The Rebellion Hyperbole

by John P. Logsdon

  Trek grabbed a quick shower and then fled out the door before Herb could change his mind.

  “Have a good evening, sir,” said the robot as Trek walked through the lobby.

  “You, too,” he replied, exiting the building.

  He walked across to Ergy’s Joint, which was only a block away, as Agent Belchore had said.

  Even if Trek hadn’t been given directions, it wouldn’t have been difficult to find. Ergy’s Joint stuck out like a sore thumb. Neon signs littered the main entrance, each saying “Ergy’s Joint” in one font or another, all in different colors. Trek stopped counting them after 10. And it was obvious that it was a club targeted at Worges, primarily because it had Worge music blaring, which consisted of driving drums and deep voices that said, “Huwach!” over and over, but also because the clientele was predominantly Worge.

  He spotted Torg and Opal at one of the corner tables. They were waving him over.

  “Gentlemen,” Trek said loudly as he pulled up a chair.

  “Captain,” Torg said, raising a glass.

  “Hello, sir,” said Opal.

  Trek shook his head and tapped out his order on the table tablet, slid his WristChip™, and sat back. An instant later, a bottle of Kurbers Light shimmered into existence.

  “Bottle man, eh?” Torg said. “When I was in the military, my commanding officer once said that a man who chooses the bottle over the draft ain’t likely to die in a war.”

  “Heh,” Trek said. “Double meaning. Cute.”

  “It is?” Torg furrowed his brow and looked off for a second before smiling. “Hah! Who knew?”

  “Your CO.”

  “I guess he did,” Torg said, tipping back his drink. “Was a total prick, my CO.”

  By the time the rest of the crew arrived, Trek had dropped three Kurbers. Opal, who had tried to keep up with them, was lying face down in a bowl of chips. For his part, Torg seemed to be perfectly sober, even after slamming back at least six shots of the strong stuff.

  “What’d you get to drink?” Belchore asked.

  “Just a Kurbers—”

  “Not you,” Belchore said before turning back to Torg.

  “Just havin’ a few clips of this Worge Drazzer,” answered Torg before he took another shot.

  “That’s some heavy stuff,” Belchore said, looking rather impressed.

  “It’s all right,” Torg said with a shrug. “Kind of weak compared to the stuff my uncle used to brew up in his backyard.”

  “Really?” both Belchore and Trek asked at the same time.

  “That stuff will put a hole right through your ass,” Torg said seriously.

  Opal sat up suddenly and said, “I already got a hole in my ass!” Then he collapsed again.

  Everyone laughed, including Adna, who had just arrived. She seemed to really get into the belly laugh before she stopped and said, “What’s funny?”

  The night rolled on and Trek’s plan to get everyone to learn a bit about each other was a success. It was clear that he and Belchore weren’t bound to see eye-to-eye, but as long as Trek kept firm when they were together, the Worge would keep his place. It was their way. The moment Trek slipped up, though, there would be trouble. Torg had a bit of that outlaw mentality; tough and rugged to the core. At least as far as a gardener could be. Opal was clearly incapable of handling liquor, so Trek didn’t learn much about him. Adna was aloof, not very talkative, and just plain odd.

  Trek was pleased to note that everyone, including Belchore, was ordering a glass of water every now and then. It showed that they’d listened to him and he knew that one by one, they’d thank him in the morning.

  He checked his datapad and saw it was approaching midnight. Time always flew by when Trek was drinking. The combination of Soothe and booze slowed his processing of the world.

  “I’d better call it a night,” he said, pulling himself up.

  “Probably a good call,” Torg said as he splashed a little water on Opal’s face. The Velcrian bolted upright and shook his head. “Gotta get your ass home, boy. You’re going to need to sleep this off.”

  “Ugh…my head.”

  “Yep,” Torg said as he dragged Opal toward the exit.

  “Nice of him,” Trek said to Belchore.

  “Don’t understand them two,” Belchore said. “Torg seems like a tough guy, but he’s okay to that kid.”

