“Yeah, maybe so,” said Frankie.
As ghost dragged instruments—some musical—onto the main stage, Hashtag congratulated all the festival-goers and puzzle-solvers. He didn’t bother to tell them he’d forgotten to set out clues for the lock’s combination, had also misplaced the numbers, and had actually been preparing to turn himself in to the Intergalactic Police for a manslaughter charge. However, it was evident if you read between the hashtags.
*All right, fellow free people who haven’t committed manslaughter! The parking lot has been returned and you are now free to leave as long as you sign this waiver saying the festival is over.*
“But the festival isn’t over,” said Gail, much to the crew’s displeasure. Even the man who’d previously said, ‘How bad can a musical festival be?’ made a sour face.
Thankfully, none of the festival-goers heard her, and all became festival-leavers. They filed neatly out to the parking lot, where re-entry was prohibited.
Risking it all, Frankie also verbalized her question. “Why are they leaving?”
She was caught between getting what she wanted and feeling as if there really should be more of a finale for all the work she’d done.
“Because it’s the headliner. Everyone knows you’re supposed to only be here for the other bands.”
With the crowd gone, Ghost’s machines looked like a rubbish pile of defeat and deep-seated pain. The stage appeared a singular monument to genuine talent and dedication to the arts, surrounded by lapping waters, rolling trash, congregations of glitter, and abandoned psychic drug paraphernalia.
Ghost’s body stood still atop his pile, while his tentacles crept into the crevices of the pile, then into the crevices of the instruments. Rather than play the instruments as they were intended, he played their mechanical intricacies—strings, hollow turns, keys, metal on wood, metal on metal.
The crew of the Atalanta Empress wound through the shamefully large inflatables and forgotten babies to get in the front row. Quaja pressed tentacles onto the side of the stage to feel the vibrations.
“So, this really is the final act,” said Frankie.
Ghost’s music was multidimensional and haunting. Frankie thought Ghost in the Machines would’ve been a more fitting name.
“It’s nice,” said Tarke. “And, I’m glad you got to see your eyes do good.”
Frankie knew what she was getting at. “Maybe I’ll see what I can do to help the POA status,” Frankie capitulated.
“That’s probably for the best unless you want another music festival slash treasure hunt slash coastal water rescue.”
“No, no, I don’t.” For the sake of her mind, body, and color coordination, they needed to get their POA status. “In fact, I think I’ll go back to the ship and message Matt. There’s probably already another unsanctioned company on its way to invade.”
“We’ll all go back,” said Patav.
“No, you stay and enjoy the concert. You deserve it. Come after the finale.”
EIGHT
CAT THE BOUNTY HUNTER
Season 19, Episode 9
FADE IN:
INVASIVE FESTIVAL COMPANY PARKING LOT. – EVENING
CAT, a mustachioed and leathery skinned human, crouches behind a neon yellow spaceship and speaks into the camera
CAT
By keeping our distance from our catch, we’ve lulled her into a false sense of security. Much like in a story when something’s only foreshadowed.
ZOOM TO:
GALAXY’S MOST WANTED, a lithe, minty green alien with dark goggles approaches ancient Xavier-class ship.
CAT
(voice-over)
For someone so difficult to catch all these years, she’s grown quite complacent. She’s had this alias for several years and has taken out at least two mortgages. We imagine she’ll jump aliases soon as this one’s credit rating is shot.
When she goes inside, we’ll be waiting to grab her.
Galaxy’s Most Wanted enters Xavier-class ship.
INTERCUT: CAT’S SHIP (INTERIOR)
Cat lounges on captain’s chair with one leg over arm rest.
CAT
So, it didn’t completely go as planned since the plan was to be inside the ship while also outside the ship.
PARKING LOT
Cat tip-toes to the ship and knocks on the door. He turns to the camera and motions for quiet.
Galaxy’s Most Wanted answers the door and also looks at the camera before being tackled by Cat.
