by C M Dancha
“Hey, guys. What the hell are you doing on this glider?”
“We’re between conflicts. Thought we’d come here and sharpen our skills. You know our motto; a kill per day keeps the grim reaper away.”
The three mercenaries laughed hysterically. Their laughter and gaiety were infectious. Morg chuckled along with them even though he no idea what was so funny. He wondered who or what was a grim reaper these three referred to?
“What are you doing here, Morg?”
“Oh, I’m on a special assignment for the Trifect. It’s a top-secret mission. I turned it down several times, but they kept begging me and offering a huge bonus to take it. So, I finally agreed and….and, here I am.” Morg held out his arms and gestured as though he was the most important agent in the Yandan military and diplomatic corps. He was embarrassed to tell the Athlons about his real assignment. So, he decided to embellish and overinflate the importance of his mission. They would never learn the truth, and if they did, so what? He’d be long gone.
“Well, are you going to tell us what’s the mission?” When Crex realized Morg wasn’t going to answer his question, he added, “Come on, Morg. You can tell us. Hell, we’ve fought side-by-side many times and had to protect each other’s ass. If you can’t trust us, who can you trust?”
Morg knew they were right and deserved an answer. He couldn’t tell them the truth, so his mind raced to piece together a grandiose yet believable story. As he opened his mouth to feed them a fake tale, Stex grimaced and said, “Would you look at that? Where do these freaks come from?”
Everyone turned and looked in the direction Stex was staring. Twenty yards away was the Earthling thrashing away in the aisle, entertaining a group of about two dozen new arrivals. Morg stared in disbelief and wondered what the hell he was doing. The Earthling was gyrating his hips, bobbing his head up and down and flailing his arms in the air as though he was swatting imaginary bugs. Had he overdosed on some exotic drug or was this another of his foolish antics meant to con the weak-minded?
“You know, I think I’ve found my first kill when we get to Detroit.”
“No way, Crex, I saw him first.”
“Screw you, Stex. It doesn’t matter who saw him first. The only thing that matters is who declares him first and that was me.”
Blex couldn’t stay out of the argument any longer. “You are both crazy. I saw this nutter when we got on the glider and declared him then. I can’t help it if you two weren’t listening.”
“Blex, you’re full of ….”
That’s as much of the mercenaries’ arguing Morg heard. He tuned them out and started to consider his options. If he went over and corralled the Earthling, his mercenary buddies would know he lied about the top-secret mission he was on for the Trifect. On the other hand, he had to protect the Earthling. Somehow, he had to forewarn the goofball that he was targeted for vaporization by three of the most prolific killers in the universe.
He decided to act before the Earthling spotted him and blew his cover story. He walked toward the Earthling hoping the screwball didn’t turn around. As he approached, he heard the Earthling say, “Okay, ladies and gentlemen. For your entertainment pleasure, I’m going to take you back several centuries to the real Detroit when it ruled the music world with the Motown Sound. Here’s a giant hit from 1968 by soul brother, Marvin Gaye.”
The Earthling said ready-start which flooded the glider compartment with background music. He bobbed his head up and down and snapped his fingers waiting for the right break in the melody. Using his vap pistol as a make-believe microphone, he lip-synced the words to “I Heard It Through the Grapevine.” For all his foolishness, Morg had to give him credit. The kid was definitely putting his heart into the performance.
The sounds coming from the glider audio system seemed familiar to Morg. If he wasn’t mistaken it was the same racket which the Earthling played non-stop during the first couple weeks of their voyage. To Morg, it was noise pollution. But, to the kid, it was no different than the continuous drone coming from the Shadow Drive system. He would sing and hum along with the songs without realizing what he was doing. After two weeks, Morg reached his limit and pulled the plug on the audio system. The kid had no idea how to fix the system. No matter how much he protested and tried to explain the importance of music in Earth culture, Morg pretended to be ignorant about repairing the system. Now, here he was a few weeks later dealing with another problem created by Earth music. But this one was much more serious. It could mean life or death.
