Battlegroup Vega

by Anders Raynor

  The metamorphosis wasn’t instantaneous, of course, and even its initial phase took weeks. But the realization that his body had changed in a profound, disturbing, and possibly irreversible way came abruptly.

  His name wasn’t Jason at that time, and he knew nothing about Kafka and humanity in general. Yet his reaction was the same as Gregor Samsa’s—he locked himself in his room.

  He dragged himself to the bathroom and stared at his image in the mirror. He’d had horrible itches for weeks, but he couldn’t even consult a physician. Simply because the space station where he lived housed no medics, only smugglers and outlaws. The scum of the universe.

  Oh, the Galactic State had always denied the very existence of smugglers, and the criminal underworld in general. “That’s just a myth,” they said, “propagated by the castes of entertainers to fool their gullible audience.” Jason had thought that too, until the day the caste of navigators revoked his spacecraft pilot license for taking excessive risks.

  He hadn’t stayed unemployed for long though. The criminal underworld never sleeps. He received a visit from an uninvited guest that very night. That guest had a job offer for him. A lucrative one.

  Being a smuggler had few upsides, and lots of downsides. Jason didn’t have to worry about job security—he had to worry about personal security.

  They’ll toss me out an airlock if they see or smell me in my present state.

  Jason looked like hell. The lights at the tips of his cephalic appendages had died, and he couldn’t feel the appendages. He wanted to yell, to thrash around, to bang his head against the wall, anything to stop the horrible itching that was torturing him. In a feat of rage, he grabbed one of his cephalic appendages and pulled it hard.

  The organ detached itself from his head with a disgusting sucking sound.

  He bit his tongue to stifle a scream. He felt no pain though; actually, he felt better, now that he’d torn off one of the appendages. With his shaking hand, he grabbed another appendage and pulled hard. This one too came off without causing any pain.

  Jason repeated the procedure with all six appendages and threw these lifeless limbs into a recycling tube.

  Then he looked at his hands and noticed profound changes in their morphology. He could no longer retract his claws. All Taar’kuun had retractable claws on the first and the second finger on each hand. In their culture, claws symbolized the individual’s strength, and they were particularly important in Jason’s new line of work. The simple act of showing them was usually enough to make his opponents back off.

  He pulled one of them, and it detached, leaving only a hard envelope covering the tip of the finger.

  He moaned, wincing at his image in the mirror. He used to be so proud of his long claws. Now they were useless.

  His heart heavy, he threw away the symbols of his pride, and they disappeared inside the recycling tube to join his dead appendages.

  “What next?” he snapped at his image, barely recognizing his own voice. “The smell!”

  The Taar’kuun used pheromones to communicate with one another, in addition to language. Jason was aware of the stench of his body. If he ventured outside his quarters, it would be like screaming to the entire station that he had a horrific disease.

  The metamorphosis had stripped him of self-esteem. He felt like an admiral stripped of all his medals, rank, privileges, and even uniform, and paraded naked covered in excrement before his subordinates.

  He collapsed on his sleeping cocoon, so mortified he was willing to simply lie down and die.

  They said something about a pangalactic epidemic on the news. Maybe that’s what I’ve got? The plague? But why am I the only one affected on the station?

  Someone buzzed at the door. Jason scrambled to his feet and grabbed his blaster. He couldn’t let anyone see him in his present condition.

  “Go away,” he shouted. “Whatever you want, I’m not interested.”

  “C’mon, I’ll make it worth your while,” a familiar voice screeched. It belonged to the captain Jason worked for. “I’ve got a shipment of pheros, top quality! I’ll give you two out of sixty-four.”

  The traffic of illegal hallucinogenic pheromones was among the most lucrative, and also the riskiest businesses.

  “Not interested,” Jason shouted.

  “I’m not buying that,” the captain pressed him. “Don’t play hard to get. We both know you need cash to repay your debts. What about Vaar’ekz? He’s got you by the tail, bugass. You pay him, or you take a spacewalk without a suit.”

