by C M Dancha
Thermal grenades, laser rifes, full body armor, and barrier shields were prominently displayed. There was no attempt to camouflage the weapons. The authorities wanted each new arrival to know there were limits on Feltte Six. Arriving guests were free to kill each other but shouldn’t give one iota of thought to attacking a government enforcer. When that happened, it was an immediate death penalty; no capture, no incarceration, and no judicial review. It was straight to the afterlife if the offender believed in that sort of mysticism.
“Attention, all new arrivals. Please proceed to the Process Area located behind docking slip 7K. Each new arrival can bring one weapon of choice onto Feltte Six. Do not carry this weapon to the Process Area. Provide the Process Agent with a visual of the weapon and its location on your ship. The weapon will be retrieved and loaded onto the glider transport you choose. Those who wish to buy a weapon may do so after clearing the Process Area. You will find that we have a wonderful selection of the latest weaponry. All weapons are guaranteed to be jam-proof, work in harsh environments and tested for accuracy.”
Morg was very familiar with glider transports. They were high-speed, conveyance trains which used reflective magnetic current for propulsion. He had ridden on them quite often on Yandan colony planets. What he didn’t understand in the announcement was the reference to choosing a glider. How many places could you go on this planet? He figured he would learn soon enough. In the meantime, he debated whether to take his sabre assault rife1 or leave it in secured storage on the transport. After weighing the pros and cons, he decided it was better to have his favorite weapon at his side. It had kept him safe through many campaigns. With so many unknown dangers on Feltte Six, there were plenty of reasons to have the old friend tag along.
The Process Agent was an import from another planet. Morg guessed he was Krelatian. The short and stout beings were easily identified by the grumpy frowns painted on their blue, oval faces. Krelatians were in high demand throughout the universe because of their ability to treat everyone shabbily. No matter what they were thinking they always projected a cantankerous attitude. It was amazing how many beings admitted to crimes simply because they couldn’t handle a Krelatian’s stare. To fill the dead air, true and bogus admissions came pouring out.
“Is this the sabre assault rife you want to bring onto Feltte Six?”
Morg nodded to the Process Agent.
“It will be tagged with the same serial number which has been imprinted below an undisclosed area of your body shell. This number will be good for thirty hours. If you plan to stay longer, return here for a serial number update.”
Morg turned to walk away and find the Earthling.
“Wait. Are you with the Earthling I processed before you?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Did he insult you or say something stupid?”
“Yes, but don’t worry. He won’t get off this planet alive. Remember, you are responsible for the disposal of his body. Okay, move along.”
Morg wanted to know more but the Krelatian was already processing the next new arrival.
As Morg walked out onto the glider platform he wondered what the Earthling said to the Process Agent. It was either profoundly stupid and insulting. Or, the Krelatian could pick out the soon-to-be-vaporized from among the new arrivals. Morg chose the latter explanation. After processing thousands of new arrivals, the Krelatian developed a sixth sense. It allowed him to pick out the losers after only a one-minute interview. Morg’s spirits lifted a bit knowing someone else in the universe shared his bottom-of-the-barrel opinion of the Earthling.
The glider platform was chaos and mayhem. It was jammed with new arrivals from every galaxy in the universe. Wall-to-wall beings bumped into each other as they tried to fight their way to the departing gliders of their choice. The excitement in the air was electric. To Morg, it seemed like these beings were acting like children attempting to board a ride at an amusement park.
As he watched the craziness, he scanned the entire platform for as far as he could see in each direction. In total, there were a dozen glider transport tubes labeled with destinations such as “Detroit 1967”, “Mytop 2212” and “Fragsten 2156”. Morg was well-versed in the history of the universe. It didn’t take him long to realize that these locations had one thing in common. They were all cities and countries from various sectors of the universe known for crime and violence. In short, they were historical shit-holes of the universe.