The Earthling was finishing his performance when Morg grabbed the brachial plexus nerve in his shoulder and spun him around. The Earthling was semi-paralyzed and stopped lip-syncing immediately.
Through a clenched jaw and only loud enough for the Earthling to hear, Morg said, “Look at me as though you are infuriated. There are three Athlon killers behind me who have picked you out as a target when we get to the Detroit park. You’ve made such a spectacle of yourself they think you’d be an easy target. When we get to the park, disappear and I’ll try to delay them. I recommend you stay well hidden. These guys are the best and love killing. I’ll see you back at the transport within twenty hours. Now, take a poke at me as though you are pissed.”
Morg caught the Earthling’s round-house swing, put him in an arm lock and threw him in an empty seat. He shouted loud enough for everyone to hear, “Now stay there and shut up. I’m tired of your bellowing like a stuck Tralock2.” It was easy giving a convincing performance for the mercenaries due to the growing animosity between he and Morg.
When Morg turned away and started back to his compartment, the Earthling made a vile hand gesture at him. Under his breath, he whispered, “That damn Morg. Why is he always interfering with my fun? I don’t care about three mercenaries. They don’t scare me.”
“Nice job, Morg. What did the little shit say? And, what was he doing?”
“I didn’t let him say a thing.” Morg paused for a moment wondering if he should add anything more. No, that was enough explanation for the three mercenaries who weren’t known as deep thinkers.
“What was the other thing you asked? Oh, yeah. The kid was singing, or I should say, he was pretending to sing.” Morg could see the confused look on the mercenaries faces so he tried to explain. “Singing is when wind and string instruments are used to make funny noises and a being, like that kid, bellows words along with the noises. I don’t understand the concept, but millions of beings find it comforting and entertaining.”
“What were the words about?”
“Crex, I have no damn idea. It was something about grapevines, honey, and losing your mind. It made no sense to me at all.”
Morg and the three mercenaries sat down and spent the remaining twenty trip minutes reliving and telling exaggerated stories about battles they fought. The entire time, Morg played through in his mind how he was going to delay the mercenaries when the glider stopped. He had to make it seem believable. The Earthling needed a huge head start to disappear and stay alive within the Detroit park.
“Ladies and gentlemen, our arrival time at Detroit 1967 will be in three minutes and twenty seconds. We ask that you remain seated until the glider slows down to a safe cruising speed. The crime rate in the Detroit park is now 94.5. Have a productive stay and remember, you are responsible for the corpses you create.”
As the glider pulled in to its terminal bay, the mercenaries were once again arguing about who had first dibs on killing the Earthling. This gave Morg just enough time to put himself between the Earthling and the mercenaries. When the glider doors opened, the Earthling sprinted out. Morg began a performance creating as much delay and interference as possible. First, he pretended to fall over. Then he dropped his assault rife and spent a few moments examining it to make sure it wasn’t damaged. Lastly, he ran into and knocked over another new arrival, apologizing profusely as he dusted him off.
By the time Morg and his killer buddies got onto the docking platform, the Earthling was long gone.
He had grabbed his bag and vap pistol and disappeared like a wisp of smoke.
“Well, where the hell is that little dick-weed?”
“Blex, he either knew we were gunning for him or has an important appointment.”
Being the unofficial leader of the killing squad, Crex took command and started to organize the hunt for the Earthling. “Okay, guys. This park is too damn big to hunt this guy down together, so we’ll have to separate. Morg, are you in?”
The Yandan didn’t have a choice. He had to stay involved. It was the only chance he had to protect the living cargo he was assigned to deliver to Earth.
“Sure. Count me in. I’ll tell you what. If I find the little shit before you guys, I’ll let you know where he is, and you can compete for the kill.”
“Thanks, Morg. We owe you. Come on over here and we’ll divide up the park.”
The three mercenaries and Morg walked over to the holographic map of Detroit 1967. A quarter of the park was allocated to each assassin. Morg got the west side of Detroit which was roughly a ten by twelve-mile area.
