Princess Grace of Earth

by A K Lambert

  In total, the equation revealed the percentage of the world under occupation, its technology level, the standard of technology assistance permitted to the Zerot attack forces and finally, the big one, the Brukkah weighing.

  The three Dynasty invasion forces would be made up of male and female Zerot soldiers in their prime. The higher the Brukkah weighing, the greater the killing frenzy would be. The better the frenzy, the greater the chances of arousal and mating. The more mating, the better the chances of offspring to keep the Zerot numbers from dwindling further. And this, the ancient race needed badly. Poor breeding had already led to an underclass of Zerot, known as the Grunz, who were now only capable of carrying out the menial duties—only just up from slave caste.

  The Brukkah weighing finally appeared and was at best disappointing.

  Table two was the focal point of the second hour of the Killing Games.

  The three Dynasty military leaders each chose the points of the planet where their planetary violation forces would land and commence execution. They would have eight weeks to gouge a trail of death across the globe to the spot where Cadre 176 was based. In the case of Gemini 7, that was Bortherville in the country of Germaint. The dynasty military clerics at table two were now busy plotting and analysing the difficulty of the route—measured through colour density—and predicting how many millions of the population would be killed. Each of these would be crucial elements later in the game.

  The details of the military strategies became apparent by the end of the second hour, with full plans and predictions displayed on the panels. At the third table, the Dynasty leaders took charge, and betting would commence.

  Lord High Elder Cajjaabb of Cammaggama Dynasty—who had replaced the ailing Carrakk sixty years ago, following the failed planetary violation—had the opening gambit.

  ‘An excellent twenty years of preparation on Gemini 7 by my Cadre, I’m sure you will all agree. I will open with a three hundred Token bet on the Cammaggama military fully achieving their target at odds two to one.’

  Lord High Elder Sammanna of the Rebutti Dynasty jumped straight in.

  ‘Hammaraffi and his Cadre have lost the plot! A planet of Somarian seals would have offered more resistance than this planet.’ She paused as more data was given to her by her team, via secure telepathic communication. ‘Four hundred Tokens on my force to complete its target at the far more credible odds of four to one.’ Her laugh was loud as she banged her delicate hands on the table, only just managing to hide the pain of her overly exuberant demonstration.

  Cajjaabb responded in a vicious tone, ‘You may be riding high, Sammanna, on the wave of your precious Birjjikk, but that won’t last forever. And when it does end, I’ll be there standing over you and laughing the loudest.’

  Sammanna was quick to react to Cajjaabb, but Lord High Elder Robbijj was faster still, cutting her off before she could snarl back at her adversary. Robbijj was the oldest of the Elders at eight hundred and fifty odd years.

  ‘Children. Let us at least get a few bets on the table before the bickering starts.’ His short brown teeth were fully drawn as he smiled at the other two. ‘You don’t complete over two hundred planetary violations without having the occasional dud. And this is a dud. Cajjaabb. The numbers up there,’ he pointed to the revolving world, ‘prove that. But the game is the game, and the skill of the winner will be a testament to that, as it would with any other game. My team has three to one odds, which I find very challenging, but the Accett Dynasty will still open with a bid of three hundred Tokens.’

  Next, each Dynasty bid on the success, or otherwise, of the others in their quests, using up the remainder of the one thousand allotted to each of them. Here, the rhetoric would get nasty, but it was also where the overall game would be won or lost. Confidence, or lack of, in your opponents, was vital, and your own military’s poor performance might not stop you winning the game.

  Sammanna’s disdain for her rivals, especially Cajjaabb, was apparent, but all of the advice flowing to her from her analysis team suggested a large wager on the Cammaggama Dynasty’s military was the key to winning.

  ‘One hundred Tokens on Accett to finish their task and a desperate five hundred on Cammaggama, in the hope that Hammaraffi’s recently failed tactics bear some fruit this time.’