  “Vaar’ekz, I spit on his genes,” Jason yelled. “Just leave me alone.”

  “Not gonna happen. Get out of your stinky hole and do this run for me. I’ll give you four out of sixty-four—final offer.”

  Jason sighed. The captain was right; he had little choice. If he didn’t pay his rent, the local crime boss—Vaar’ekz—would throw him out. Literally. His goons would throw Jason out of the nearest airlock.

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” he shouted. “Gimme an hour.”

  “You better be on time,” the captain growled. Jason heard his steps moving away.

  One standard hour wasn’t much, but it had to be enough. Jason packed his most valuable belongings in a backpack, took a steam shower, and sprayed himself with pheromones, hoping to mask the strange smell of his body. He donned his pilot’s suit, hauled a backpack over his shoulder, checked his blaster, and walked out his quarters, never to return.

  * * *

  Including Jason, the crew of the smuggling bioship counted eight members. Eight was the base of the Taar’kuun numeral system. Jason was a good shot, but he couldn’t take on seven armed criminals. His role on the ship gave him an advantage, though, as he was the pilot and the navigator.

  “Hey, what’s wrong with you,” the captain asked, entering the cockpit. “Why’s the visor of your helmet polarized? And why d’you smell like you’ve just been elevated to the ruling caste?”

  “I’m busy, captain,” Jason snapped. “If I make the slightest error in my calcs, we’ll be reduced to atoms at our next jump.”

  “Hmm.” The captain just stood there, twisting his cephalic appendages. “There’s something mighty odd here, and I don’t like that. Vaar’ekz got to you, is that it? You’re leading us into an ambush?”

  “You really wanna know? It’s much worse than that.” Jason turned to the captain and depolarized the visor of his helmet.

  The captain recoiled, stumbled, and grabbed the back of a seat to regain balance. The tips of his appendages glowed red. “God almighty! You’ve got the plague! You doomed us all, vermin!”

  Jason pulled his blaster and shot the captain through the chest. “Yep. But you aren’t gonna die of the plague.” He punched the button on the virtual control panel to initiate the jump.

  The ship slipped through the funnel of an artificial black hole and reappeared in an uninhabited system a dozen parsecs away from the smuggler’s space station.

  Jason heard steps in the corridor leading to the cockpit and punched a button to lock the door. Then he triggered the opening of the airlock doors and disabled artificial gravity. He’d rigged the safety mechanism of the airlock so both the inner and the outer doors would open at the same time, causing immediate depressurization of the ship.

  He heard the screams of the smugglers as they flew through the airlock. The depressurization was so quick that their suits didn’t have time to activate the adhesive coating of their boots.

  “Captain, help!” yelled one of them. “I can’t hold on much longer!”

  Jason saw the survivor through the airlock cam, clenching onto a handle with both hands.

  “The captain?” Jason said with calm through the intercom. “That bugass can’t help you. I shot him.”

  “Putrid traitor!” the last surviving member of the crew yelled.

  “No, I’m doing you a favor. The captain doomed you all by forcing me to take this job. Better a quick death than dying from the plague.”

&n
bsp; Jason closed the external airlock doors, reactivated artificial gravity, unlocked the door of the cockpit, and walked to the surviving smuggler, who pointed a blaster at him with his shaking hand.

  “What are you gonna do?” Jason asked. “Shoot me? Do you know anything about interstellar navigation? Without me, you’d be stranded in this system for eternity.”

  “Take us back,” the smuggler screeched.

  “Not gonna happen.”

  Someone was calling Jason on his private channel. He accepted the call.

  “I knew you’d pull something like that.” It was Vaar’ekz voice. “So I followed you. Stand down and prepare to be boarded.”

  Jason swore inwardly, frantically trying to think of a way to get out of this. “You can’t come on board, Vaar’ekz. Our ship’s contaminated. Stay away, if you don’t wanna die a horrible death.”

  “I’m not coming on board to seize the merchandise,” the crime lord replied. “I’m coming for you. By the way, I’ve got the plague too, but it’s not a plague, it’s called Darus’s virus.”

