In Tarke’s defense, there was some deeply interesting family drama. Her brush (or collision) with mistaken identity and false imprisonment had incited many questions about Frankie’s family of origin. Frankie was a Nurflan who was adopted and raised by an Earth human family. Meanwhile, someone with identical DNA lived her life as Sossios Zadra and subsequently, had been named THE GALAXY’S MOST WANTED. However, anyone who wanted Frankie to formally connect the dots in a family tree featuring a notorious and highly publicized criminal had probably been watching too much reality TV.
“The point is, I’m here to help you, whatever you may find...and I hope it’s a hunky older brother, so we can be sisters.”
Frankie turned a color typically only reserved for listening to Gail’s status reports.
“Or sister. I’m good either way, or any way,” continued Tarke.
Choosing to ignore offers of entanglement, Frankie summoned additional decisions. “Start pre-launch checks. I couldn’t reach Compi from my room to check Craig’s List for jobs. Have you guys found any to get us off this wretched prismatic world?”
“We figured you’d want some time...” said Lorav, carefully.
“To... not have a job?” finished Frankie. The color in her scales saturated just the tiniest bit.
Lorav’s and Patav’s abilities of thought retrieval and emotion absorption weren’t as cool as they sounded. It was like having someone else always talking over your thoughts or tripping and falling—not in the physical space—but into a well of despair, then walking into a blazing fire of anger, then into the dampness of fugue without any warning or reason.
Here, Patav felt a disregarded horror, something that might bubble to the surface in a way no one intended. Patav used the highly cross-generational, cross-gender, and cross-culture gesture of a sharp poke into her sister’s side which stated, “Based on my observations, you need to stop” or possibly less cross-sectionally, “Take a hint.”
Taking the hint, Lorav began flipping switches and knobs. “Starting engines.” Then, “Starting Engines, Attempt Number Two...oh, never mind.” With a few sputters, the ship roared to life, a rarity on the first try. Quaja had been doing fantastic work.
“Priming engines,” said Lorav.
Frankie was unsure why Lorav always announced what she was doing. They all knew what she was doing. She was getting ready to fly then they would fly. Perhaps with everyone else’s thoughts floating in her mind, it was helpful to announce her personal intentions. If it was a purposeful technique, what would it look like for Patav to have such a mechanism? Would she emote histrionically to claim ownership of her personal feelings? If Frankie had her empathic powers, she’d be a flashing disco ball with a seizure warning. Just the thought nauseated Frankie.
Lorav announced the ship’s launch, but this time to Nurflan ground control.
*Flight, or ground ship, whatever, you are not cleared for takeoff yet. You are now twenty-two in the queue.*
Lorav powered down the engines.
*You are cleared for takeoff.*
Lorav began to prime the engines again.
*Don’t bother. You missed your spot. You are now number four thousand, three hundred, eighty-two.*
“I didn’t realize they would go that fast,” Lorav complained idlily while intently watching for signs their turn was upcoming. In an overabundance of caution, Lorav primed the engines entirely prematurely and announced her intentions to fly…just in case.
*Negative, ground ship, trashcan, whatever. We are just now getting some information to keep you grounded indefinitely. Please contact the Justice Department on Nurfla for further instructions. Please know our queue is now reaching into the millions, so please give us three days’ notice prior to your desired exit.*
It turned out they did not have to call the Justice Department. The Justice Department kindly called them, or perhaps it was a contact warrant. A creature part Nurflan, part possibly something-else sequestered their video conference line—a veritable digital bridge invasion.
The intrusion introduced herself as Mme. toKoski.
*I am calling on behalf of the Nurfla Justice Department. You are currently under investigation for the crimes of THE GALAXY’S MOST WANTED and are to remain on this planet until the investigation’s satisfactory conclusion. After which, you will likely be convicted of said crimes and will continue to remain on this planet within our for-profit judicial system. Thank you for your cooperation.*
“Why, you must have the wrong Nurflan,” declared Tarke with misplaced enthusiasm for seeing this family mystery to its end.