  Week four of eight on Gemini 7 and the Rebutti Dynasty, led by General Installitti, stopped and looked back at the trail of death she and her troops had left in their wake that morning while heading north towards Germaint.

  Two hundred of them were advancing in a line, slaughtering all of the Geminians in front of them. For miles to either side of them, Grunz were flushing out the population of this land and using blanket teleportation to send them to a half-mile wide corral fenced with force fields. The two hundred troops spread across the length of the corral, killing everything in their path.

  But it had been two weeks since any of them had experienced the Brukkah. She had yet to get anywhere close. The evening camps were desperate, and no one was copulating.

  She looked at the Geminians in front of her. Male, female and their offspring, looking doleful, no aggression, no anger. They accepted their fate. This passive behaviour was no good for the Zerot. They needed to face a pugnacious foe, see the fire and hate in their eyes, and take their lives as they resisted with their last breaths.

  Nothing here would ever raise them to Brukkah. The Accett Dynasty military had already left. Time for them to go as well. She gave the order, and the slaughter ceased.

  The population of Gemini 7 had saved themselves and their planet. A very rare occurrence when visited by a Zerot planetary violation squad. They were a lucky species. Or, perhaps, an ingenious and an incredibly brave one. Either way, Cadre 176’s days were over, and the Zerot had suffered two major setbacks in quick succession.

  Chapter 31

  The Reporter

  Earth - Leogang-Saalfelden, Austria- 2012

  * * *

  Sam Gosling was a freelance journalist.

  He primarily reported on bike races, particularly mountain bike racing. He was on a retainer with Tread Magazine, a South African based mountain bike magazine, but at international meetings would try and sell to anyone willing to flip open their cheque book.

  It wasn’t glamorous or well paid, but he got to travel, and that’s what he loved.

  He kept up to date with all the news of the world and copiously read all the local press when on tour. He had always wanted to be a world affairs reporter for one of the broadsheets, but the chances of that happening had probably now passed. Still, he was happy where he was. He loved mountain bike riding and lived in the hope that it would, one day, become a mainstream sport.

  He always wore a suit. They were never shabby, but an unusual fashion sense meant they were always a little too baggy. A telephoto lens camera around his neck and a laptop bag strapped over his one shoulder emphasised the strange look by dragging the jacket halfway off him. But his enthusiasm and ever-present smile endeared him to all of the cyclists, who were happy to give him some time for an interview or just share a beer.

  His extensive study of the local news over the last year was showing a disturbing pattern of gruesome killings in parts of the world he visited. Noteworthy of high local media coverage, but not the mass murders that spanned the international press.

  It wasn’t long before he noticed that these random killings weren’t so random. They always occurred around major off-road cycle events—particularly the world championship Grand Prix—the type of events he covered. A man who loved spreadsheets, Sam started one to keep to track of this information. After a while, he’d put together a pretty comprehensive list of locations, dates and times. When he was sure of the connection to the mountain bike racing scene, he started noting which teams and riders were present.

  He was now making some tentative connections. The only single common denominator his spreadsheet threw up was one particular race team always in attendance, but of that team, onl
y two riders were always there. The team was The Fortune Factory Downhill Team, and the riders were Jon O’Malley and Rob Smith.

  He had made a point of befriending them. A reporter after a story and a couple of beers afterwards.

  He was in Leogang-Saalfenden for the downhill world championships, and had arranged to have a beer with them after the race.

  Jon O’Malley was making his way to the starting line. His start was at 11.55am, and he had plenty of time.

  He shared the cable car with British legend Guy Ashley, hotly tipped for a podium place. They chatted casually about everything but the next UCI Mountain Bike & Trails World Championships Men’s Downhill race, which they would start within the hour and finish in less than three and a half minutes. The race would be won and lost by fractions of a second. Tiny mistakes or successful risks would be all that separated the top ten riders. Whose day would it be? Who had studied every twist and turn of the Leogang-Saalfelden course hardest? The track was dry on Friday’s practice day, but there had been torrential rains since, totally changing its character. It wasn’t now a case of who had prepared best; it was a case of who had the biggest balls.

