by Edward Zajac
Zagarat caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. “Are you sure it’s not behind the door over there? The one with the word COCKPIT written on it?”
Fletcher turned towards the sign then back towards Zag. “Oh, you think you’re so smart, don’t you?” he said with an acerbic glare that could have curdled milk.
“Not really,” said Zagarat. “I’m just smarter than…” Fletcher quirked an eyebrow. “No one. No one at all.” Zag gestured towards the door. “After you.”
Fletcher opened the cockpit door, peeking his head inside. When no one shot at him, he waved Zag forward. “Get on that console and find out what you can,” he said. “I’ll watch the door.”
Zagarat pulled out his LRX cable and jacked into the console. Manual hacking might have been safer, but direct coupling was faster. And he definitely needed fast right about now.
“Are you in yet?” asked Fletcher.
“I just jacked in,” carped Zagarat. “Give me a moment to at least figure out the OS.” Zagarat scoffed. “Suns, they use Dauntlaside. Idiots.”
“Are you in or not?” Fletcher carped back.
“Yes, I’m in,” said Zagarat, getting his fill of protein from all this carp. “I’m just trying to find their flight plan. Their d-base is a mess. Probably because they use Dauntlaside. If they used Magiverse, it’d be a whole lot easier.”
“Well, hurry up,” said Fletcher. “We don’t have a lot of time.”
“You don’t think I know that,” said Zagarat. “I’m working as fast as I…”
The sound of metal creaking overhead pierced the air, causing Zagarat to freeze. The noise came from somewhere overhead. He waited and waited, but it didn’t return.
Zag shook his head. It was probably just metal expanding. The hull was routinely subjected to all sorts of temperature fluctuations in space, so it made sense that the deusteel would…
Another sound pierced the air. A sound like wind breaking. Not only breaking, but crackling like thunder.
Zag glanced over at Fletcher just as Fletcher turned towards him.
“Was that what I think it was?” said Zagarat softly.
As if in reply, the noise crackled in the air again, clearer and closer than before. There was no mistake about it now. It definitely sounded like someone farting.
“Eh, crap,” sighed Fletcher.
“What do we do?” said Zag, his sotto-voce belying his terror. “What do we do?”
“Get under the console,” said Fletcher softly, motioning towards the far corner.
Zagarat looked around, his eyes wild with fear. “What? What?”
“Betaliss, this is Comtek,” said a far off voice. “Come in, Betaliss.”
“Someone’s coming,” said Fletcher through clenched teeth. “Hide.”
Not one to argue with such erudition, Zag rolled under the console, balling himself into the tightest ball he possibly could, hugging his arms and knees close to his chest.
He looked up. To his amazement, Fletcher wasn’t hiding. He was standing a few feet away from the cockpit doors, his back pressed up against the wall, pistol in hand.
There was another crackle in the air. A moment later, a light skinned Lerandan with azure hair appeared at the doorway, toweling his gaunt, naked body as he strode inside.
“I don’t care if you’re busy,” said the Lerandan, wiping his face as he approached the console. He wrapped the towel around his waist, pausing inches away from Zagarat. “There’s been a change in plans. The commander wants these beds delivered first, so get your asteroids here now.”
Zagarat pressed his back against the console, trying to will himself through the deusteel wall and into the corridors of grey sector. Not only was he inches away from certain death, but all that separated Zag from the man’s, aw geez… was a thin layer of Gerotton fiber.
A thin layer that was slowly slipping down to the ground.
No, no, no, thought Zagarat. Don’t fall. Don’t fall. Don’t fall. Aw, geez.
Zagarat grimaced, turning away from the gruesome sight before it grew some more.
It was then that Zag saw something far more frightening, which he didn’t think was possible until that very moment. He saw Fletcher Griffin, the privateer who had hired him and protected him all these days, slipping outside the open cockpit doors.
Zag’s mouth fell open. The bastard left him. The bastard left him alone in here to die.
Just then, as if the universe wasn’t done screwing with Zagarat, the Lerandan chose that exact moment to turn around, lean back against the console, and let loose some internal pressure.
