A Swift Kick in the Asteroids

by Edward Zajac

  He swung Zagarat back and forth like a sentient metronome.

  “Ahma, Ahma, Ahma,” Zagarat aspirated, tapping the giant on the back.

  “Hmm? Oh.” Rama placed Zag back down, tapping him lightly on the head. “Sor-ree.”

  “That’s okay,” said Zagarat, stretching his spine back into alignment. “I didn’t need all those vertebrae anyway.”

  “Good,” said Rama, grinning that goofish smile of his. “Rama glad.”

  Dahlia wheeled a biobed in front of the giant. “Rama, the bed,” she said.

  “Sor-ree,” said Rama, grabbing one end of the biobed. “Rama just so happy.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, flashing Rama a smile that made Zag warm all over. Suns, she was beautiful, even with that pistol in her hand. If only she’d smile at him like that. Ah, to dream.

  The great blue beast was halfway to the door, hauling the biobed with little effort, when Dahlia said, “Rama, what did we say about touching?”

  The blue beast dropped his head. “Rama keep doing it, Rama go blind.”

  “Yes,” said Dahlia with the patience of a school teacher. “But what did we say about touching things while we’re on this ship?”

  Rama chewed on his lower lip, which seemed like a meal in and of itself. “Oh,” he said finally, as if having epiphany. “Sor-ree.”

  He began again, only this time grimacing at the effort, moaning and groaning as he hauled the biobed towards the door.

  Fletcher nodded to himself. “That explains it.”

  “Explains what?” asked Zagarat.

  “Why they haven’t harvested him yet,” said Fletcher. “The stronger the Weiylan, the more potent the drug. And Rama is strong, even for a Weiylan. If they knew he was that strong, they would have thrown him in the tank a long time ago.”

  “What’s the tank?” asked Zagarat.

  “It’s what they call the harvesting room,” said Fletcher, never taking his eyes off Dahlia. Zag couldn’t take his eyes off her either, but probably for a very different reason.

  Dahlia secured the door behind Rama then turned to face them. Well, she turned to face Fletcher. She didn’t pay Zag any mind at all.

  It would have been nice if she paid him a little bit of mind. Not the whole mind, mind you. Maybe just a corner she wasn’t using right now. But no. She didn’t know he was even there. In fact, that was probably going to be the title of his biography: ZAGARAT COLE WHO?

  “Watch it,” said Dahlia, adjusting her aim as Fletcher dared a step forward. “Another step and you’re dead.” She glanced obliquely at Zag. “Both of you.”

  Oh, now she noticed that he was standing there. Stellar.

  “Relax,” said Fletcher, taking a step back. “I just want to talk. Dahlia. It’s Dahlia, right?” She said nothing, only stared. And aimed. “Dahlia, I really am Fletcher. The same Fletcher who helped Qassi all those years ago. You have to believe me.”

  “I don’t have to do shleck,” said Dahlia. “Rama might believe you, but…” She paused. “If you want to live, then answer my questions. Truthfully. How did you get aboard this ship?”

  “We snuck aboard inside one of these biobeds.”

  A susurration filled the air as Dahlia charged her pistol. “I told you not to lie to me.”

  “It’s true,” said Zagarat. “We travelled all the way here inside one of those biobeds until Rama let us out. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s the truth.”

  “And how did you get into that biobed?” she asked.

  Fletcher chuckled. “You know, it’s actually a funny story…”

  The privateer recounted almost every aspect of their travels together. From their first meeting on Leranda Prime, to their adventures on Mayoo, to their misadventures on Aluna Station, to their escape from the TFP Movers freighter.

  “And now, here we are,” said Fletcher, gesturing his arms out wide.

  “And here you will die,” said Dahlia, taking aim at his forehead.

  “But I really am Fletcher Griffin,” he said. “You have to believe me.”

  “I don’t have to do schleck-”

  Zagarat didn’t even remember seeing Fletcher move. One moment he was standing beside Zag and the next he was standing in front of Dahlia, her weapon in his hand.

  “I am Fletcher Griffin,” he said, calmly. “You have to trust me on that. As I trusted Qassi.” He readjusted his grip, holding the butt of the pistol out towards Dahlia. “As I trust you now.”

