Cal’s chair creaked as he leaned forward. There was a thud as the remote control pack fell to the floor. “There is?”
“Yes, sir. For the Viaview Network, producers of ‘Obstacle Smash,’ ‘The Hunt,’ and something called ‘Who’s Got the Pants On?’”
“OK, I’m interested. Tell me more,” said Cal.
“Well, sir, competitors all start by taking off their pants—”
“Not about the show, Kevin. About the job,” Cal said. “Tell me about the job.”
“Apologies, sir. One moment,” Kevin replied. “Here we are. It’s a delivery job, involving the transportation of two crates from Tolgor, one of the moons of the planet Trogol, to the Viaview network’s station in orbit around Logus Prime.”
“Ah, shizz,” Cal muttered, leaning back in his chair.
“Problems, sir?”
“Where are we going to put two crates?” Cal asked. He brightened, hopefully. “Unless they’re really small crates?”
“They aren’t, sir, no,” said Kevin.
Cal slumped. “Right. Figures. Well, there goes my big break.”
“We could always use the cargo deck, sir.”
Cal frowned, then looked up to the ceiling. “The what?”
“The cargo deck.”
Cal’s lips moved silently as he said the words again, in case by doing so he’d discover some alternative meaning behind them.
He didn’t.
“Wait. We have a cargo deck? Since when did we have a cargo deck?” Cal asked.
“Since always, sir. Haven’t I mentioned it?”
Cal struggled his chair around and looked at Miz. She shrugged back at him.
“No. You haven’t mentioned it.”
“Oh. Are you sure, sir? It sounds like the kind of thing I should have mentioned,” Kevin said.
“You’re right, it does sound like the kind of thing you should have mentioned, doesn’t it?” Cal agreed. “Where is it?”
“It’s downstairs, sir.”
Cal stood up. “Wait, what?”
“The cargo deck, sir,” Kevin intoned. “It’s downstairs.”
“We have a downstairs?!”
Kevin let out an incredulous snort. “Of course we have a downstairs, sir. It’s a large ship. You didn’t really think it was just eight moderately-sized rooms and a corridor, did you?”
Cal looked at the floor and stared blankly at it for a few seconds, before snapping back to life.
“Yes! Yes, I absolutely thought that,” Cal said. “Miz, did you know we have a downstairs?”
Miz shook her head. “No. But, I don’t really care.”
“Mech? Loren? Did you know we have a downstairs?” Cal called.
“A what?” Mech hollered back.
“A downstairs. A cargo deck. Did you know we have one?”
There was a clanking from out in the corridor. Mech entered, both legs now back in place, and one arm almost fully reattached. Loren entered behind him, pushing a protective visor up onto her head to reveal a face covered with oil and, Cal couldn’t help but notice, mild resentment.
“What are you talking about?” Mech demanded. “We ain’t got a downstairs.”
“He’s right,” Loren agreed, her voice short and clipped. “We don’t.”
“Kevin says we do,” Cal told them. “Kevin?”
“I’m positive I mentioned it,” Kevin said.
“You definitely did not,” Cal said. “How do we get down?”
“Entry is made via a sliding hatch on the ship’s underside, sir,” said Kevin.
Cal turned on his heels. “OK. Let’s go check it out.”
From all around the bridge there came a mechanical clanking. The floor around the edge of the room sank into the floor, forming a series of interlocking steps.
“Alternatively, sir, you could take the stairs.”
They elected to take the stairs. Except Mizette, who elected to remain seated, on the basis that she didn’t have any interest whatsoever in looking at an empty room.
Cal crept down the first few steps, then ducked to try to see into what he was already thinking of as the ship’s creepy basement. He’d seen enough horror movies in his time to know the basement was where the action was, and he was about to suggest that Mech go first when the cyborg shoved him in the back, sending him stumbling down into the darkness.
“That was uncalled for,” Cal whispered, when he reached the bottom. “Kevin, do we have lights down here?”