Cat and Galaxy’s Most Wanted roll off the ramp and fight in the shallow water.
[SPLASHING]
[YELLING]
Cat gets his ass kicked. FILM CREW, two gentlemen who really should be paid more, rush over to help.
CAT’S SHIP
CAT
She was a tough one, but ol’ Cat here handled her all the same, completely by myself. She’s actually pretty puny.
PAN TO:
A dejected and pissed off Galaxy’s Most Wanted sits in a small cage bolted to the bridge floor.
NINE
“You’ve got the wrong Nurflan. I’m not that woman on the poster.”
“You know, I wasn’t sure myself—you seemed a bit neurotic. But then you took off your goggles, not caring who you radiated.”
“I do care. I only did it to save someone’s life.”
“Likely story, and false. Kieron have eight tentacles and can breathe underwater.”
“That’s octopus, spithead.”
“Now, now you mustn’t be so speciest. Octopuses have—oh yeah, I guess that is octopus.”
Frankie tried to surreptitiously study the lock; even with her lead-lined glasses on, she failed.
“It’s an R1 lock, protected against radiation intervention. Lead-lined, like your glasses, but thicker and stuff.”
“Excellent,” said Frankie. They’ll use one of these on your prison cell when you’re charged with the kidnapping of Farkhanix of the Atalanta Empress, small un-licensed business owner, and non-POA co-owner of Hephaestus.”
“That’s what they all say,” he dismissed.
“They all say they’re Farkhanix of the Atalanta Empress?”
“Yeah, actually, a good number of them.”
Frankie turned red with anger. “My crew is going to chew you up and shit you out.”
“I doubt that, and besides, they’ll have to find us first.”
“Where are we going?”
“Oh, you know.”
Frankie couldn’t think of a hypothetical place she’d know but her crew wouldn’t, much less the actual place applicable to the Galaxy’s Most Wanted and her dastardly crew. She leaned her mildly sore back against the cool metal bars and concentrated on not becoming a blinking party light.
Pink.
Blue.
Blue green.
Green blue.
It wasn’t working.
#
While the door and ramp had been suspiciously left open to foreshadow a horrible realization, no one noticed because Gail always left it open.
“Gail, you left the door open.”
“Sorry,” said Gail automatically.
“The Ghost in the Machines was amazing,” said Lorav.
“Do you think we should’ve offered him a ride?” Patav asked.
“Nah, he’s still on tour. He says the last festival had him hanging by his toes. I think that’s just the life of a starving artist,” said Lorav.
“He sure was dreamy,” said Gail.
“A dreamy, starving artist,” confirmed Patav.
After thirty minutes of eating, bantering, not-flying, and not-working, the crew realized they hadn’t received orders from their captain, or as was often the case on the Atalanta Empress, a hesitant and awkwardly worded request. The figurative stopwatch ticked on for another fifty-two minutes before the crew realized they hadn’t even seen their captain.
“She’s not on the ship,” said Lorav and Patav, scanning the ship for lifeforms better t
han Compi could.
“Maybe she went ahead to help Matt,” said Gail.
“Yeah, and we know what that means!” shouted Tarke.
“A shower?” asked Lorav and Patav.
Tarke only had paint stuck to her least-intimate parts at this point. Her upper arms, left clavicle, and shoulder blades were seductively covered, leaving gazers to wonder.
“Shower for Gail. Me, I gotta catch up on all my television. Being outside is such time-consuming business.”
“You might also do for a shower,” said Gail. “You’re leaving body prints all over the ship.” She pointed to two round spots on the bridge’s door that suggested a very unusual way to interact with a door—but there was the proof.
“Noo!” shouted Tarke. “TV SHOWS!”
Gail picked her up, keeping her at arm’s distance like the messy, temper tantrum-throwing baby she was.
“You want to hose her off in the cargo bay?” asked Lorav, laughing.