  “What the suns are you doing?” said Zagarat, incredulously. “You have the gun. Why are you giving her back the gun?”

  “Because I trust her,” said Fletcher, placidly holding her ireful gaze. “Let me help you, Dahlia. I owe Qassi that.” Dahlia continued staring at Fletcher, her mien vacillating between awe and dismay. “Please, Dahlia. Don’t make me do something you’re going to regret.”

  The two stared at each other for the longest time; Fletcher the personification of serenity while Dahlia was the personification of a woman who wanted to maul Fletcher with her bare hands.

  Zagarat could relate to that sentiment, except for the woman part.

  Eventually, Dahlia said, “It seems Qassi was right about you.”

  “Really?” said Fletcher, suddenly chipper. “What did he say?”

  “He said you weren’t that bright.” She gestured absently. “Keep it. You’re going to need it.”

  “Thank you,” said Fletcher, pocketing his sidearm. He glanced up. “Wait. What did he say?”

  Dahlia ignored him, turning. “I take it you’re the brains of the operation,” she said as she unzipped the top of her uniform. She secreted her pistol away, adjusting herself in the process.

  Zag stared, momentarily at a loss for… oh, what were those things called? The things in sentences. The things with the letters and the vowels and the consonants…

  Words. That was it. Words.

  Dahlia looked up and Zag quickly averted his eyes. He normally had a doctorate degree in Surreptitious Glances, but there was just something about Dahlia that put him off his game.

  As if he had any game.

  “So, where is Qassi?” asked Fletcher. “I haven’t seen that trolk in forever.”

  “He’s dead,” said Dahlia, her voice and mien devoid of emotion.

  “Oh, no,” said Fletcher. “I’m sorry to hear that. How did he die?”

  “He was killed,” said Dahlia. “Deus finally learned what he was doing and killed him.”

  If Zagarat didn’t know better, he would have sworn that the room actually darkened slightly as Fletcher balled his hands into pallid fists. But Zagarat knew better than that and so that definitely didn’t happen. Definitely.

  “I see,” said Fletcher eventually, relaxing his fists. “So, you’re continuing his work?”

  Dahlia shrugged. “Someone’s got to watch over Rama.”

  “Speaking of Rama,” said Fletcher. “I noticed he doesn’t follow Kahpuani anymore. I wonder where he learned that.” Strangely, it didn’t sound like a question, but an accusation.

  Dahlia stormed forward. “You trying to say something, little man?”

  Fletcher did not shirk at her advance. He stood absolutely still, his expression just as placid. “I’m saying that Weiylans used to be barbaric before they embraced Kahpuani.”

  “Yeah,” said Dahlia. “And look how much better off they are now.”

  “Peace inspires,” said Fletcher. “Hatred corrupts.”

  “Don’t you dare quote scripture to me!” said Dahlia. “Kahpuani has brought us nothing but suffering and death.”

  Fletcher quirked an eyebrow. “Us, huh? Funny, you don’t look Weiylan.”

  The muscles in Dahlia’s face began to flex and strain as if cold determination was battling sentiment for supremacy of her glorious aspect. Cold determination eventually prevailed. “It’s funny what you can do in a lab.”

  “Yes,” said Fletcher, with a somber nod. “It certainly is.”

  “Enough of this,�
�� she said, with a wave of her hand. “I have to get back to work.”

  “But what about us?” said Zagarat, in a higher pitch than he would have liked. He lowered his tone a few octaves. “I mean, what about us?”

  “You two are gonna stay here until I get back.” Dahlia held up her hand when Fletcher began to protest. “I said, enough! We do things my way. Do you understand?”

  Fletcher nodded, after a fashion. Mostly the Ferrish fashion, which was to slowly nod in the affirmative, all the while crossing your fingers behind your back.

  “Good,” said Dahlia. “Hide in the corner until I get back and don’t even think about leaving this room. There are guards everywhere and they aren’t as kind as I am. Do we understand each other?” Fletcher nodded. “Good. And one other thing…” She turned, striking Fletcher hard upside the head. He grunted in disgust, crumbling down to one knee. “No one hurts Rama.”