A puff of flatus struck Zagarat square in the face, warming his skin as the fetid air travelled up his nose and down his throat. He gasped for air, sounding a bit like a toad drowning in a fetid bog as he choked down his choking.
“We’re leaving in five minutes,” said the Lerandan into the comm, seemingly oblivious to Zagarat’s apoplectic fits beneath the console. “Be here or be dead. Comtek out.”
Comtek then exited the cockpit, his footfalls growing duller and softer with time.
Zagarat waved the fetid stench away, pawing at his face as if trying to scrape a mask of flatus from his cheeks. When he could finally breathe again, he looked up at the door. Fletcher was still nowhere to be seen.
He was all alone. He was all alone on this ship.
He began trembling, uncertain what to do now. Flee seemed to be in the lead in the Zagarat Cole Derby, followed by Pee His Pants, Quaver in Place, and Die From Shock, while Shitting Himself was coming on strong from behind.
Just then, Fletcher slipped back inside the cockpit. “You can come out. He’s gone.”
Zagarat pushed himself to his feet, his hands still trembling. “I thought you left me.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” said Fletcher, as if insulted by the mere notion. “I was just making sure there was no one else onboard.”
“Uh-huh,” grumbled Zagarat, jacking back into the console. “Is there anyone else aboard?”
“Not that I could tell,” said Fletcher. “Of course I didn’t know he was aboard so…” He held up his hands when Zagarat eyed him obliquely. “Okay, okay. I admit that wasn’t one of my finest moments. But how was I to know the captain was still aboard? They usually go carousing on the station while the guards, you know, actually guard.”
“Mm-hmm,” grumbled Zagarat, jacking out of the console.
“You got the information yet?” asked Fletcher.
“I think so,” said Zagarat. “According to the d-base, they’re delivering the beds to a ship in Sector 989-465-777-876.” He looked up. “I think that might be Xena Xa’s ship.”
“Nice,” said Fletcher. “We can follow them there. Let’s go before anyone else shows up.”
Fletcher led the way back into the cargo hold, his pistol pointing the way. They made it all the way to the airlock when Fletcher grabbed a hold of Zagarat’s shirt, pulling him back.
“Eh, crap,” said Fletcher, pressing his back up against the wall.
“What?” asked Zagarat in a whisper. “What is it?”
“The guards are back.” Overhead, the deusteel gangway creaked and groaned as if someone was walking upon it. “Eh, crap.”
“What do we do?” asked Zagarat, desperately. Fletcher’s eyes darted across the cargo hold as if searching for something. “Fletcher, what do we do?”
The privateer pointed off into the distance. “Do you see that console over there?”
“Where?”
Zagarat turned to look when he suddenly felt a prick up against his neck. And that prick was Fletcher, holding a stylus in his hand. Zag slapped at the pain when his knees suddenly gave way beneath him. He would have surely hit the floor if Fletcher hadn’t caught him.
“Sorry,” said Fletcher, cradling Zag in his arms.
Just as the universe began fading to black, Zagarat was able to utter with his waning strength, “You sunning dif…”
agarat’s eyes fl
uttered open. There was nothing but darkness all around him. He gasped for air as a great weight pressed down upon his chest.
His eyes grew wide. Was he having a heart attack? Was this what a cardiac episode felt like? On medical dramavids, the patients always clutched their chest, or chests if they were Gregalians with three torsos, and fell onto their backs, gasping for air.
Well, Zag was already on his back, which put the motion up for legislative consideration. And he was gasping for air, which seconded the motion. Now, he just had to die suddenly and the Law of Imminent Death From Cardiac Event would pass both the House and the Senate, only to go on to the Cosmic Creator who would either sign his death into existence or veto Zagarat back into the land of the living.
That was when Zag saw those eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes staring down at him.
“You son of a…”
“Shh,” came a voice, soft yet commanding.
But Zagarat didn’t shh. He had no intention of shh-ing. He squirmed back and forth, struggling to free himself from under the Fletcher-sized boulder on his chest.
“Stop it,” said the voice, those disembodied eyes darting from side to side.
“You sunning piece of…” A hand clamped his mouth shut mid-curse.