“No, I’ll just take the baby with me in the shower,” Gail replied as Tarke shook her head adamantly, causing her mane to poof into something not unlike a fuzzball.
“Really though, we should reach out to Frankie and see if she needs help,” said Patav. “Compi, what was the last message sent from the ship?”
*There have been no messages,* Compi reported.
“Compi, what was the last thing that Matt and Frankie messaged to each other?”
*That would be the demotion of Frankie yesterday.*
“That was yesterday? And nothing today?”
*Nothing today. You’re welcome.*
“So, wait, where’s Frankie?”
*She never returned to the shi—*
“Ship,” completed the crew, who really should’ve noticed before now.
“Oh god,” said Lorav.
“AS ACTING CAPTAIN, I DEMAND YOU PUT ME DOWN AT ONCE,” Tarke shouted.
“Oh god,” said Patav.
Gail set down her captain before doing her best impression of a confused, cowering puppy. Tarke accommodated her by standing up excessively straight. She wind-milled her arms to shift the fuzzball poof from her face.
It didn’t work.
“Draw me a bath,” she directed Gail.
Gail hurried off to perform the task.
“Wow, do you know where she could be?” asked Quaja.
As the newest member on the ship, Quaja wasn’t sure if this scenario was normal. From what she’d gathered though, this was Frankie’s ship and if Frankie could be anywhere, she’d be here.
“Double-check the ship, then the planet,” Tarke firmly commanded and evasively replied.
With the crew out and paint swirling in the tub, Tarke took the opportunity to openly sob out of sight. Where was her captain? Where was her best friend? How long would it be until she’d get to watch television again? Would she ever be able to scrape the paint from her crack?
Yes, but she would need a tool.
*
LIVING IT UP AT HOTEL BERAMUDA
R.M. HAMRICK
ONE
For the first time in her life, Tarke the Cardalol climbed the marble stairs of the Intergalactic Police station of her own volition. Back on the ship, Quaja had pressed her to wear something conservative, and so Tarke donned clothes for the occasion. Silver-blue pants covered lightly furred, expansive and meaty thighs, whose surface probably rippled as she strolled. Her chest was unfortunately hidden by a red crop top screen-printed with the ancient cursive logo of a poisonous beverage. As if clothes were all she could muster, her golden mane hadn’t been brushed, and instead flew in the face of the establishment with the cheapest workforce since children in the name of criminal rehabilitation. She also wore a thin gold chain on her ankle.
There’s a saying, “If you’ve been in one Intergalactic Police station, you’ve been in all of them.” While this was possibly truer for Tarke than others, it referenced the station’s interior design which had been replicated in stations all over the galaxy. The layout wasn’t particularly suited for police work, but it had been created by an interstellarly famous producer of police procedural television shows. The main room which served as lobby, central processing, group detective brainstorming room, and breakroom was distinguished by a grid of sad, brown veneer desks dressed with triplicate paper, coffee mugs, and various takeout containers from New York, Earth restaurants to give the impression of long hours worked.
The idea that any singular organization could police multiple galaxies was a singularly stupid idea, but if the Intergalactic Police’s account was to be believed, they were doing a bang-up job. Really their last post stated exactly that with the claim anything could be policed if proper protocols were in place. Admittedly, they did have some excellent organizational policies. Priority had been given to list-making—resulting in the GALAXY’S MOST WANTED for even the most irresolute of galaxies—and to developing decision trees, which determined whether dispatch sent an officer to the scene of the call, or dispatch would tell the caller to skagforge themselves. Spoiler alert: it was the latter for any calls received.
Past the Guess Who configuration of composite-wood desks, several offices for tight-space drama and a single jail cell lined the back of the room. To Tarke’s mixed feelings, the cell was empty. While finding her friend in the throes of the for-profit justice system would be disturbing, she’d at least know where Frankie was.
“Can I help you?” asked the receptionist, from one of several front desks. She hadn’t bothered to look up, which was probably against protocol or at least, far lateral on the decision tree.