“Okay, everyone set your transponders to channel 34Easy. Report in every hour and if you run into problems, say something. It’s better to get help and share the kill than end up vaporized due to false bravado. Oh, I shouldn’t have to say this, but if one of you vaps this little weasel, let the rest of us know.”
Crex, Stex, and Blex grabbed their gear and loaded it into black and white cabs. Everything in the park was a replica of what Detroit looked and sounded like in 1967. From the antique automobiles to tenement buildings to party stores and pot-hole riddled streets.
Morg waited until the mercenaries were out of sight before starting to second guess where the Earthling might have gone. What excuse had he used to divert the transport to Feltte Six? It was something about birds; high-flying birds. What are high-flying birds? Then it hit home. The Earthling used the same term when referring to his girlfriend on the Crelon slave ship. He wanted to rub with a female species. Or in human language, he wanted to share his reproductive unit with a female.
Morg approached the cab supervisor who was responsible for assigning new arrivals to taxis. “Hey buddy, I’m looking for an Earthling who is about this tall and has….”
“Sorry, don’t have time to talk with you. Get in line if you want transportation, otherwise, don’t bug me.”
Morg got the supervisor’s attention by applying the same nerve pinch he used on the Earthling. “Listen, asshole. I’m looking for an Earthling and you’re going to help me unless you want to be permanently disabled.”
The cab supervisor tried to squirm away, but it was no use. Excruciating pain shot from his shoulder up and down the left side of his body. He couldn’t move and could barely say, “Okay, okay. Let go and I’ll do anything you want.”
“Good god was that necessary?” One look at Morg answered that question.
After Morg described the Earthling, the cab supervisor rubbed his chin thinking back through the last dozen or so new arrivals he assigned to taxis. He decided not to BS the Yandan; he was much too dangerous to screw around with.
“Yeah, yeah, I do remember the Earthling. The kid couldn’t stop yapping. I gave him to cab 66 because he wanted to go to the brothels downtown and on the east side of the park. The driver of 66 specializes in sexual desires and fantasies.”
“Okay, so how do I get ahold of cab 66?”
“Let me see if I can track him down.” The cab supervisor walked over to a holographic locator board and searched for number 66. “Here he is. Looks like he’s on the move.”
“Call him and ask where he’s going.”
After a short exchange, the cab supervisor reported, “He’s coming back here. Already dropped off the Earthling.”
“Okay, tell him to report to you when he gets back. He has an important fare waiting.”
Fifteen minutes later, Morg was in cab 66 driving toward east Detroit.
“Where we going, chief?”
Morg looked over at the dark-brown, humanoid driver who had the whitest teeth he had ever seen. The clothes the cab driver wore were also something he never saw anywhere in the universe. The driver’s shirt was a shiny, black satin material with large, billowy collars that flapped up and down as he walked. His pants glistened three or four distinct colors when the shark skin material reflected the sunlight. Beneath his spit-polished black, patent shoes the driver wore see-through nylon socks. Morg hoped the driver was as helpful as he was fashionable.
“Jimmy Washington. Is that your real name?”
“No, man. You don’t want to know my real name. It’s too hard to pronounce. Everyone who works in the park is assigned an alias. Jimmy Washington was a common name in the real Detroit, 1967. Pretty cool, huh? Anyhow, name your destination.”
“Take me to where you took the young Earthling from your last fare.”
“You mean the kid who blabs on and on and is in love with himself? The one with a foot fetish?”
Half of what Jimmy said definitely described the Earthling. “Yeah, I think that’s our boy. On the way there, tell me everything you remember the Earthling saying. It’s worth a healthy tip if your info helps me find him.”
It turned out that Jimmy had an incredible memory. He repeated verbatim the entire conversation he had with the Earthling. The story rolled as casually out of his voice hole as his carefree driving. He weaved in and out of traffic, making sure he didn’t hit any of the passed-out drunks, burning trash fires and abandoned cars littering the road.