Within a couple of minutes, the significance of the four-digit number behind the name became clear. The number corresponded to a year when the location experienced a catastrophic event. 1967 was the year of civil rioting in Detroit by its minority population. 2212 was the year the ruling family of Mytop was ousted from power and a decade of violent civil war ensued. And, 2156 was the year crime syndicates took control of Fragsten.
Morg’s initial impression of this strange world was right. Feltte Six was nothing more than a giant amusement park which catered to the scum, bottom feeders, and low-lifes of the universe. It offered every vice, crime, and form of violence imaginable. Drugs, sex, blackmail, murder, torture, and despotic power were all available. New arrivals only had to reach out for the evil they desired. Then it was a contest between rival guests who wanted the same vice. Whoever was tougher and shrewder won that vice. The other guest usually didn’t leave Feltte Six alive.
There were only two rules in the theme parks. If you killed someone, you were responsible for disposing of the body. You could hire someone to cart the corpse to the incineration station or take it yourself. It didn’t matter. The remaining rule was that government enforcers were untouchables. They were off-limits to assault, battery, harassment, and back-talk. If they gave an order, it was followed without question. Failure to follow these simple rules resulted in an immediate death sentence carried out by an enforcer squad.
Otherwise, there were no rules governing what was allowed in each theme park. It was the law of the jungle. If you wanted something another being had, you could buy it, steal it, or kill for it. If you chose to murder your opponent, it was best to ambush him in a surprise attack. No one was going to condemn you for not playing fair.
Broadcasted glider departure announcements increased in frequency. New arrivals, from the last couple of spaceships landing on Feltte Six, raced to get to their glider departure gates. Pushing and shoving, fist fights, and countless arguments broke out in all areas of the docking platform. Morg expected to see at any moment the Earthling involved in some type of altercation. He figured it was only a matter of time before the Earthling’s obnoxious personality rubbed a mercenary, tough guy, or all-around badass the wrong way.
As each glider departed for its destination, Morg became more concerned that he lost the Earthling. He was beginning to think the Earthling boarded an earlier glider. He might be on his way to one of the cesspools where he would lip-off to the wrong being and get himself vaporized. Morg wouldn’t hear anything about the Earthling's death until the government got around to sending him an official death notice. That might take days and would be a courtesy notification because Morg was his arrival mate. The only thing that would speed up the process was if Morg had to dispose of the body. Regardless of the circumstances, the Earthling’s death would thrust Morg into an untenable situation. What would he do? He would be a disgraced warrior who lost his mate, family, career, and home planet.
“Paging Morg from Yanda. Officer Morg from Yanda. Please respond. Weapon pick-up for Mr. Morg from the planet....”
Morg’s head pivoted to the direction from where his name was called. He was lucky that his ears were shaped like parabolic dishes. This made his hearing very sensitive. His superior sense of hearing more than compensated for average eyesight and smell.
Fifty-yards away, he spotted the Earthling in front of the Detroit 1967 departure dock. He was talking with the Feltte dock employee who paged Morg. In the employee's hand was Morg's assault rife. Even from this distance, Morg could tell the Earthling was trying to con
the Feltte departure clerk out of something.
Morg came up behind the Earthling in time to hear the Feltte departure clerk say, “Sir, I can’t give you this assault rife. Your embedded serial number doesn’t match with the serial number on the rife.”
“Aw, come on. The owner of the rife is a friend of mine. I promise to give it to him when I see him at the Detroit 1967 park.”
Morg was standing close enough to see the Earthling remove a couple Cannis capsules from his pants pocket and offer them to the clerk. “Here, take these. You’ve worked hard and deserve a reward. Give me the assault rife, and these are yours.”
The dock clerk’s eyes opened to twice their normal size when he spotted the Cannis capsules. He couldn’t stop staring at them. He knew they were worth a small fortune. At least twice his yearly wage on the black market.
“Okay, but you have to promise not to tell anyone. I could get in big trouble letting you have a rife registered to another being.”
