Space Team- The Collected Adventures 4

by Barry J. Hutchison

  “OK, that’s it. This fonk is going down!” Mech barked, but before he could raise his weapons, a long stinger burst from Manacle’s arm and jammed against the side of Miz’s head, pinning her skull to the ground.

  “Call that thing off,” he warned, gesturing to where ‘Hacksaw’ Jim Duggan was in the process of decapitating a Third Lieutenant.

  Behind Duggan, another EDI man slumped to the ground, his skull bearing a rectangular indent that was exactly two inches wide by four inches deep.

  Cal shuffled awkwardly. “Uh, Splurt. I know this is possibly a little late, but could you stop killing those guys? Thanks.”

  ‘Hacksaw’ Jim Duggan thoughtfully rubbed his beard for a moment, then pulled a cartoonish, cross-eyed salute and collapsed, two-by-four and all, into a ball shape.

  Manacle gave a little nod of satisfaction. “Now—” he began.

  And then, he exploded. One moment, he was standing there, the next he was just a lot of guts, leather, and space plastic covering an area directly behind where he had been standing. His legs remained upright from the knees down, the flesh sizzling gently.

  After a moment, they both fell outward in opposite directions and landed in the mud with a thup.

  Everyone stared in mute shock. From the Currently Untitled there came the whine of the weapons system winding down.

  “Dreadfully sorry, everyone,” said Kevin. “It occurs to me that I probably should have thought of that sooner.”

  Cal stood just inside the kitchen doorway, dancing awkwardly from foot to foot and snapping his fingers to a rhythm only he could hear. Loren sat on the table, her feet resting on the bench, eating Frosted Flakes like popcorn.

  Splurt was on the table beside her, his eyes wide and pleading. Loren tossed him a few flakes and he devoured them ravenously. They sat, clearly visible in his gelatinous middle, as he went back to begging mode.

  “So,” said Cal.

  Loren tossed back some more of the flakes. “So.”

  “You OK?”

  “I’m OK. You OK?”

  “I’m OK,” Cal confirmed. “I’m better than that. I’m A-OK. Which is, like, a step up from… It’s the best kind of OK you can…”

  He shook his head. What the fonk was he talking about?

  He laughed falsely. “So, ‘I know,’ huh?”

  “Thought you’d like that,” Loren said. “It’s from that movie you made us watch. With the mice.”

  “Yeah, I… wait, what? What mice?”

  “The little mice,” said Loren, gesturing to the floor as if Cal could somehow see them there. “Boop-boop. The little robot mice who lived with the bad guys. They zoomed about the place. Boop-boop.”

  “Jesus, that’s what you took from The Empire Strikes Back?” Cal asked. “Robot mice?”

  Loren shrugged. “Well, that and, ‘I know.’”

  “Ahaha. Yes. Yes, you got that from it, alright,” he agreed. He tried to stay on topic, but found that he couldn’t let it go. “Robot mice, though? They were maintenance droids.”

  “What did they fix?” Loren asked.

  This caught Cal off guard. “I don’t know. Small things, I guess.” He shrugged. “Just anything at ankle-level or below. The point is—”

  “I love you, too.”

  Cal froze. Something inside his head seized up. Some vital cog that was necessary for his continued functioning stopped spinning. His mouth dropped open. He tried to say something, but was only able to form a single sound.

  “Huh?”

  Loren stood up and set the bowl on the table. Splurt eyed her until he was sure she wasn’t looking, then tipped the bowl onto the table in front of him and set about hoovering up the mess.

  They met somewhere by the replicator, their bodies entwining, their lips locking together. Splurt munched quietly on the Frosted Flakes, his eyes two saucers of wonder as he watched them kiss. He wasn’t sure what they were doing, exactly, but after some consideration and some more cereal, he decided he approved.

  “Sorry to interrupt, ma’am,” Kevin said. Loren and Cal pulled apart, both smiling awkwardly as they held each other’s gaze.

  “What is it, Kevin?” Cal sighed.