  “It happens. Like with you and Adna.”

  “And you and Elf.”

  “Oh yeah,” Trek said. “I wonder where he’s at?”

  “After you left the office he said he had a standing party line thing and couldn’t make it.”

  “Ah,” said Trek, not wanting to show that he didn’t know what a “partyline thing” was. “Well, we’ll just have to catch him the next time around.”

  “Whatever.”

  Runs Away

  Trek awoke to the sound of buzzing, signaling that Herb had started his morning meditation. It happened every day at the same time, making for the perfect alarm clock.

  Thanks to the Soothe he had taken before he jumped into drinking the night before, Trek’s head felt fine. If anything, it simply longed for another wafer.

  “Not this morning,” he whispered as he sat up and ran a hand through his hair before heading to the shower.

  As soon as he’d finished getting cleaned up, he pulled on his new GDA outfit, which was a little snug in the buttocks region, and checked his image in the mirror. All in all, he looked pretty slick. Authoritative, certainly.

  Just as he flicked out the light in the room, his datapad chimed.

  It was McCracken.

  He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders before accepting the connection. “Good morning, Commander.”

  “If you think this is a good morning, Captain, you’ve definitely not seen the morning news!”

  “Uh, no, not yet, sir. Was just about to head into the office to—”

  “The first thing you should be doing is keeping your ear to the ground, Mr. Gibbons,” McCracken interrupted hotly. “I brought you on this station to solve a major issue. That means one hundred percent focus and attention. If you are unable to handle that, then maybe a trip back to your pal Riggo is in your future.”

  Trek felt his blood start to boil.

  This was why he hated being employed. A stupid boss that could say whatever he or she wanted, berating you, having you do a bunch of silly tasks that didn’t matter—at least not to you—and giving you grief about anything and everything. But what could he do? He was trapped. He’d had friends over the years who had such high-paying jobs that they’d stuck through the idiot bosses regardless of the pain. They described it as having “golden handcuffs.” Trek’s were more like “saving-my-ass-from-getting-killed handcuffs.”

  “Are we clear?” McCracken asked.

  “We are,” Trek replied tightly.

  “Check the news and figure out what the hell is going on!”

  The screen went blank as Trek reconsidered taking that hit of Soothe. Again, he decided against it, but he tucked a couple of wafers into his shirt pocket, just in case.

  Herb had finished his morning meditation when Trek came out.

  “You look upset,” Herb noted.

  “I just got reamed by McCracken. He’s after me because I haven’t seen the news this morning. Saying that I have to get my head in the game. All of that.” He took a calming breath. “The part that pisses me off most about it, though, is that he’s right. Even if I didn’t have to hang on to this job in order to hang on to my life, I still should be taking this more seriously. I’m not a kid anymore, you know?”

  “Well…”

  “Besides, at some point I’m going to have to do something more than just sit around getting stoned. No matter how wonderful that sounds.”

  “Right, but...”

  Trek was pacing now. “There was a time when I had the gumption. I had the desire. I was going to conquer the universe!”

  “You don’t have t
he firepower to…”

  “But one day I realized that my dreams didn’t mesh with my reality.” He stopped behind one of the flower-print chairs. “What I wanted out of life was beyond my capability.”

  “You mean writing.”

  Trek groaned. “I was awful.”

  “Still are.”

  “But for awhile there, I got to live the life of a real author!”

  “Sort of.”

  “Yes, I know that Rebben Coolait was the true author of The Adventures of Trek Gibbons,” admitted Trek, resuming his pacing, “but I was the man in the book. I was the hero. It was me that Rebben was writing about.”

  “Actually…”

  “And I took all that success and threw it away on getting stoned.”

  This time Herb said nothing.

  Trek sighed and flipped on the news.

  …which turns out to be one of the worst cases of mass diarrhea ever recorded on Quarn.

  “Diarrhea?”