The Earthling reached out to take the rife from the clerk, but his hand never touched the weapon. Morg stepped between the two crooks and grabbed the rife and Cannis capsules.
“Son, I suggest you take your dishonest ass out of here, right now. And, so you know, I’m Morg from Yanda and this is my rife. Now get.”
The departure clerk was shaking with fear. Not only was Morg a mean-looking SOB but all it would take is one word from the Yandan to get him fired or vaporized. He waved his serial number validator over Morg’s left arm in one quick swipe and then turned tail and started running.
Morg slung the assault rife over his shoulder and grabbed the Earthling by his left ear. Squeezing the earlobe between his pincer thumb and forefinger was all it took to get the Earthling squirming and whining. “Morg, stop Morg. That hurts like hell.”
Morg didn’t care how much the Earthling complained. He was so pissed that he considered exerting more pressure and watching the Earthling either pass out or soil himself.
“Pick up your tote bag, jerk-off.”
As the Earthling gingerly bent over to grab the handles on his bag, the platform announcer said, “Last call for Detroit 1967 glider. Board immediately at dock 24L. This is the last glider for Detroit 1967 today. The crime rate in Detroit is 93.3. Have a favorable trip.”
“Morg, we have to get on the Detroit glider.”
Without letting up on the earlobe pressure, Morg asked, “Why?”
“Because that’s the park I signed up for. I don’t know a lot about the other parks, but I’ve read a lot about early Detroit history.”
“How did you pay for it, with more Cannis capsules?”
“Morg, the glider doors are closing. Come on, pal. I’ll tell you how I paid for it when we get on the glider.”
Morg debated whether to board the Detroit glider. If they didn’t go to the Detroit park, where the hell would they go? At the last moment, Morg pulled the Earthling by the ear onto the glider. He whimpered the entire way and when Morg tossed him into a double-wide berth, he grabbed his ear to make sure it was still attached to his head.
“Good god, Morg. Was that necessary? You damn near ripped my ear off.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t rip your head off. Let that be a lesson. Stay where I can see you and don’t try to backstab me again. Do you understand, Earthling?”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Hey, can I have my Cannis capsules back?”
“No. I’m keeping them for now. You be a good boy and I'll think about returning them.”
Morg and the Earthling settled in as the glider pulled out the station and rocketed to Mach One speed.
“Welcome to the Detroit 1967 glider. Your estimated time of arrival will be in 157 minutes. This glider will travel at an average speed of 1.4 Mach. All passengers must provide a proof of travel permit. Please place your permit over the video screen on your armrest.”
The Earthling followed the instructions to validate his travel permit. He tried to avoid Morg’s glare knowing he only purchased one permit for himself.
“I don’t suppose you have one of those for me?”
Morg didn’t wait for the Earthling to make up a lie about why he didn’t buy two permits. He took out one of the Cannis capsules and held it over the video screen. It took five seconds for a response. “A representative of Feltte Six Parks will come and see you within the hour.”
“Morg, please don’t give all the capsules to these guys. That’s all I have.”
Morg didn’t believe the Earthling but played along with his charade. “We’ll see. If you help me, I may return some of the Cannis.”
“What do you mean, Morg? You know I’d do anything for you?”
Morg wanted to call him a liar and slap him on the side of the head but decided to take a less violent approach. “Tell me about finding my mate in the cargo bay. What were you doing in there? Did you see her board the transport? Did you move the body? Did you see anyone else? Did you take anything off the body or pocket anything unusual from the immediate area?”