  “I don’t give a bug’s ass how you call this putrid thing,” Jason snapped. “We’re gonna die of it all the same.”

  “No, we’re not, you, idiot,” Vaar’ekz snapped back. “I thought you were smarter than that. We’re gonna live like kings!”

  “Like what?”

  Vaar’ekz sighed. “I’ve got a present for you. An entire database to download into your brain. Once you have it, you’ll understand. Hopefully. A king is like a member of the ruling caste. Yep, you heard me—we’re gonna be the elite of a new civilization! At least I will be.”

  Jason was convinced it was the disease talking. The crime lord must’ve reached the last stage of the plague and was suffering from delusions.

  What do I have to lose?

  “Okay, come in, but come alone,” Jason said out loud. “Just FYI, a bugass is holding me at gunpoint.”

  A minute later, Jason heard a thump from the airlock. The doors parted, and Vaar’ekz walked through, a blaster in his hand.

  “I’m so relieved to see you, boss,” the surviving crew member said, still holding Jason at gunpoint.

  The crime lord threw a contemptuous glance at the Taar’kuun. “Your services are no longer needed. You’re fired.”

  Vaar’ekz shot him in the head without hesitation, then looked at Jason. “Nice to meet the new you, my dear associate. From now on, call me Rico Varez. You need to find yourself a decent human name, ‘cuz that’s who you are—a human.” He handed a neuronal data stick to Jason. “Get that downloaded into your brain, and you’ll understand. And throw the pheros out the airlock. I’ve got more valuable stuff, a white powder that’ll make us a fortune.”

  And that’s how Jason Blaze started his human life. His metamorphosis from Taar’kuun to human. But his transformation from smuggler to ASF officer was another story.

  16

  Drug run

  One year after the Retroforming, Vega-IV

  When Jason arrived at the Moonas Nightclub, the party was in full swing. The music, he felt its rhythms vibrate through his body even before his ears could hear it.

  As he pushed the doors open, his senses were overwhelmed. The heavy beat of industrial music hit him with the force of an electronic storm. A musky scent made his head spin. Laser beams cut through the artificial fog in a choreography that could trigger an epileptic seizure. Scantily-dressed females danced inside steel cages.

  He made his way through the throng to the table of his business associate.

  Varez rose from his seat and spread his arms to greet Jason. His retroforming was almost complete. Tall and lean, with light-brown skin and black hair impeccably combed and groomed, he looked nearly human. In his black waistcoat, white shirt, a scarlet bandana around his neck, and a diamond earing glinting in his right ear, he was the classiest male Jason had ever met.

  “Jase!” Varez greeted him with a charismatic smile. “Grab a seat. What can I get you? I’ve got a selection of three hundred drinks; care to browse the menu?”

  “Whiskey will do,” Jason said, dropping into a seat made of black leather.

  Two young females sitting at the table leered at him. One of them gave him a wink, and the other licked her plump carmine lips.

  Varez pointed at him and shouted, “Ladies, I give you Mr. Blaze, the goddamn best pilot in this goddamn galaxy.” The crime lord loved religiously-themed expletives, maybe because he presented himself as a fervent atheist.

  “I’m here for business, Varez,” Jason said.

  The nightclub owner dismissed the girls, waving his hand. “Get lost.” They pouted, but obeyed without a word.

  “Business it is, then,” Varez said, staring Jason in the eyes. “I need you to do a run for me.”

  A tall female wearing nothing but a leather bra, string panties, and fishnets brought a glass of whiskey and set it before Jason. She leaned toward him, obviously trying to get his attention. He gave her a tip and turned to Varez again.

  “No problem. How much?”

  “One hundred and twenty bricks.”

  Jason whistled. “That’s a lot of bricks. Escort?”

  Varez shook his head. “Sorry, bro, not this time. The local honcho has got me in the crosshairs. We need to keep this low profile. You’re my man. If anyone can pull this off, it’s you.”