In answer to the question, the whole ceiling began to glow, casting a stark white light across a sizeable amount of nothing whatsoever.
This deck was mostly the same size and shape as the one above, but the complete lack of rooms or equipment made it feel much larger. It wasn’t particularly high—barely over eight feet from ceiling to floor, and curved upward with the lines of the ship at the front, back, and sides, reducing the amount of usable space.
But still. It was a cargo deck. They had a fonking cargo deck.
“I can’t believe this has been down here the whole time,” said Loren.
“I know. Crazy, right?” replied Cal, smiling at her. She deflected it with a look so cool it sent a shiver down his spine.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us about this, Kevin,” said Mech.
“Nor can I, sir,” Kevin admitted. “Next you’ll be telling me I didn’t inform you about the ship’s spa facilities or holodeck.”
All eyes went up.
“Just my little joke,” Kevin told them.
All eyes went down again.
“OK, then. We have a cargo bay, which means we can take cargo,” Cal said.
“Thank you for that profound observation,” said Mech.
“You’re welcome.” Cal fixed Loren with a smile, and gestured around the room. “What do you think, Teela?”
He ratcheted his smile up a few notches until it became a full-blown grin, and raised his eyebrows. He looked in many ways like a puppy expecting some kind of reward for a new trick he’d just learned.
Boy, was he going to be disappointed.
“I think it’s a cargo deck,” Loren said. “Although, I’m not sure.”
Cal tilted his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I think it’s a cargo deck. I’ll enjoy all the facilities of having a cargo deck, I’m just not sure I’m ready to really commit to the idea yet,” Loren said. She turned for the stairs, started up them, then paused just before she disappeared back up onto the bridge. “How about we discuss it at a later date?”
Cal flinched, but by the time he’d opened his mouth to respond, Loren was gone.
“What now?” he groaned. “I called her by her first name! Isn’t that what she wanted?”
“I ain’t getting involved,” said Mech, turning and clanking up the steps.
“You heard me, though, right? I called her by her first name!”
Mech stopped and looked back. “The woman is sticking parts back onto me using power tools and fire. I ain’t getting involved and risking getting on her bad side,” he said. “Guess you’ll just have to figure it out on your own.”
“How the fonk am I supposed to do that?” Cal asked.
Mech began climbing again. “Like I said. Figure it out.”
“I would be more than happy to offer advice, sir,” Kevin intoned.
“Jesus. No, I’ll be fine, Kevin, thank you.”
“You could write her a poem,” Kevin suggested.
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Or bake her a cake shaped like something rude.”
Cal looked up. “Why would—?”
“I hear they’re very popular, sir,” said Kevin. “In women’s circles,” he added, a little mysteriously.
“Again, thanks for the suggestions, I’ll give them some thought,” Cal said. He took another look around the cargo bay, shook his head, then started up the stairs. “Hook us up with that delivery job.”
“V
ery good, sir.”
Cal sighed. “Maybe today won’t be a total bust, after all.”
Seventeen
Mech, Cal, Mizette, and Tyrra stood in the center of a small town, their mouths hanging open and, in Miz’s case, stomach rumbling.
It was impossible to stress the ‘small’ part of ‘small town’ enough. Each building was barely five feet high, and they were set out in concentric circles around the center. The houses were all shaped like beehives with an arched door in the front, a round window above it, and a little satellite dish fixed to the top. While identical in structure, each was a different color. Those closest to the center were bright and vibrant, while those in the farthest rings were pale pastel shades.
Beyond the final ring of houses, the landscape undulated into a series of pink-purple hills, where the grass was the color of lavender, and flowers swayed lazily on a warm summer’s breeze.
Notable as they were, neither the scenery nor the architecture were what currently held everyone’s attention, though. That honor went to the Floomfles. Cal knew they were called the Floomfles, because they’d been singing about it and dancing for the past four minutes, and showed no signs of letting up.