For the next thirty minutes, the Earthling rambled on and on telling Morg everything he knew about finding the body. His explanations and descriptions were so convoluted and disjointed that Morg interrupted often to ask questions. In the end, Morg didn’t know how much of the Earthling’s story to believe. At times, his explanations seemed reasonable yet, at other times, they made little or no sense. If they were back on Yanda, Morg could have run the Earthling’s responses through a truth box. The box would tell him if the Earthling's explanations were truthful or lies. But, in deep space, Morg had to rely on his interrogation training. This entailed looking for kinetic body movements which might indicate deception. A pulsating carotid artery, dilating eye pupils, and turning away from the interrogator could mean stress and deception by the interrogatee. But the Earthling was impossible to read. His hyperactive, nervous behavior and constant twitching blocked any chance Morg had of identifying the body indicators of lying. He would have to rely on the physical evidence analyzer for the time being. When they got to a planet with modern interrogation equipment, he could get the truth from the Earthling.
“Mr. Morg, I’m an employee of the Feltte Six park system. I understand that you don’t have a travel permit to Detroit 1967. I’ll need to collect payment before we arrive. Otherwise, you won’t be able to leave the glider.”
Morg found it interesting that the glider employee didn’t identify himself. There was only one reasonable explanation why he remained nameless. He knew that Morg would be paying for his passage with high priced drugs rather than Feltte Six currency. He and his cohorts running this glider could pocket the Cannis as payola and immediately improve their standard of living. But they had to do it without their superiors finding out.
“Will this cover the passage?” Morg held out one Cannis capsule for the glider employee to see.
“Well, that will get you to Detroit 1967, but it’s not enough for your return trip.”
Morg knew how to deal with scumbags. Bid low and then add a little more to get what you want. When Morg held out the second capsule and announced that this was all he had, the glider employee jumped at the deal. He grabbed the two capsules and issued Morg a round-trip passage permit.
“Thank you, Mr. Morg.” Morg watched the scumbag virtually dance away. He had made a huge score by obtaining the two Cannis capsules. He couldn’t wait to get together with his cohorts and laugh about the chump who gave them a small fortune in exchange for a lousy glider ride. It wasn’t often they fell into a financial bonanza like this. For the next year or two, they would live high off this booty.
Morg looked up expecting to see the Earthling close by. He was gone. The little creep had ducked away while Morg was dickering with the dishonest glider employee. He thought to himself, “Just what I want to do. Go on a scavenger hunt for the Earthling.”
Morg resigned himself to searching out and corralling the Earthling. He needed a nap, but, of course, his travel companion had to turn everything into a juv
enile adventure. He got up and started walking through the glider. He was amazed by how little vibration there was on a glider traveling at over Mach One speed.
“Morg, is that you? You old, Yandan son-of-a-bitch.”
Off to his right, sitting in a berth were three of the ugliest and meanest looking beings in the known universe. All wore lightweight body armor from their collarbones to toes. The armor was the best quality available even though it looked like it had seen better days. Morg recognized them immediately as Athlon mercenaries. They were nearly seven feet tall and weighed close to three hundred pounds. Most of their rust-colored faces were grown over with a heavy beard which was razor sharp. Anyone, other than an Athlon, who touched their facial hair would suffer hundreds of tiny, razor-thin cuts which burned and hurt like hell. It also served a secondary function of hiding the numerous battle scars which crisscrossed their faces.
Morg hadn’t intended to meet anyone he knew on this glider trip. But here were three mercenaries he’d hired on many occasions. They were perfect fighters for clearing out pockets of the enemy dug into impregnable positions. It was usually easier and more cost-effective to pay an Athlon mercenary to risk his life than send in a Yandan invasion trooper. If the Athlon was killed only the service fee was lost. If a Yandan assault trooper was killed a huge training investment went to his grave with him.
Morg smiled. He knew these three all too well. They had been under his direct command on several invasions. They were gregarious and ill-mannered, but damn good at what they did. They relished life-and-death situations and made a game of killing the enemy. He never bothered to learn mercenaries’ names because their lifespan was so short. But, these three had survived enough battles to receive the nicknames Crex, Blex, and Stex. Morg never bothered to find out the origination of their nicknames. He figured their over-the-top bravado would end in vaporization soon enough.