  “Master Mech has requested Mistress Loren’s presence on the bridge. He has asked that…” Kevin’s voice trailed off. Despite not actually possessing one, he quietly cleared his throat. “Do you know what, ma’am? I’ll tell him you’re busy. There’s no rush. It can wait.”

  Cal stepped closer to Loren, his hand on her lower back, pulling her close. He grinned up at the ceiling. “I love you, Kevin.”

  “I know, sir,” said the AI, his voice fading as he discreetly removed himself from the room. “I know.”

  Tyrra of the Symmorium sat at the bottom of the landing ramp, her bare feet resting in the mud. It sang to her through her toes, telling tales of her people. Of what they had been. And what, through her, they could be again.

  She didn’t understand it. Not fully. Not yet. But she was young, the Sentience told her. And she had all the time in the world.

  She remembered her father. She remembered all of them, of course, but she remembered her father most of all. He had guided her, supported her, loved her unconditionally. And now he was gone. They were all gone.

  “I don’t want to be alone,” Tyrra whispered into the forest.

  “Assertion: Rejected,” the Sentience replied in her head. “You are not alone.”

  “Hey, kid,” said a voice from the top of the ramp. “You’re, like, totally letting the cold in. Are you coming, or what?”

  The soil sang through Tyrra’s toes, telling tales of what she had been, and of what she would be.

  She stood up, dusted herself down, then turned and joined Miz at the top of the ramp.

  They met Cal as he danced out of the kitchen. Splurt bobbed happily on his shoulder, his eyes wide and bright and brimming with life, his insides positively packed with a certain sugar-coated Halloween breakfast cereal.

  Cal smiled at them both. One of his good ones, too. “Ladies!” he cheered. He bowed to them, theatrically. “Shall you be joining us on the flight deck this fine evening?”

  Tyrra and Miz exchanged a glance. Their eyes rolled in perfect unison.

  “Ugh,” said Miz.

  “Whatever,” added Tyrra.

  Cal’s smile fell a little as they both pushed past him and went stomping onto the bridge.

  “Well,” he whispered, looking sideways at Splurt. “This is going to be fun.”

  And then, with a spring in his step, and a song in his heart—(Jesus is My Spaceship (Let’s Ride Him Through the Stars), Copyright Klaus Hugen and Gottlieder Records, 1988)—he about-turned and headed for the bridge, and for whatever awaited them out there in the galaxy beyond.

  Epilogue

  The liquid in the pod burbled softly, gradually building to the sort of light simmer that would be perfect for boiling an egg, were one so inclined.

  Outside the pod, though, the solitary onlooker was not thinking about eggs. Instead, Lower Technician, Ray Gorman, was thinking that this wasn’t supposed to be happening. He was thinking that no one had warned him about this.

  The display was lit up like a Christmas tree, lights flashing and twinkling at him from all over the plastic panel. He’d found the manual in a little cupboard below the console, hidden behind a box of bulbs, a first aid kit, and a book of Sinstation discount vouchers that had expired three months earlier.

  Ray sat with it open now, his eyes tick-tocking between a diagram and the control panel as he attempted to make sense of what the lights were trying to tell him.

  A lot of things, seemed to be the answer. The lights were trying to tell him a lot of things, all at the same time. And, from what he could gather, none of the things they were trying to tell him were good.

  It wasn’t supposed to be doing this. Any of this. If it had been, there would’ve been someone better equipped than him to keep an eye on it. He was a glorified cleaner, nothing more. H
is job was to give the pod a daily once-over with a duster and, in the unlikely event that the need ever arose, to hit the button that activated the alarm.

  Ray reached for the button now and gave it a prod.

  It fell off and rolled under the terminal.

  “Fonk!”

  He didn’t know exactly how the pod worked, only that it was filled with some kind of genetic soup, and was used by Manacle when undergoing one of his regular gene splices, where elements of alien DNA were merged into his.

  There endeth his knowledge of the subject. He didn’t know what the genetic soup did, how the splicing worked, and he definitely didn’t know what that flashing red button with the question mark on it meant.

  He was never around when Manacle used the thing. The Boffins came in, and he cleared out to the staff canteen with a crossword for half an hour while they did whatever it was they did.