  Jon’s aim was a top ten finish. In his four years as a professional bike rider, he had gained a reputation from his peers as the smoothest and most fluid rider on the circuit.

  But unfortunately not the fastest. The more technical the course, the higher up the order Jon would come, having got podiums few times and an occasional big win. In his first year, he had been chatting to a Frenchman and an Aussie at a small meet. The Frenchman had said, ‘You are the smoothest rider I ‘av ever seen… but you don’t race!’ After he’d left, Jon remarked to the Aussie, ‘That put me in my place,’ To which the Aussie replied, ‘Well, my dear young Irishman, when you’ve won seven world downhill championships you’ll be able to put anyone in their place. That was one hell of a compliment you just received from the legendary Nico Vouiville.’

  The small talk with Guy continued in the cable car. ‘How are you getting on with the GT Fury dude?’ Jon asked, seamlessly slipping into mountain bike speak. ‘One of your techies let me have a peek at it yesterday, it looks awesome, man!’

  ‘It’s the dog’s, man,’ replied Guy. ‘Flossed out to the nines.’

  ‘The front end seems so long. Dude, how’s that work?’

  ‘Yeah, it looks odd, but when you’re on it, it comes alive. You’ve got to try it sometime man, but not today,’ he smiled at Jon.

  When Jon had finished his run, he was in fourth place, with a time of 3.24.6 seconds He eventually ended in eighth place after the remaining riders finished. Guy had filled his expectations by getting the silver medal, running the eventual winner, South African Grant Mittaar, right to the wire. Jon dumped his bike with the race crew, showered, changed and went to find some of his mates. It was time for a beer.

  On a corner table in one of the hospitality tents, Sam Gosling sat with Jon, Rob, Guy Ashley and Guy’s sister Rhian. With the pressure off, they could all relax and enjoy a beer. As usual, Guy was wading his way through a mountain of food. Sam had regularly mentioned in his reports, his daily four thousand, five hundred calorie food intake, and not an ounce of fat on him. What people outside of the sport didn’t appreciate about downhill racers was that, despite having gravity on their side, they needed to be super fit. Bursts of power combined with endurance was a prerequisite, and standing up out of the saddle for anything from two to six minutes took a tremendous toll on their bodies. To stay top of the game, a downhill cyclist trained twice a day and would be no stranger to the gym. Nobody in the sport subscribed to this work ethic more than Guy’s sister Rhian. She had come into the championships as the favourite, but a niggling injury had meant she had had to settle for fifth.

  ‘How’s the back holding up, Rhian?’ Jon asked her.

  ‘Sore. But it is what it is,’ replied the tenacious young lady.

  ‘Tough, today. But you’ll nail it next year.’ Jon tried to make light of her disappointment. Everyone on the circuit liked the laid-back Irishman. He never appeared flustered by anything, and he was always approachable.

  Guy and Rhian disappeared, leaving just Jon and Rob with Guy.

  Sam decided to probe a little about Rob’s aunt Sonia, who was never around. ‘So, what’s your aunt up to this weekend? Not much to see around here, unless you’re into the leisure activities on offer.’

  Sam noted that, as usual, Rob, who hadn’t raced this weekend, having narrowly missing qualification, was guarded in his reply. ‘She’s deep into her latest book, a trilogy I think.’

  ‘No desire to come and watch you?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Jon interrupted, a broad grin on his face. ‘The fruitcake wouldn’t be seen dead watching downhill.’

  ‘Then why do you drag her around the circuit, to races like this?’ Sam persisted.

  ‘Well, I feel responsible for her. She needs looking after, she’s unable to cope on her own.’ Rob was looking straight at Sam now. ‘Why the interest? She has her money. I don’t support her, in fact, she subsidies me.’