  Without another word, Dahlia walked over to the numpad, covering the pad with her right hand as she typed in a combination with her right.

  “Dahlia,” said Fletcher with an edge to his voice, stretching his neck as he stood. “How were you planning to stop the harvesters on this ship?”

  She turned, her eyes smoldering like dying embers. “Anyway I have to.”

  The door swished opened and Dahlia exited, securing it behind her.

  ahlia forced herself not to storm down the corridor. And she really wanted to storm right now. And not a light drizzle kind of storm. A proper storm with dark clouds and a swirling funnel of misery that cast detritus all about the universe.

  But she knew she couldn’t. She was supposed to be an obsequious hybrid bitch, happy to do whatever these gerren fellots wanted her to do. No matter how disgusting.

  She entered her quarters; a small closet which seemed more like an eighths than quarters. Rama was there waiting for her.

  “Dahly,” said Rama, jumping up and down on the tattered blanket these fellots called a bed. “It him. It him. It him.”

  “So,” said Dahlia, walking over to a deusteel crate that served as a table and occasional step stool. She reached behind it, removing a panel from the wall, and retrieved a small stylus that was taped to the side. She replaced the panel, clicking it back in place.

  “So,” said Rama, mirroring Dahlia’s so. “Fletcher help Weiylans. And maybe Rama and Dahlia no havta do what Rama and Dahlia havta do.”

  “Nothing’s changed,” said Dahlia. “The plan is the same.”

  Rama looked absolutely wretched. “But, Dahly…”

  “Nothing’s changed,” she repeated, advancing on Rama. Even though he was nearly two feet taller than Dahlia, Rama dropped his head in a subservient manner. “These fellots have been torturing Weiylans for too long. We need to send a message they’ll understand.”

  “But Dahly,” said Rama, nearly pleading with her.

  “I know,” she said, caressing his cheek. “I know you don’t like hurting anyone, but this has to be done.”

  “Why Dahly have to always use dat word?” said Rama, squirming in place.

  “What, I?” said Dahlia. “Because I am an I. And so are you. Stop thinking otherwise.”

  “No,” said Rama adamantly. “Words You and I put Rama above others. Rama no do that.”

  Dahlia shrugged. “Suit yourself. This I has to get back to work.”

  Rama nodded, raising wretched to a whole new morose artform. “KweeKore.”

  “I’ll be fine,” said Dahlia, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. “He doesn’t demand the freaky stuff anymore.”

  “What bout Fletcher?” said Rama.

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s into some really freaky stuff too,” said Dahlia. Rama squinted at the comment, cocking his head to one side. “That was a joke,” she added.

  “But Dahly never make joke.”

  “Well, there’s a first time for everything,” said Dahlia. “As for Fletcher, he has five hours. If he can figure something out, great. If not…” She paused. “You know what happens.”

  “Fletcher figure something out,” said Rama, confidently. “Rama sure.”

  “I wouldn’t put too much hope in that,” said Dahlia, placing her hand on Rama’s bicep.

  “But Qassi say…”

  “Qassi’s dead,” said Dahlia. “It’s just you and me now, Rama. Remember, that’s why we’re doing this. For him.”

  Rama sniffled with the force of a twelve-piece brass orchestra. “Rama still miss Pompop.”

  “Good,” said Dahlia gently, touching him just as gently on the chest. “That means he still lives here. Now, get back to work.”

  “Okay,” said Rama. “But what Dahly gonna do?”

  “The same thing I always do,” said Dahlia. “What has to be done.”

  “Rama not like the sound of dat.”

  “That’s why I’m not telling you,” said Dahlia. She stepped up closer. “You trust me, right?” Rama nodded. “Then trust me now. I’ll give Fletcher a shot, but that’s it.”

  Rama straightened himself up. “Rama know Fletcher can do it.”

  Dahlia shook her head. She knew the truth. That ridiculous sent couldn’t do a thing. But he could be the distraction she needed.