It wasn’t easy listening to Jimmy. Morg’s attention was constantly drawn to the acts of violence and lewd behavior occurring in and around the buildings along the highway. He was glad he chose to sit in the front seat rather than the back seat. From this position, he could see everything that was happening on both sides of the street.
At one stop light, four combatants ran across the intersection firing laser assisted, vap pistols at each other. Two miles further, a gang of thugs broke out a store’s front window and looted everything they could carry away. Another mob fire-bombed a grocery store. Numerous sex acts were being performed in the alleys or in plain view on the sidewalks. Morg lost count of the fistfights.
“This really is a shit-hole, isn’t it?”
“Well, we do have some problems; that’s for sure.”
Morg looked at the cab driver not knowing if he was making a joke or being serious. “So, what the hell is a foot fetish?”
“He gets off on looking at and caressing feet. Don’t ask me to explain it. I don’t get it either. Anyhow, I’ll take you to the first foot fetish parlor I dropped him off at and then tell you how to get to the other ones I’m sure he visited.”
“I’ll tell you what. Will this buy your services for the entire day?” Morg held out another Cannis capsule he lifted from the kid’s pants pocket when applying the nerve pinch. A capsule the kid claimed not to have.
Before Jimmy could answer, Morg caught a glimpse of a familiar face. It was Crex coming out of a pawn store holding someone by his hair.
“Oh, shit.”
“What’s the matter?”
Morg watched Crex throw his quarry to the ground and then stomp on his gut. “Ah… ah. Nothing. Nothing is wrong. Thought I saw someone I knew.”
Jimmy waited until he knew Morg was listening again. “Yeah, that can happen here. Listen man, that capsule will cover my expenses, just fine. All I have to do is tell mama I won’t be home for a day or so.”
Morg hadn’t planned on seeing the mercenaries. The odds of running into one of them was about ten thousand to one. It was a damn good thing Crex wasn’t paying attention to the traffic passing by. If Crex had spotted him, tracking down the Earthling would have been futile. The last thing he wanted to do was lead the mercenaries to the valuable cargo he must keep alive.
When the taxi reached the downtown perimeter, Jimmy switched over to tour guide. “Morg, let me point out some of the more interesting attractions of Detroi
t 67. That large building over there is the Strohs’ brewery. It’s a million-square-foot factory which makes beer and ice cream. A lot of our visitors like to slurp up the lager beer after a tough day of crime and corruption.”
“That’s an odd combination; beer and ice cream. What’s that about?”
“There was a thirteen-year period called Prohibition. Alcoholic beverages were outlawed during this time. To stay in business, the Strohs company diversified and started making other products like ice cream. It was so damn good that after Prohibition, the company kept making it. It still sells good. It’s a big hit with our addict guests who have a sweet tooth.”
“Do you see that building over there, Morg? The one that looks like an ancient coliseum. That’s Briggs Stadium. That’s where the Tigers play baseball. The first guy to score a run in this stadium was Shoeless Joe Jackson. That was 1912, I believe. A few years later, Shoeless Joe was banned from the game for throwing the World Series. Man, that guy could play.”
Morg had no idea what Jimmy was talking about. Tigers, runs, and some being who didn’t wear shoes. It sounded like a nonsensical work of fiction.
“Too bad you’re not going to be here for more than a day. The Red Wings are playing Toronto this weekend at the Olympia. Being an invasion trooper, you’d love the violence. When those two teams get it on there is one brawl after another. Even the fans get into it and start fighting in the stands. Oh, I forgot the best part. The fans throw octopuses onto the ice.”
Morg looked at Jimmy and wondered if he had made a good decision hiring him as an escort. Some of the things he described were bizarre. But it was too late to make changes. It was Jimmy for the next twenty plus hours.
“Okay, man, here we are. Up those stairs and ask for Henrietta. I’ll wait for you here.”
Morg cautiously strutted into the foot fetish parlor and asked for the Madam.
“Madam Henrietta, my name is Morg. Jimmy, the cab driver, recommended I talk to you.”