The tallest of the Floomfles stood just a little higher than Cal’s knee. The smallest—children, presumably—were barely over his ankle. Their heads were disproportionately large, their eyes disproportionately larger still, with both those factors combining to make them look like Pixar creations made flesh.
A few of them—the females, mostly—had tiny semi-transparent wings on their backs. They looked far too small to support the weight of their heads, let alone the rest of them, and yet they fluttered inelegantly from rooftop to rooftop, joining in with the chorus of those down below.
“We are the Floomfles,” they sang for the third or fourth time, skipping around in a circle and jingling little bells in time with the beat. Cal found himself humming along to the now-familiar tune as he watched them, and had already made peace with the fact that it was going to be stuck in his head for days. “We Floomfle all day long! We hope and trust and laugh and love, our friendship makes us strong!
“We Floomfle on the good days, we Floomfle through the worst! Our kindness, joy, and laughter make our hearts fit to burst!”
One of the smaller Floomfles dropped to his knees, clutching at his chest. The others fell silent and watched as he groaned and grimaced, his face twisted in pain.
“Jesus, is he…? Oh, God. Someone get that guy an ambulance,” Cal said, but then the kneeling Floomfle pulled open his tunic and, with a pop, a spray of glitter erupted out and swirled around on the breeze.
A cheer went up. The singing resumed, even more enthusiastically than before.
“Floooooomfles, we’re the Floooooomfles!” they chimed, holding their arms out at their sides and crisscrossing like jet planes as those with actual wings fluttered from rooftop to rooftop.
“We’d love to be your new best friends! In Floooooomville, here in Flooooooomville, the fun and sunshine never end!”
With a final series of theatrical flourishes, they all spun down onto one knee and extended their arms, jazz-hands-style.
“Floomfles!” they cried, then they all smiled hopefully up at Cal and the others, their little chests heaving, their faces gleaming with sweat.
Cal clapped. “Bravo! Bravo!” he said. “More of that sort of thing.”
“What the hell have we got involved in this time?” Mech muttered, glaring across the upturned faces. Loren had done her best to fix him up, but his left arm wasn’t sitting right and had fallen off twice on the way here. He rotated it in its socket, trying to click it into place.
“I think they’re called the Floomfles,” said Cal, leaning in and whispering. “Didn’t you hear? They did a whole song about it.”
“I heard the damn song,” Mech snapped. “I just…”
He gestured to the wide-eyed little critters. “This shizz ain’t right.”
“Hey, come on now! What are you talking about?” asked Cal. “They look totally—”
“Delicious,” said Miz.
A few of the Floomfles shot uneasy glances at the others, but their smiles remained fixed in place.
“Adorable,” said Cal. “They look adorable.”
“They are ridiculous,” said Tyrra.
She glared at one of the flying Floomles with such ferocity it fell from the sky and landed on the grass with a high-pitched, “Ouchie!”
“Ridiculously awesome, you mean,” said Cal.
He squatted down, bringing him closer to eye level with some of the larger creatures. Even in that position he was still a clear foot taller, but it was the best he could do.
“Well, hey there, you! What’s your name?”
The Floomfle stood up, tucked his hands behind his back, and twisted the toe of a brightly colored shoe against the ground. His little pointed ears blushed red as he studiously avoided Cal’s gaze.
“It’s Floomfle-Ello, mister,” he squeaked.
Cal turned back to the others, put a hand on his chest, and pulled a face that suggested this was the cutest thing he’d ever heard. “Floomfle-Ello! And did you hear him call me ‘Mister’?”
Mech and Tyrra stared impassively back at him. Miz licked her lips.
“Don’t even think about it,” Cal warned, then he turned his attention back to the Floomfles. “Well, now. We’ve been asked to come here and pick up a couple of crates. You know? Like big boxes?”
“I’m sure they know what crates are,” said Mech, jiggling his arm in its socket.
“Would you guys know anything about that?” Cal pressed. “Is there maybe, like, a Floomfle Chief we can talk to? Or a Head of Floomfle Logistics?”