  He wished the Boffins were here now. They’d know what to do.

  Inside the coffin-size pod, a shadow moved.

  That wasn’t right, was it? There was nothing in there besides the liquid, and that was mostly clear, aside from a few lumpy bits that sometimes gathered around the filters.

  Curiosity getting the better of him, and with a hundred blinking lights illuminating him from below, Ray leaned over to get a better look through the dark-tinted glass.

  A hand—red, shiny, and barely fully formed—smashed through the pod’s glass front. Ray tried to cry out, but suddenly found himself sorely lacking in the windpipe department.

  “Maaa-teeeeee-reeee-al,” bubbled a voice from inside the pod, and then the lifeless body of Lower Technician, Ray Gorman, was pulled through the glass and swallowed by the darkness inside.

  THE END

  Space Team: The Hunt for Reduk Topa

  One

  Mud. So much mud. Holding him back. Slowing him down. Plastering him from head to toe with its cold, sticky filth. Why did he have to turn right? Why did he have to come this way? Why hadn’t he stuck to the streets?

  Because of Juggacrush. That was why. There was no way he was tangling with Juggacrush. No fonking way. He’d seen what that guy was capable of. Everyone had.

  Sollon Romusk squinted through the darkness, then drew an arm across his face, wiping the rain from his eyes. It didn’t help. He careened half-blind down the muddy hillside, his other three arms flapping frantically as he fought to keep his balance.

  He had to stay upright. Had to keep moving. The Sloorgs were already closing behind him – he could hear their hisses and snarls. If he fell, it was over. If he fell, he was dead.

  He fell.

  In fact, to say he fell was to do what he actually did a disservice. He flew. His front foot hit the top of a half-buried boulder, his back foot hit his front foot, and a combination of gravity, momentum, and plain old bad luck did the rest.

  Sollon took off at a sixty-degree angle, sailed several feet into the midnight black, then his chest hit the mud with enough force to knock most of the air and almost all of the fight out of him.

  He would probably have lain there until the Sloorgs caught up, exhausted and helpless, had it not been for the kinetic energy gifted to him by his spectacular fall. It propelled him down the slope, mud fully blinding him and filling his various facial orifices as his chin carved a trench through the sludge.

  He swore, albeit internally. Despite the indignity of the situation, though, he knew that this was good. He was still moving. He was going faster than he had been before, in fact. And, if he was still moving, then he was still alive. If he was still moving, he could still make it.

  If he was still moving, he could still win.

  His face met another rock. He didn’t see it coming, not that he could have done anything much about it, even if he had. There was no dramatic flight this time, just a sudden jarring stop that brought his legs up behind him until his body formed a C-shape and his spine creaked in complaint.

  His nose took the brunt of the impact, but the bone generously collapsed so that his cheeks, mouth and forehead might get in on the action, too. Blood flowed backward into a throat already filled with dirt. He hacked and coughed, the ringing in his ears not quite loud enough to drown out the snarling of the approaching Sloorgs.

  They’d be on him at any moment. He had to get up. Had to go. Had to move.

  He tried to push himself up on all four arms, but his muscles were too weak, and the ground was too slippery, and he fell again almost immediately. His forehead met a sharp ridge on the rock. The last of his strength oozed out through the resulting gash.

  Sollon Romusk sobbed, just once. It was a low, primal sort of sound that rang with defeat, and heartache, and remorse for a life badly lived.

  He heard the barking of the Sloorgs grow louder as they crested the hill. Felt the movement of the mud around him as their brutish bodies slid down. Smelled the coppery scent of his own blood. Tasted mud, shattered teeth, and hot, salty tears.

  And then, just before the monsters could pounce, a whistle sounded, short and shrill. A spotlight snapped on, bright enough to somehow dazzle Sollon through the back of his head. The Sloorgs skidded to a halt just beyond the circle of light, huffing and grunting their disapproval.

  “Aaaand halt,” said an efficiently smooth-sounding male voice from somewhere close by. “Someone get him up.”

  Two dark-clad figures stepped from the darkness. Rough hands hoisted Sollon onto his feet.