  Last count showed that there were over seven hundred thousand reported cases. The infirmaries have had to activate emergency protocols and medical robots. Plus, janitor robots have been working incessantly to try and stem the amount of feces being ejected from each and every race—other than robots, of course.

  “Crap,” Trek said, looking pale.

  “I believe that’s what he’s talking about, yes.”

  The current thinking is that the water system has been tainted. We are joined now by Captain Broog from Internal Security. Good morning, Captain Broog.

  Not really.

  No, I suppose not. Has your office found the cause of this epidemic as of yet?

  Broog adjusted in his chair. I was told that we believe this is another attack from The Rebellion. It’s thought that they tainted the water.

  Is that what you believe, Captain?

  Sure, I guess, answered Broog with a shrug.

  You don’t know what you believe, Captain?

  Look, lady, I know what I was told to believe.

  Right, but do you believe it?

  Broog’s eyebrows went up. Do I believe that I was told something to believe? Yeah, I guess so. I was there when it happened.

  No, I mean…

  Trek shut down the TV. How someone with Broog’s brains made it all the way to the top of I.S. was… actually quite understandable when Trek thought about how he himself was the current head of the GDA. It’s not like he brought much to the job either.

  He flicked his datapad and did a conference call with all of the GDA crew.

  Everyone answered and they all looked a bit miffed.

  “I’m assuming you’ve all heard the news?”

  “Heard it?” Belchore said angrily. “I’m living it! Great tip on drinking loads of water so we wouldn’t get a hangover. I’d much rather have a hangover.”

  “I’m with him, Cap’n,” Torg said, looking more haggard than usual.

  “Ugh,” Opal said, covering his eyes.

  “Opal’s the lucky one,” Torg said with a wince. “He didn’t drink the water.”

  “I don’t feel so lucky,” said the little fellow.

  “Trust me, kid…oh boy, gotta go…literally!”

  Trek cringed as Torg disappeared from the feed.

  “Heard from Adna?” Trek asked.

  “She’s in with the doctor now,” answered Belchore. “Say, how come you’re not sick? Didn’t you drink the water like you told all of us to?”

  “No,” Trek replied guiltily. “I used a different protection mechanism.”

  Belchore’s eyes widened. “Soothe?”

  Trek nodded while grinding his teeth, then he took control of the call again. “What’s the prognosis?”

  Belchore shook his head. “Doc says it’ll be hours before we stop.”

  “Herb?”

  “Already on it,” Herb said as he was packing up his backpack. “Just give me their location and I’ll get them squared away.”

  “What’s he talking about?”

  “He’s got medications that will give you relief much sooner.”

  “With side effects?”

  “Probably.”

  “Well, I don’t know about…” Belchore groaned and his eyes crossed. “Okay, okay, tell him to hurry up!”

  Thirty minutes later Trek and Elf met at the front door to the GDA building and jumped the transit system to the Center for Treating Sickness (CTS).

  Elf kept trying to start conversations during the trip, but Trek consistently waved him into silence. Right now Trek had to think. First the communications hub gets hacked and now the water supply is tainted. Obviously The Rebellion was behind this, and it was clear that they weren’t too fond of The Committee, but how could Trek take that information and solve this case? If only Rebben were still around to help him.

  He stared out the window at the passing buildings and cars. Life had been so much more exciting back when he was famous. More complicated, yes, but in a good way. Having money was better than not having money, that was for sure.

  “Sir,” Elf said, jolting Trek from his thoughts. “We’re here.”

  “Huh? Oh, right.”

  They stepped out of the vehicle and crossed into the CTS.

  Guards stood at the main door, but they quickly moved out of his way as he held his badge up.

  “Good morning, sir,” the guards said as he passed by.

  He didn’t respond.

  They walked in and headed straight for the information desk. The room was full of activity. People were wearing nurses outfits, white lab coats, and so on as they strode purposefully in all directions.

  “Who’s in charge here?” he asked as they got to the main desk.

  The receptionist, a Velcrian female with large brown eyes, said, “Dr. Proonoph, sir.”