*I know. That’s what I am afraid of,* said the woman. Her skin modeled a human’s with jaundice.
“No, she means you have the right person!” corrected Gail.
Afraid that statement was still not clear enough (it wasn’t), Frankie made her own. “The one you have in custody is the correct one. That one is Sossios Zadra. I’m Farkhanix Chakrabarti, captain of this ship, the Atalanta Em—”
Mme. toKoski interrupted. *Oddly, our detainee also claimed that identity when she was captured on the planet she co-owns in proximity to this very ship, her ship. *
That was because Frankie had been that person, but now they’d been switched, but she couldn’t tell this woman that.
*Additionally, our detainee claims you are an evil twin. Under Nurflan law, you are both tentatively charged with the crimes until such a time that good versus evil twins can be distinguished from each other. I suggest you refresh your memory on any alibis for any crimes you might have committed and, that you question your place in the universe, good versus evil, the light versus the dark side. The tiny living space allotted to you in prison versus the expanse that is the galaxy. The choice is yours. Okay, not really. We will decide. Just get ready. Oh, and we’re grounding your ship.*
The video cut out, as did their super primed engines.
“Maybe we should figure out your origin story,” said Tarke as she relaxed improbably more at her station with her further lack of duties.
“You think?” said Frankie. She slumped in her chair, sliding farther than intended due to its smooth angles, but as far down as she colored.
TWO
*It’s another sunny day in Cali-forn-I-A, a high of 295 Kelvin and a 9 on the MellishMeter. For you time and space travelers, it’s 6 o’clock on the morning of Tuesday, April 25th, 2182. And here’s your song.*
The Clash’s “Rock the Casbah” blasted through Gail’s alarm.
Tuesday, April 25th, 2182 had been a perfect day, even if Mellish had only rated it a 9. That day had been a long time ago; California, a long way from here. Perhaps it was only a 9, because Mellish had had to put on pants. And a day wearing pants always had room for improvement. Gail’s days often had room for improvement. The weight of her industrial upper body upgrades necessitated wearing specialized pants with a supporting exoskeleton. Waking up, she unconsciously rubbed one of the metal bits under her skin, fixed to her spine. Gail had her back internally and externally reinforced, and one of the bolts between her shoulder blades had bothered her for years. After her sales-doctor had declared the problem psychosomatic, she learned the particular part had been from a different lot with a less-than-correct composition of metal alloys. In the end it didn’t matter much, but you’d think multi-million EGRL (Galaxy Regulated Loot, Equivalency) would have better customer support and maintenance packages.
Gail yawned and stretched her mechanical arms over her head. Stretching served no functional purpose but it pleased Gail to do it all the same. Really, maintenance was just a bit of elbow grease for her—no, she didn’t have elbows. Gail’s body had begun falling apart years ago. Her limbs started to wither. They dropped things. They hurt when she held things. So, she got rid of them. Perhaps bodily decay was part of old age, but it wasn’t going to slow her down. Replacing her hands and arms with hydrostats, the mechanical version of tentacles, was her first upgrade, allowing her to open any jar without assistance. Although tha
t wouldn’t stop her from asking Quaja for help. She had the real biological things, and, while Gail’s were functional, they’d never ooze the same sexual flow and grace. Even so, Gail wiggled her hydrostats to the bridge of the song.
Bio-engineered prosthetics had come far in the last few thousands of years, when Earth found a planet to buy the things from. However, Gail didn’t have the usual arm replacements. She had industrial devices so that she could be rated to lift Very Heavy Things. It was this rating that got her passage on a few ships in return for lifting such Things. It was what she did on this ship too. The Atalanta Empress was her favorite ship to work on by far. It was pretty small, so it could only carry so much—which, in turn, meant Gail only had to carry so much. Also, it wasn’t a cruise ship.