  “Get to work, Rama,” she said. “This is going to end soon, one way or another.”

  letcher began redecorating the storage room the minute Dahlia left, creating an ersatz fortress in the back of the room using a varied selection of biobeds, deusteel crates, plasticene crates, and the useless dreck that littered the area. Every so often, he would duck down behind the fort and squint at a small gap he had created between two deusteel crates, then go back to work, rearranging all the pieces in the room to his discriminating taste.

  While he did that, Zagarat sat in Fort FletchandZag and watched, feeling as if he were ten years old again, defending Homelandia from the bullies of Nextdooria.

  Zag was never very good with names.

  But unlike his ten-year-old self, Zag knew he wasn’t the hero in this story. Sir Fletcher the Lucky As All Suns was the hero of this ridiculous story. The luckiest hero to ever hero. A hero that shouldn’t even be alive right now.

  Anyone else would have surely been killed by now.

  But not Fletcher. Not sunning Fletcher.

  “That should do it,” said Fletcher, kneeling down beside Zagarat. “We’ll be able to see them, but they won’t be able to see us.” He looked up. Zag stared at him. “What?”

  Then Zagarat asked the question. The question that had been hounding him since he met Fletcher all those days ago. Since Leranda Prime, where Fletcher survived an attack at the Seventh Sense. Since Mayoo, when Fletcher ran like the solar winds and struck like a bolt of lightning. Since Aurora, where a ship, an actual ship, said that Fletcher was something special. Since Aluna Station, where they barely escaped death at the hands of security guards and ship guards. And since this damn ship, where Fletcher somehow defeated the strongest sent Zag had ever seen.

  “Who are you?” asked Zagarat. “I mean, who are you really? One minute you act like this bumbling idiot, and you totally are, but there are other times when…” He squinted in thought. “How did you beat the Weiylan? He should have killed you back there. Suns, you… we should have died at least five times since Leranda. And yet, here we are. How is that even possible? And don’t ‘What can I say, I’m me’ me. That’s not an answer. I want the truth. I think I deserve it.”

  “Use every man after his just desert and who shall ‘scape whipping?” said Fletcher.

  Zagarat blinked. “Who said that?”

  “I did, just now.”

  “No, not…” Zagarat dragged his hand down his face. “Please, just answer the question. You never answer the sunning question.”

  “No, I always do,” said Fletcher. “You just don’t like the answer.”

  “Because it’s not an answer. It’s just… sophistry.”

  “Oh, I think I dated her.” Fletcher held his hands up at chest level. “She had the m
ost beautiful…”

  “Shut up,” said Zagarat, chuckling despite himself. “Just shut up.”

  Fletcher’s grin could have illuminated the entire room. “What? What did I do now?”

  “Nothing,” said Zagarat through his laughter. “Just… you are such an idiot.”

  The laughter flowed out of Zagarat like lies from a politician’s mouth. He laughed so hard that tears actually streamed down his cheek. His mother had once said that when facing insurmountable odds or overwhelming emotions, a sentient can either laugh or cry. And that’s what Zagarat did now. He laughed because he really wanted to cry.

  Fletcher edged closer. “You’re starting to like me, aren’t you?”

  “Are you kidding me?” said Zagarat. “I’m amazed we’re still alive, you sunning lunatic.”

  “Come on,” said Fletcher, nudging Zag lightly in the ribs. “Admit it. You like me.”

  “No,” said Zagarat, trying to keep a smile from his face and failing miserably. “I most definitely do not. I’m only doing this as a favor to Aurora. That’s all.”

  Fletcher made a cute, pouty face. “So, you don’t even like me a little?” he said in a falsetto voice. “Just a little witty bitty bit?”

  “Oh,” said Zagarat, chuckling as he gazed about the fort. “We are so going to die here.”

  “No, we won’t,” said Fletcher, squeezing Zag’s shoulder tight. “Not if I have anything to do with it. And stop worrying so much. Remember our mantra?”

  “Everything will work out just fine for us,” said Zagarat perfunctorily, not believing a single word of it. “But you haven’t said how yet.”

  Fletcher waved his hand dismissively. “The universe will figure that part out. For now, we just sit tight and wait for Dahlia to return.”

  “And hope she doesn’t return with an armed escort.”

  “She won’t,” said Fletcher, confidently.

  “How do you know?” asked Zagarat.