He continued to writhe under Fletcher’s weight, mumbling a colorful array of invectives that could have colored an expletive rainbow of filth. Then he felt another prick in the side of his neck and the universe once again faded to black.
Zagarat awoke again when the universe began moving beneath his feet. Or in this case, beneath his back. He opened his eyes. Those same effulgent blue eyes stared back at him.
“Zag,” whispered a voice. “Relax. It’s just me. Fletcher.”
“I know who it is, you sunning piece of…”
A hand clamped his mouth shut again. “Zag, do you want me to use the syringe again?”
Zagarat froze, staring up at those disembodied eyes. He shook his head. “Mm-mmm.”
The refulgent eyes narrowed to tiny blue slits. “Is that mm-mmm yes or mm-mmm no?”
“Mm-mm-mm-mm,” mumbled Zagarat into the hand.
“I’ll take that as a no,” said Fletcher. “Now, I’m gonna take my hand away. Don’t make any sudden movements and definitely don’t scream. Do you understand?” Zag nodded. “Good.”
The hand disappeared and Zagarat inhaled deeply. Then he immediately wished he hadn’t as a fetid smell filled his senses. In fact, it practically smelled as bad as the restroom at last year’s Deusteel Gut Competition.
Almost, but not quite as foul.
The Lerandan Deusteel Gut Competition was an annual contest that tested the intestinal fortitude of over one thousand participants. Last year’s event was the Sour Milk and Maggot Margarita Marathon. The first to drink all thirty drinks without becoming violently sick was declared the winner. The participant was declared the winner because no one who actually finished the event ever felt like a winner. The Raw Giffish Hot Sauce was particularly pungent, making Zag’s eyes water from his vantage point nearly fifteen hundred yards away.
To make matters worse, the Durra Durra Durra fraternity decided to hold its Spiciest Chinny Cook-Off on the very same day, in the very same building, just down the hall from the Incontinent’s Anonymous Fundraiser.
His stomach churned just thinking about it.
A puff of air escaped Zagarat’s lungs as Fletcher collapsed atop of him. Worse still, Fletcher grazed Zag’s fleshy meteorites with his knee as he fell, the sunning bastard. The privateer tried to right himself three times and each time he succeeded only to fail moments later.
The sunning bastard.
“Are you all right?” asked Fletcher.
“Move your knee and then ask me,” grumbled Zagarat.
“Sorry,” said Fletcher, shifting his weight. “Better?”
Zagarat sighed. “Much better. Thank you. Where are we anyway?”
“Wellll,” said Fletcher. “Promise you won’t get mad.” Zagarat growled gutturally. “I’ll take that as a yes. Funny enough, we’re actually inside one of those hyperbolic chambers.”
“You mean hyperbaric.”
“Same difference,” said Fletcher. “I put you in here after you passed out.”
“You mean, after you knocked me out,” said Zagarat, clenching his teeth.
“Again, same difference. While you slept, I hid in one of their storage lockers. After they docked with the ship, I slipped inside here with you when no one was looking. Pretty stellar, huh?”
“But I could have suffocated in here,” said Zagarat, trying to keep his voice at a whisper.
“Relax,” said Fletcher. “I turned on the life support system for you.”
“What if they had noticed that the life support system was on and turned it off?”
“Hmm,” said Fletcher. “I didn’t think of that. Well, it’s a good thing that didn’t happen.”
“You… son of a… bast…”
All the profanity Zagarat had accumulated over the years tried to escape at once as Zag slapped wildly at the privateer. And it was a very long queue indeed.
Fletcher pinned Zagarat’s arms to his sides. “Would you relax? I have it all figured out. On the way here, I heard them talking. These are just a supplementary supply of biodbeds. They’re supposed to deliver them directly to storage, then gate off for another important pick up. So, all we have to do is wait until they drop us off, then I’ll slip outside and scope the place out. It’s brilliant.”
“That is stupid and idiotic. You’re gonna get us both killed, you slaggen diflick.”
“A slaggen diflick?” said Fletcher. “Really? Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”
“Hate you,” growled Zagarat through clenched teeth.