If Gail had wanted to relax in a HoverChairTM which could transform into a chaise lounge when near sufficiently chlorinated water—or into an equally comfortable chaise longue for un rendezvous piscine—she’d be on the cruise she had told her family she had gone on. However, the mercy this lie afforded her had been lost when she slipped up on Beramuda. Of all the times when she thought she might confess, like when the courier industry was replaced by Instant Transport!TM technology, or the time they were lost in subspace for weeks, or nearly suffocated beneath regular fertisrats, then zombie fertisrats—holding her tongue was all for naught for one little Did.
Thankfully, Gail had not been immediately retrieved by her custodial children because she’d claimed to own the ship, purchased with the proceeds from her multilevel marketing sales. She owned nothing of the sort. Frankie’s name was on the multiple leases and mortgages, and as such, even Frankie didn’t own it. Also, technically, it was a salvage and ship was probably a generous title to give the shell of metal separating her from...death. Still, it was better than the cruise ship where everyone was old and boring. Nobody ever went on any adventures or did anything unexpected, despite what the brochure had promised.
In case Gail was under any impressions that today would be as perfect as that day in 2182, her family communication device—Circuit by FaceFaxTM activated and signaled the start of another family argument. Circuit by FaceFaxTM was a single-use device that was more convenient as a Christmas gift to your aging relatives than it was a convenience. It did what any device capable of video communication did, but solely through FaceFax’sTM proprietary platform, only that, and not very well. The platform was updated for upgraded devices with questionable back-compatibility, guaranteeing years of Christmas gifts.
The caller’s video was automatically previewed. With each FaceFaxTM-branded ring, which was like a raindrop falling on a cymbal and then that cymbal falling on concrete (for those with hearing difficulties and those who would like them), impatience further shaded Dr. Fala Hurt’s face as she waited for her mother to answer. Behind closed business doors, the FaceFaxTM-branded ring was meant to induce a panic, increasing the chance the call would be accepted before the recipient could think better of it.
The end of “Rock the Casbah” was drowned out by the rings, and so Gail answered, her video resolving in its sub-4K glory. Dr. Fala Hurt sat up straighter and wiped the frustration off her face for presentation. Freckles stood out on her light skin, darker since Gail and she had last FaceFaxedTM each other. The output of the Earth’s Sun had been steadily increasing with its accelerated demise (See Appendix B for Controversial Outcomes of Solar Mining and Backwash Practices).
“Oh good. Just calling to make sure you got up and didn’t fall in the shower. It’s just…so difficult…knowing that the Assisted Living staff we’ve paid all these months with your money can no longer check on you.”
“You don’t need to check on me. My LifeAlert InclinometerTM will tell you if I fall. Except on Fridays. That’s my time and how drunk I am is no business of yours. Besides, if I fall, you’re millions of basically any unit of measurement away. The only thing you can do is berate me until the crew looks in, and last time I couldn’t even reach the mute button on the Circuit.”
“The mute button!” Fala’s mouth scrunched in frustration just like Gail’s wife’s did. She looked so much like her mother. Fala shook her head. “I mean, I guess you’re right.”
“What?” Gail dropped the comb she had been using to detangle then properly tousle her hair for Quaja’s admiration.
“It does seem a lot cheaper than the cruise ship. Really, who needs that many amenities? And if you can sustain a ship on your meteor sales—”
“Asteroid sales,” Gail corrected.
“—rocks-that-aren’t-shiny sales, and possess staff to watch you. I think that’s really the responsible way to go. I’m proud of you. You’re no longer riding the coattails of your retirement account. You’re actually, kind of, in a way…financially independent.” Dr. Hurt almost possibly had a bit of wetness to her eye. The room immediately filled with antihistamine spray to prevent allergies.
“If only,” said Gail, if just to get her lovely and much-loved daughter off the Circuit by FaceFaxTM.
“It could be much worse. Poor Rose’s family.”
