoulder to the shocked Zarniwoop, and then jumped out the window.

Ford opens the hatch to the EVA pod -- Apple, as Trillian insists her name is -- and lets Arthur and Truman go in first. He follows them in and seals the door.

"So, whaddya think, Truman? First actual spaceship. How is it?"

It was time.

It had probably been time for a number of weeks now, but Ford didn't want to admit it.

He was a traveller. That was his nature. Going somewhere twice... usually isn't part of it.

Home isn't something he'd ever considered. Not even being stranded on Earth for 15 years was enough to make him accept it as home.

But the humans have a saying that 'home is where the heart is'. And if that's true, then there's only one place in the universe that could possibly count.

The end of it.

Where she is.

And it was time.

Serenity OOM Idea:

Okay, so I've spoken to a few of the Firefly muns about this idea, and rather than trying to catch everyone on AIM, I figured I'd just make the general post here.

Here's the gist. Ford is currently hopping around through space-time in an EVA pod with a Kangaroo Relocation Drive. Which, if you're unfamiliar with Hitchhiker canon, is basically an emergency escape mechanism. You don't get to plot a destination; it just throws you through space and time without a care, and there's no way to figure where you'll end up.

So, using this idea along with my personal desire to thread with the Firefly group, I had the idea of Ford running into them at some point. This can happen in a couple of ways, depending on what people are interested in. The two main ideas I've come up with are:

1. Ford pops into Serenity's cargo hold. For simplicity's sake, the ship should be maybe a few hours away from planetfall. That would allow Ford some brief interaction with the crew, and then he'd offload himself and pod planetside and go off to do his own thing.

2. The crew are on one of the outer planets in the middle of some job or other (the more disreputable, the better), and Ford's pod just appears in the middle of it for great chaos.

So, what I'd like to know is, which of you would be interested in participating, when you would be available for such threadage, and which scenario sounds more fun/interesting/workable. (Or if there's something else that seems more sensible.)

Thanks!

So it's come to this, has it?

And it had. It truly had. Ford had been monitoring the Sub-Etha band for days now. He'd been checking the Thumb for any glimmer of activity. But the fact was that this particular wherewhen was simply too far away. There was nothing. No way for him to hitch out of here.

"Out of here" being the place that he now knew he needed to be. Away from this place. Before he made things any worse.

So. Only one other option left. He grabs some paper and scribbles down some notes.

( To Arthur Dent )

--

( To Trillian Astra )

--

( To Random Dent )

--

That complete, he heads out of his room and down the stairs.

He lied.

He didn't go to sleep after leaving everyone on the bridge.

In fact, he didn't even go back to his room.

He just wandered the corridors of the ship, aimlessly, for hours, avoiding everyone.

Only now is he finally returning to his quarters, mentally and physically exhausted.

"Door?" he whispers to the door to his room.

"Yes?" comes the mechanical reply.

"I have had a zarking bad night, so when I step forward for you to open, I want you to say absolutely nothing. If you do, I swear, I will have you shut down, removed, junked, ground into little bits, and recycled as chaff. Do you understand?"

And somewhere, in the deepest depths of the computer's programming, it did. The door slid open without a peep.

Stepping through the door of the bar, Ford and Trillian exit into Trill's ship. Ford recognizes the distinctive style of the Heart of Gold. Definitely one of the EVA pods, then. No improb drive, but a hyperspace core and a temporal jump drive. Only things they'll be needing on this trip.

Ford gives her the coordinates for Gwillanti Prime, and motions toward the pilot's chair. "After you, Captain."