  Sam raised his hands defensively, ‘Hey, just asking, mate, not a big deal,’ trying to diffuse the situation with his bright smile.

  Sam noted that he seemed to have hit a nerve there.

  Chapter 32

  The Lost Prince

  Gorgonea Tertia, Fandom Space - 2000

  * * *

  The Fandom salvage ship came to a stop at the small asteroid cluster.

  ‘Damn!’ shouted Captain Grunter. ‘I want that ship, Burp! If you don’t catch it, you’ll all be going home with empty pockets.’

  ‘Not to worry, Captain, the fools made a fatal mistake going in there. It’s too small, Gurk! We’ll have a tractor beam on the vessel in a few minutes and will drag it out,’ said Brockko, the first engineer, burping loudly in excitement.

  Navigator Basib eventually manoeuvred the massive ship into the perfect position. ‘All yours Brockko, Ha. Gaburp!’

  Brockko aimed, and zap. The tractor beam snagged the sphere at the first attempt and started slowly pulling it in.

  A crescendo of burbs erupted as the three stout Fandom shipmates belly slammed each other in celebration, burping continually.

  ‘Ha. They’ve led us a merry chase, but they’re no match for Grunter the great Fandom salvage king! Burp.’

  ‘Where shall we kick out the Vercetians? Or whatever they said they call themselves, Gaburp,’ bellowed Basib, ‘Relgan 5’s the nearest suitable planet.’

  ‘No,’ shouted Grunter. ‘We’ll be passing Doth in a week’s time. A pleasure planet will compensate them for the kind donation of their beautiful vessel. They may well get put to work, mind.’

  They all laughed and burped, and belly slammed again.

  Prince Camcietti waited the full three hours that Bala Karach, his Team Leader, had ordered him to. He’d taken over the Life Team a couple of years earlier, but with the evacuation of the Royals, she had wrested the majority of the control back from him. ‘Twenty is a good age to take control on Verceti,’ Karach had told him in her characteristically blunt manner. ‘But being on the run from the Trun is a whole different situation altogether.’

  He powered up the one-man escape pod that had been dormant except for life support since the delta sphere had deposited it in a crevasse on a small asteroid. Only now was he able to see who, if anyone, was still loitering close by. Nothing. That was promising. At least it looks like they’re still running from the salvage vessel, he thought. Or, Captain Grunter and his merry band of belching men had captured them.

  Camcietti’s Life Team had been on the run for three months since escaping from Preenasette with the other Royals and decoys. They had followed their escape route to the Gorgonea Tertia system, but soon became aware of a ship matching their every move. Seca Constapal, his pilot, was convinced it was a Trun sphere. Both ships so evenly matched they couldn’t escape, and the Trun couldn’t catch up. After three weeks th
e supposed Trun ship disappeared, and its place was taken by a large cargo type vessel. This ship slowly caught them up, which they had thought surprising, and then immediately made contact with them.

  ‘Hello, burp. I’m Captain Grunter of Fandom. Welcome to our little bit of space, burp. We rarely have visitors, and we would love you to come and eat and talk with us. We’re great hosts, and our food is magnificent. Burp.’

  After a lengthy discussion, it was agreed to send Bala Vondra and Dom Billa, the Life Team’s second in command and security chief respectively. Karach had finally given in—against her better judgment—to the notion that they needed to get some local help; something that would give them the edge if and when the Trun turned up. They took a two person NavPod and headed off to Grunter’s ship. Within forty minutes Grunter was back on the viacomm.

  ‘Hello again. Burp, Grunter is back. I’m afraid the food isn’t agreeing with your shipmates...’

  Camcietti, out of frame, slid over to Seca Constapal at the helm and whispered in his ear. ‘Slowly power up and be ready to move laterally instantly on my mark.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ he whispered back.

  ‘They’re powering something up. Just get ready to move.’ Camcietti stayed right on Constapal’s shoulder, concentrating hard.