“But I thought we were really bonding,” said Fletcher in a pained tone.
“Hate you,” said Zagarat, writhing in place.
The biochamber suddenly stopped moving. Fletcher and Zag immediately froze, neither moving for what seemed like an eternity, but was actually five minutes or so.
“See?” said Fletcher proudly when nothing happened. “Now, all we have to do is wait until-”
Before Fletcher could finish his sentence, the lid to their chamber opened and a bright light like a blazing sun pierced the darkness, blinding Zagarat.
He held out his hand, turning every which in order to avoid the light. But there was no avoiding it. Then a great blue moon eclipsed the blazing sun, easing the glare.
A great blue moon being a Weiylan head in this case.
The Weiylan reeled back at the sight of them. He considered them for a moment, what he considered them to be was an absolute mystery to Zag, then leaned forward until his head was practically inside the hyperbaric chamber.
“Hello,” drawled the Weiylan, waggling his fingers as he grinned goofishly at them.
“Hello,” said Fletcher and Zagarat in unison, aping the Weiylan’s motions.
The Weiylan pointed a massive finger at them. “Sents in chamber.”
“Uh, yes,” said Fletcher. “Yes, we are.”
The Weiylan waggled his massive blue head, tossing his wiry ebon locks from side to side. “Sents not sposed to be in chamber.”
“True,” said Fletcher, pointing his finger into the air. “But I can explain.”
The Weiylan shrugged. “Okay,” he said, as if swayed by Fletcher’s compelling argument. He reached out his massive hand, his muscles rippling beneath his grease-stained grey uniform.
“Oh,” said Fletcher, staring at the great blue paw before pulling himself upright. “Thanks.”
The Weiylan nodded then reached out his hand to Zagarat. Even though the Weiylan could have probably crushed Zag’s hand with little to no effort, he was absolutely gentle as he enrobed Zagarat’s hand in his massive blue paw and pulled him to his feet.
Zagarat had every intention of standing. He really did. He even told his legs, Legs, we’re going to stand now so do whatever it is you normal
ly do to keep me from falling over. But his legs evidently weren’t quite ready to return to work after such a restful vacation and Zagarat crumbled precipitously to the ground. Luckily, the Weiylan caught Zag mid-crumble and sat him down on the edge of the biobed, tapping him gingerly on the head.
“Thanks,” said Zagarat, his gratitude laced with suspicion. The whole thing was surreal. It was like awaking in the middle of a Leyen lion’s den, only to find the lion all too happy to make your acquaintance. All too happy to take your coat and your hat. And would you like something to eat? I just made a seared Xee mouse that is absolutely succulent. No? Well, no worries. I’ll find you something else. Now, just sit back and relax. I’ll be right back.
All Zagarat could think to do was smile awkwardly and hope the lion didn’t suddenly remember that he was a carnivore with a particular penchant for Lerandan beef.
Zag took a furtive look around the room as he massaged some feeling back into his legs. They were in what looked like a large storage room, filled with crates and biobeds. There was only one obvious exit and it was on the other side of the room. Beside the door was a numpad of some kind, though Zag couldn’t tell exactly what kind from his vantage point. The only sentients in the room were himself, Fletcher, and the Weiylan. And Zagarat could have done without the Weiylan.
And Fletcher for that matter.
“Good?” asked the Weiylan, hovering over Fletcher.
“Yes,” said Fletcher, tugging a crease from his coat. “Thank you.”
“Good,” said the Weiylan, grinning from ear to ear. He looked a bit like a blue pumpkin with a slit running across half its perimeter. He crossed his arms against his chest. “Now splain.”
Fletcher chuckled nervously. “You know, it’s actually a funny story. We were sleeping in a medlab on Aluna Station when someone must have accidentally closed the cover on us. Fifteen hours later, here we are. Weird, right?”
“Weird,” said the Weiylan, nodding. “But why sents in bed togedder?”
“Oh, I hate being away from my sweetie weetie.” Fletcher wrapped his arms around Zagarat and kissed him on the temple. “Even for a second. Isn’t that right, sweetie weetie?”