  “I need to speak with him immediately.”

  “He’s a she, sir.”

  “Then I need to speak with her immediately.”

  “She’s standing right behind you, sir.”

  Trek spun around and saw an Awkian female wearing a white lab coat. Her long talon had been precariously close to his back. He gave her a strong look and she lowered the claw.

  “Well, that was fast,” Trek said.

  “Your outfit looks rather tight around your buttocks,” Dr. Proonoph said.

  “That’s not your concern,” Trek responded with a squint. “What have we learned about the water issue?”

  “It’s Kretizophomin.”

  “What?”

  “SquirtLax™,” Elf said. “I’ve been trying to tell you that the entire trip over here.”

  Trek turned sharply toward Elf. “You mean we didn’t have to come here?”

  “Nope.”

  Trek threw his arms up. “Why didn’t you tell me that!”

  Elf threw his arms up in response. “I tried!”

  “Crap,” said Trek, chastising himself for not listening.

  “Correct,” agreed Dr. Proonoph.

  GOD Stopped Talking

  The Committee’s meeting was already underway when McCracken walked into the chambers. They were more subdued than McCracken was used to, and the typical smell of spices and cheese had been replaced with tea and cookies.

  Something was wrong, beyond the norm of what was always wrong.

  “Supreme Commander McCracken,” said Nebby, “it’s so nice of you to join us. You do know that our meetings start around mid-morning, yes?”

  “Couldn’t be helped,” McCracken answered solidly. “Unlike you, Delegate Nebby, I have duties to attend to in the morning.”

  “Apologies only go so far…” Nebby sat up straight. “Wait, what was that again?”

  “He called you lazy, Nebby,” Beng said.

  “That’s what I thought he said. The nerve!”

  Clayzon stood and raised her voice. “I’m sure that the commander did not intend that as it sounded. Isn’t that correct, Commander?”

  She gave him one of those looks that only Yopperians w
ere capable of giving. It froze the average being in its tracks, but McCracken wasn’t your ordinary being. He was a battle-hardened soldier who had faced the squadrons on Morlond 3, after all. Still, one well-versed in the art of war knew when to fight and when to turn away.

  “Slip of the tongue, Delegate Nebby,” he said with a strained bow.

  “Well, it had better have…”

  “Now that we have that cleared up,” Clayzon interrupted, “what have we learned about this Rebellion? Has the new agency turned up anything as yet?”

  McCracken wanted to tell them that the new agency was as impotent as he had built them to be, but this wouldn’t have scored him points with anyone. He had to keep their concerns at a full boil.

  “They have made some progress, ma’am. Mostly in tracking down symbolic meanings from the first attack, but they are currently entrenched in investigating the tainting of the water supply.”

  “We had hoped for more,” said Nebby, slumping slightly.

  “As did I,” McCracken said, despising the fact that he had to defend the worthless department. But that was exactly what he had to do. “The GDA hasn’t even been on station for a full cycle yet. It will take them time to acclimate and study the details of the case.”

  “And what about Mr. Gibbons?” asked Clayzon.

  “Precisely as I expected him to be, ma’am,” McCracken replied evenly, knowing full well what he actually meant.

  “Good, good,” said Clayzon, and then she tilted her head. “That is good, right?”

  “It is what it is, ma’am. I don’t put stock in things too heavily until those things demonstrate the ability to be believed in, ma’am.”

  “Sensible,” Beng said.

  Clayzon sat down suddenly and began to turn a darker shade of red. Everyone was murmuring back and forth. Hand gestures were slight instead of flamboyant. This just wasn’t The Committee that McCracken had come to know and hate.

  “Is there something more I should know, ma’am?” McCracken asked, looking directly at Clayzon.

  “We are a bit worried, Commander,” Clayzon answered softly. “We usually speak with GOD three times every day. Every day, Commander. In the last year we have not missed a single discussion. Even when we are on vacation or on off-world assignments or diplomatic missions, we always speak with GOD.”