“What happened to Rose?” Gail’s mechanical spine straightened by 2.3 radians in anticipation. Rose was Gail’s dearest friend. They were fake hallmates in the same ship they’d never stepped foot upon. Gail picked up jobs, skirting around the galaxy. Rose maintained her roadie life, following…well, any band at this point. Rose’s attention span had shortened with old age. ‘Why go see the same show twice?’ Gail had the pleasure of seeing her on Hephaestus when Rose had arrived at the Pyre Festival with the Pitmosh and had left with Something and the Somethings.
“Oh, nothing’s happened to Rose. Remember they found her wandering around in some festival debris after she flashed Mindspace? Earth God, I think it’s a meme now. Really, I’m always having to tell people not all humans are like that. Tsk tsk.”
The woman actually said, ‘tsk tsk’—something others would feel the need to explain didn’t apply to ‘all humans’ at a later date.
“It’s just so embarrassing for her family. They’re responsible for her, you know.”
Gail recalled a younger, future Dr. Hurt she’d once escorted to a Belieber convention wearing only a circa-2020s Justin Bieber beach towel and carrying a sign stating nothing got between Bieber and her. Despite being ‘responsible’ for her, Gail had not pointed out there was an additional six feet of dirt and decades of decay between them. What did responsibility have to do with saving oneself from embarrassment?
“Anyway, she’s set to arrive today. They’ve really improved those travel urns. I was really impressed when the Pings told me how much insurance was. That transport system must be rock solid.”
“AN URN?!”
“Oh, dear, it’s just what they’re called. It was too expensive to transport her body—it required day care and such—so they only transported her consciousness.”
“Was she OK with that?”
“I don’t know. She’s not here yet. Even if she was, she can’t talk in that condition.”
Gail whimpered.
“Anyway, we want to come see this ship of ours, er, yours,” said Dr. Hurt. “We have this Earth furlough anyway. The kids have their personal vacation time, and Medow is going to work remotely. Where are you, I guess, going to be? Seems a bit pointless to be on a ship without a destination.”
“The cruise ship didn’t have a destination.”
“It had a final one, dear, but yes, really it was more of a vehicle for amenities.” Dr. Hurt sighed. “I do hope you’re happy, Mom. If not….”
Gail did not want to be retrieved like Rose. They’d transfer Rose to another body, but only as limited and frail as the original as if she didn’t deserve more, as if they’d prefer a stationary body that complemented the decor.
“I am. Honest.”
Another spritz of antihistamines shot Dr. Hurt in the face before the call ended, and Circuit by FaceFaxTM offered a brief survey to add context to the conversation for the listening Circuit
by FaceFaxTM Monitors.
#
“Does anyone know an attorney who works for free?” asked Frankie, who despite having pulled her knees to her chest and now resembling a flashing ubbuccoli, had only the appropriate amount of worry in her voice. For someone who worried about anything and everything, an appropriate response surely meant their captain was broken.
“I don’t think many are allowed to work for free,” Tarke answered. “It has to do with the way their education was purchased. If it was a royalty-system, the professionals have set rates and their school gets a percentage of all revenue until the professional’s death.”
“Wait, isn’t Medow an attorney?” Quaja asked, turning to Gail, while everyone else tried to remember Medow was Fala’s wife.
Gail stuttered a bit. “Yeah, but I don’t think….”
Lorav started laughing from her seat.
“Stop!” Gail whined.
“What? What?” shouted Tarke, who hated being left out of anything, even private thoughts.
Lorav tried to leave others to speak their minds. It was presumptuous to assume any particular thought had been adopted by its thinker. Otherwise, there’d be a lot of Stay Puft Marshmallow Men around.
Lorav hadn’t managed such reticence when she was younger. She believed everyone took far too long expressing their thoughts. She’d roll her eyes and impatiently wait for the next thought—even if she wasn’t a part of the conversation. Usually subsequent thoughts were related to slapping a sassy Rapcorhian child. This process and others like it were most familiar to Earth humans as they observed children through adolescence.
“She—my family—would like to visit the ship.”
Atalan Adventure Pack: Books 4-6 Page 13