  “I’m your man.” Jason tossed back his whiskey, winced, and slammed the glass on the table. “But if this turns sour, you’re getting me out.”

  “I’ve got your back, bro,” Varez swore. “Want a refill?”

  Jason stood up. “I’ve had enough. I need my reflexes sharp for this run.”

  “No hay problema.” The crime lord offered him a charming smile. Charming as the Devil.

  * * *

  Jason piloted a twenty-meter-long transport built for speed. Nimble and resilient, it was perfect for smuggling runs. He flew to the rendezvous point with the supplier’s ship, payed the agreed sum in credit chips, loaded the merchandise, and returned to the capital city without incident. Now he only had to deliver the dope to Varez.

  His craft raced above the busy streets of the capital. The two moons of Vega-IV shone in the night sky. Traffic never stopped in the city, even at this late hour. He followed the red lines of the main artery that cut the capital in two, bordered by skyscrapers of the financial district.

  The city bore the scars of the recent human rebellion, but it was quickly recovering, and the economy was booming. The steeple of a Taar’kuun temple still dominated the cityscape, a stern reminder of the city’s past. But this domination wouldn’t last long. The new masters of Vega would dismantle the steeple for construction materials, and the temple itself would become a financial center.

  Jason started to relax a bit when he left the heart of the city and set course on the district where the Moonas Nightclub was located. The run was almost over.

  Then he tensed as an orange dot appeared on the 3D map of the control panel.

  “Transport craft AX-K68, please transmit your ID codes and flight plan,” a cold male voice said on the channel used by traffic control.

  Jason swore inwardly. “Roger, control,” he replied, his voice even. “Transmitting.”

  This is just routine. They’ve got no reason to suspect anything.

  “Please land, shut down your engine, and prepare for inspection,” the controller said.

  Jason felt a jolt of adrenaline rushing through his veins. “Roger. I comply.”

  He slowed down and steered the craft toward the nearest public landing zone. The patroller was right behind him, its red and blue lights flashing in the night.

  Jason’s craft was just a meter above ground, hovering above the concrete.

  Now!

  He kicked the accelerator. His craft pounced forward, thrusters roaring. The patroller’s siren wailed, and the vehicle sped up in pursuit.

  “AX-K68, stop immediately, or we’ll open fire!”

  Jason sn
iggered. “You can’t hit what you can’t see,” he shouted in reply. “So long, monkey brains!”

  He pushed the stick to the side, engaging a complex evasive maneuver. His craft raced at low altitude through the streets of the capital. The orange dot on the map turned red, and more red dots appeared, converging toward him.

  He led the craft toward the Central Canyon, the largest artery of the capital. It was so deep that its bottom was lost in the dark. Streams of vehicles flying in both directions made this artery tricky to navigate. According to the rules of circulation, the smallest vehicles needed to take the upper lines, while the largest had to stick to the slower, deeper lines that ran closer to the bottom of the canyon.

  Ion bolts fired by the police ripped the air around his craft. He almost hit a flying truck moving in the opposite direction.

  Time for a clean sneak.

  He thrust the stick forward, until his craft almost brushed the bottom of the canyon. The traffic was so dense that the police lost him. He put a couple of klicks between him and the cops, then slowed down, slipped under a larger transport ship, and matched its speed.

  The red dots on the map circled around him for a moment, but failed to spot him, as the freighter was masking his craft from hyperspectral scanners. He sniggered as he imagined the conversation the cops were having.

  Then he pondered as to what to do next. He could no longer stick to the original route, so he decided to improvise. He needed a good place to hide.

  A bold idea hit him. He left the city center undetected and set course on the ASF base located about fifty klicks away. When he entered the ASF airspace, he called the base. “Transport AX-K68 to ASF traffic control. Mayday, I’ve lost control of my craft. Request permission for emergency landing.”

  “Negative, AX-K68,” a stern female voice replied. “This is a restricted area. Use a public landing zone.”

  Jason’s craft barreled toward the base in a good imitation of uncontrolled flight. “Cannot comply,” he shouted. “Controls aren’t responding!”