“Yes, I’d like to confess to a murder,” Tarke said in a gruff whisper.
The receptionist’s head shot up, eyes wide, until she recognized the confessor. “What the mevix, Tarke. You can’t just come in here and say spit like that,” she said in a whisper-yell.
“Chill, Jerry,” she said to the overly stressed receptionist. Over Jerry’s head, she called out, “Sup folks?”
More than one or two officers milling around like extras in the background of a television show waved, but all the others in the room gave a “TARKE!” as if it were a place where everyone knew her name.
“What are you doing here?” Jerry asked with a furtive look, as if maybe Tarke had stumbled in there by great mistake.
Three foot-two inch Jerry was a citric being that possibly could have evolved from Earth fruit trees, if Earth hadn’t manipulated fruit tree genetics to produce more distinctive and frost-resistant fruit. Instead, they’d evolved in galaxy 629e, where creativity and cooperation in problem-based learning provided a reproductive advantage. Never having developed frost-resistance, Jerry wore three polo shirts (the official shirt of customer service) and at least two pairs of pants over her leathery and slightly dimpled body. Also, she wore a blue and white knit hat with earmuffs.
“You’re looking plump,” Tarke said. “Are you still working for the temp agency?”
“Yes, but I won’t get to stay long if I’m seen in cohorts with a criminal.”
“Isn’t that your job?”
“No, not at all.”
“No worries. I’m not a criminal—in this instance.”
Tarke gave a wink to another Cardalol handcuffed to an unoccupied desk. It seemed there was always one in every precinct. If the detectives had been doing their job, they’d have pulled up Tarke’s warrants, but they weren’t.
“Then why are you here?”
“I’m here to report a missing person... or, possibly bail her out of jail.”
“Name, please?”
“Farkhanix Chakrabarti of Earth.”
“Farkhanix Chakrabarti... of Earth?” Jerry said skeptically.
“She goes by Frankie,” Tarke explained.
Jerry pecked at the keyboard as she moved the pointer cursor with her mind. Not because the system was relatively complicated, but because it was Intergalactic Police customer service policy to look busy while waiting for the screen to load.
“What am I? Her accountant?”
It didn’t surprise Tarke that Frankie had no police record, but then she remembered why Frankie might’ve gotten picked up in the first place.
“Uh, can you do another search? Possibly for uhm, THE GALAXY’S MOST WANTED?”
“Which one?”
“Which galaxy or which...”
“Name.”
“Oh, you want a name. I’m sure there’s a name. We haven’t said the name in any of the other four installments…”
“What?”
“Well, we’ll just have to—uh, make a decision on such things. I think I saw it on a poster over there.”
Tarke wandered to the bulletin board. There many galaxies’ GALAXY’S MOST WANTED were posted. She immediately spotted the poster for the pink-suited, pink alien. The alien on the picture gave a wink, which was an odd look for someone who looked like her friend, since Frankie wore dark goggles to shield against her X-ray vision. What wasn’t out of place was the appropriately large rocket launcher, resting on her shoulder.
Above her, GALAXY’S MOST WANTED flashed in bright bold letters; below her, REWARD! in different but complementary typography. Below that, Sossios Zadra had been decisively printed. Tarke pulled the flyer off the board, like she owned—anything—and brought it over to Jerry.
“This is your friend that’s missing?” whisper-yelled Jerry.
“Maybe. I don’t know. I think she might have been mistaken for this person. Have you uhm, caught this one?”
“If we’d have caught her, do you think her poster would still be on the board for GALAXY’S MOST WANTED? No, it would be on the other board, LOOKIE WHO WE CAUGHT!”
On the other side of the room, another bulletin board hung empty.
“But I do remember this one. The detectives never miss an episode. The guy’s great. He’s a Cardalol like you, except he’s brushed his mane into muttonchops. His name is–”
Atalan Adventure Pack: Books 4-6 Page 6