  “Can we clean him up? But not too much. Let’s keep the authenticity,” said the voice.

  Sollon shuffled on the spot as one of the figures dabbed at his face, removing just enough dirt, blood, and other debris to make him recognizable.

  “Perfect, Chyenne. Just perfect,” said the voice. “Not terribly beautiful, but beautifully terrible. Just the way we like it!”

  There was a smattering of laughter from nowhere in particular. A piece of paper was thrust into Sollon’s hands. He accepted it in a sort of trance, the blow to the head having slowed his brain’s ability to process what the fonk was going on down to a grinding crawl.

  “OK, Sollon, you’re doing great. Just terrific!” said the voice. “We’re all loving you. Audience satisfaction is high on this. It’s really high.”

  “Buh?” said Sollon, not entirely on purpose.

  “Riiight,” said the voice, after a moment. “We’re going to need you to be a teensy bit less monosyllabic for this next part. We need you to read the statement for us, OK? Think you can do that? Hmm?”

  Sollon looked down at the paper, but it was blurred by tears. Without a word, one of the black-clad figures stepped forward and blasted his eyes with a burst of warm air, drying them.

  “Read it into that,” the figure instructed, pointing to a sphere that hovered in the air just inside the circle of light. Behind it, just beyond where the light fell away, the Sloorgs paced and snuffled and pawed impatiently at the ground.

  “Nice and clear for us,” said the smooth-talking male voice. “If you have any personal experience, feel free to go off script and mention it. Provided it’s positive, of course. Now, clear the set.”

  The two figures in black melted into the shadows, leaving Sollon alone in the spotlight. He cleared his throat. It tasted of dirty metal.

  The paper shook and his voice quavered as he began to read.

  “Th-this episode is sponsored by Murp’s Insurance. S-sick of low-life pirates like me hijacking your ships, killing your families, and stealing your cargo?” he croaked. “Have no fear, Murp is here. W-with a Murp’s Insurance policy, you’re covered up to the full value of the stolen property. We’ll even throw in a…”

  A tear had fallen onto the page, blurring the ink and partially obscuring the next few words.

  “Complimentary funeral service,” whispered one of the black-clad figures.

  “A complimentary funeral service for any m-murdered loved-ones or employees,” Sollon continued. “Contact us now for a full, no-obligation quote. Save ten percent on
the price of the first premium by using the code…”

  Sollon’s voice cracked as he read the next line.

  “‘Mauled by Sloorgs.’”

  He began to lower the page, but the sound of a throat being cleared stopped him and he looked back down at the paper again.

  “Oh. Terms and conditions apply,” he said, blinking apologetically into the light. “Sorry.”

  “Perfect. Beautiful. Just beautiful,” oozed the smooth male voice. “Thanks, champ. I think we can get back to it.”

  The sphere retreated. The spotlight snapped off. The paper fell from Sollon’s hand.

  And then, in a chorus of triumphant roars and rumbling stomachs, the Sloorgs pounced.

  Two

  “Jesus, Mech, be careful with that thing.”

  The cyborg, Mech, scowled. This was not new. He had been scowling for a while now, but the expression had really hit its stride over the past twenty minutes or so. He raised his eyes to the man sitting directly across from him and fixed him with a cold glare.

  “I am being careful.”

  Cal Carver, the ship’s self-styled captain, returned Mech’s scowl with interest. “You call that careful? You’re like a bull in a china shop.”

  “What does that mean?” Mech asked.

  “You know, like…” Cal made a series of flailing movements with his arms. “Like that.”

  “I ain’t doing anything like that,” Mech argued. “I haven’t fonking moved.”

  “Well, be careful when you do is all I’m saying. Take your time. You don’t want to set that thing off.”

  “Yeah, well maybe you don’t want to set me off,” Mech warned.

  “I’m just trying to help,” Cal said. He leaned back from the table and crossed his arms. “But fine. Go right ahead. Set it off. Knock yourself out. See if I care.”

  Mech muttered something too quietly for Cal to hear, then flicked his eyes down to the contraption on the table between them.