“King Floomf,” Floomfle-Ello cheeped.
Cal turned to the others with the same hand-on-heart gesture again. “They have a King Floomf! I swear to God, I’m going to die!”
He faced front again, and saw one of the tiniest Floomfles of all standing on her tiptoes, a hand stretched high above her head. Her tongue was poking out of the corner of her mouth in concentration, and Cal had to physically restrain himself from picking her up and keeping her in his pocket for the rest of either his or her life, depending on which of them lasted longer.
“Yes, sweetheart?” he said. “You have a question?”
“What’s that thing?” the Floomfle asked, pointing to Mech.
“That’s my friend, Mech,” said Cal, smiling kindly. “He’s a little grumpy, but he’s secretly nice. Also, I know what you’re thinking, but no. He isn’t a robot. He’s a cyborg.”
The little Floomfle’s hand shot up again. “What’s a cyborg?”
“It’s like…” Cal considered his answer. “It’s like a fancy robot.”
Another hand went up on Cal’s right. He smiled like an eager young teacher who hadn’t yet had all the energy and enthusiasm beaten out of him by staff indifference and student idiocy. “Yes?”
“Why did you crash your ship?” asked another of the Floomfle children.
“We didn’t crash it. That was a landing,” Cal said.
The Floomfles all looked dubious. Several more hands went up.
“It wasn’t as controlled a landing as we ideally might have liked,” Cal admitted. “But apparently your hills are—and I quote—‘off-center.’ Make of that what you will.”
He looked across their eager faces. “Now, who else has a question?”
“Just get the motherfonking king,” Mech barked, stomping a foot on the ground. The Floomfles scattered, screaming, and rushed inside the little beehive houses, slamming the doors behind them.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Cal said. “You scared all the Floomfles.”
“That was my intention,” Mech said. “That’s why I did it.”
“Why would you want to scare the Floomfles, Mech? What are you, some kind of monster?” Cal asked.
Before Mech could answer, a horn blew. It came from the crest of one
of the purple-pink hills, and heralded the arrival of four more of the larger-sized Floomfles carrying a fifth on a raised platform between them.
The figure on the platform was old and wizened, with a beard that was longer than he was tall. It coiled around him like a boa constrictor, wrapping around his body, down one leg, and finished in a knot just above a doll-sized shoe.
Miz’s stomach growled. “Dinner is served,” she said. “They’re even serving him on a platter.”
“Don’t you dare,” Cal told her again.
“Tch. Relax. I’m not actually going to eat that guy,” Miz said.
“OK. Thank you. That makes me feel better.”
“Not with everyone around to stare at me,” Miz continued. “Like, I hate it when people watch me eat.”
That made Cal feel slightly less better, but he chose to let it go.
They waited for the Floomfle procession to arrive, which it eventually did in a chorus of horn blasts, cymbal crashes, and some colorful language from the old man when his bearers took a bend too sharply and he almost fell off.
At last, the procession arrived in the center of the village and stopped before Cal and the others.
Now that Cal was standing upright, he couldn’t see the bearers beneath the platform. All he could see was the old man on top of it, and two musicians who had been following behind, and who had been responsible for the horn-parps and cymbal crashes.
“You must be—” Cal began, before a fanfare from the horn-player interrupted.
He waited for it to stop, before continuing.
“You must—”
The cymbal player smashed the golden metal disks together. He clearly wasn’t cut out for the job as he shut his eyes, looked away, and physically braced himself before banging the cymbals together. He appeared visibly horrified by the racket they made.
Cal watched both musicians for a moment until he was sure they weren’t going to start up again, then smiled at the old man.
“You must be—”
“Presenting King Floomf of the Floomfles!” announced a voice from below the platform. This elicited another fanfare from the horn-player, followed by a cymbal-smash so unpleasantly loud that it appeared to take ten years off the life of the Floomfle who’d caused it.
The Hunt for Reduk Topa Page 15
