Two Ikumordos.
Two.
One big, one small.
Something passed between them. Not words, not even emotions, but something. A sensation.
No.
A bond.
Cal felt the sparks and fireworks flare in his head again. A parental bond. Mother and child, although that wasn’t quite right, either. Two of the same thing. Two pieces of the same whole.
And then, without moving in any way, the smaller of the two was gone. Just… gone. Cal’s fractured mind ached with longing and loss. He wanted to cry, to wail, to scream into the darkness.
“No! Please! Come back!”
“What?” said Loren.
“Who?” Lily asked.
Oh. He’d evidently found his mouth again. That was a bonus.
The one remaining Ikumordo expanded rapidly, rushing towards him like smoke towards an open window. Cal felt the clammy hand of panic slap against his chest as the cloud forced its way up his nostrils, down his throat, and – to his dismay – into every other available orifice.
Cal opened his eyes. Or maybe his eyes had always been open, but were only just working again. He opened his mouth, and a voice that was partly his, but partly something else emerged.
“I understand now,” he said.
Loren and Lily exchanged a glance. Kevin exchanged the same glance, but as he was only a voice, nobody noticed.
“Understand what?” Lily asked.
Infinity and eternity collided inside Cal’s head. He spoke again, and his voice boomed like thunder.
“Everything.”
* * *
The Shatner screamed towards the big weird space thing, its cannons stuttering out a hail of energy blasts. On the bridge, President Carver bounced excitedly in his seat, his face covered by the gunner’s visor.
“Oh, man, I have missed this!” he cried.
“You know you’re shooting at a cloud, yes?” asked the first lady. “You’re literally doing zero damage.”
The president shrugged. “Maybe. Still fun, though,” he said. “Tobey Maguire, report!”
Tobey Maguire looked round in surprise. “About what?”
“I don’t know, I just like saying stuff like that,” said the president. “And you know I find your voice soothing.”
First Lady Loren glanced back over her shoulder, “Seriously starting to think I should be worried about you two,” she said, then she banked the Shatner towards the most densely-concentrated area of the space cloud. If there was anything to shoot on this thing, it would most likely be there.
Tobey Maguire sat more upright in his chair. “OK, so… we’re flying towards the orange thing. You’re shooting stuff. There are three of us.”
“Jesus Christ, Tobey Maguire, that’s the worst report I’ve ever heard,” said President Cal. “And that includes a report I gave on my nine favorite colors in third grade.”
“Oh, sorry.”
Silence fell.
“I didn’t say stop.”
“Right, yes,” said Tobey Maguire, but before he could start again, several dozen shapes emerged from the cloud ahead of them. “Um…”
“I see them,” said the president. “Loren? Honey? Is it just me, or do those ships look like us?”
“It’s not just you.”
“I mean… a lot like us?”
“Yep.”
“I mean… They’re us.”
Thirty or more virtually identical Shatners streaked towards them in a tightly-packed formation. Tobey Maguire tapped the short range scanner controls on his arm rest. “They’re definitely very similar.”
“Could they be us from other universes?” the first lady asked. “I mean, that’s a thing that seems to be happening today, right? Alternate versions of… well, you?”
“Yes!” said the president. “Of course. Makes sense. These guys are on our side. They’ve come to help us fight the… Oh, fonk, no, they’re shooting at us.”
First Lady Loren spun the Shatner into a twisting spiral as the Echo Shatners fired a volley of torpedoes. Most of the energy blasts streaked past, but a few landed glancing blows on the shields, dropping their integrity by a couple of per cent.
“Nice flying,” said the president. “I mean, I think I might cough up one of my own balls, but still, good job.”
“Long as it’s one of your own,” the first lady said, tilting the ship to avoid the last of the torpedo barrage.
“So we have evil doubles,” said the president. “That is both awesome and problematic. Tobey Maguire, how many are out there?”
Tobey Maguire began to count the dots on his display. “One, two, three, four, five. Wait. One, two, three, four… Stop fonking moving!” he shouted at the arm rest. “One, two, three, four, five, six, s— Oh, I don’t know. Loads.”
“Concise, yet detailed. That’s why I pay you the big bucks, Maguire,” the president said. The other Shatners were all still fixed in their formation. Cal adjusted his grip on the cannon control stick. “I wonder…” he said, then he squeezed the trigger and jerked the stick, sending the beam swinging left to right across the approaching enemy ships.
It cut through them with ease, neatly cleaving each ship into two or more parts.
“OK, relax, everyone,” said the president. “Looks like they’ve made that age-old mistake of building their ships out of cotton candy.”
“How about those ones?” asked Tobey Maguire.
“Which ones?” asked the president. “If you’re pointing, I draw your attention to the visor currently covering my…”
His voice tailed off as he turned his chair and saw what Tobey Maguire was talking about. Another fleet of ships was emerging from the cloud. No, not a fleet, an armada. There were hundreds of them, all flying in a tightly-packed formation.
“OK, so that’s a lot,” said the president.
“Keeping formation, though,” the first lady replied. “Looks like they didn’t learn from last time.”
As if they’d been listening in, the other Shatners broke ranks and swooped into a whole range of different attack vectors.
“You had to say it,” said the president, as hundreds of weapons systems flared around them. “OK, baby, show us what you’ve got.”
“I’ll try,” said First Lady Loren, reaching around her bump for the controls, before plunging them into a dive.
“Well, I mean, I was talking to the ship,” said the president. “But much appreciated, all the same.”
Loren shook her head. “Man, I hate you, sometimes.”
Behind his visor, President Cal Carver grinned. “I know.”
The Shatner flipped, curved upwards (or downwards, depending on where you were standing), then twisted into a spiraling loop. It was a perfectly executed move, designed to put them directly behind one of the attacking ships. And it did. Unfortunately, it put them directly in front of three other attacking ships, too.
“Shizz,” the first lady spat. “Full power to rear shields.”
Tobey Maguire was filled with the sinking feeling that she had been talking to him. “Is that my bit?” he asked, looking down at his controls just as a volley of cannon-fire hammered against the shielding.
“Yes, that’s your bit!” Loren said.
“Jesus Christ, Tobey Maguire, you had one job,” said the president.
“I had a number of jobs!” protested Tobey Maguire. “And it’s not my fault! I’ve never done the buttons before, have I?”
“Done the buttons?” said the first lady, twisting a number of controls at once and throwing the ship into a complex series of maneuvers that was, I’m afraid, completely indescribable. Impressive, but indescribable. You really had to be there.
“Well, you know what I mean!” said Tobey Maguire. He did a button. “Is it this one?”
There was an odd humming sound, not unlike the sound of a number of shield generators shutting down, all at the same time.
“What did you do?” the first lady cried. “We’ve lost
all shields.”
“I just pushed a button!”
“Well fonking unpush it!” said the president.
An alarm squealed. Loren’s eyes went wide as a number of weapons systems got full lock on the unprotected Shatner. Her first instinct was to bank the ship to the right, deploy any and all defensive countermeasures, and hope to Kroysh they worked. Another, more powerful instinct took over, though.
Taking her hands from the controls, Loren covered her bump.
“Incoming,” she whispered.
And then the screen flared as the three closest Echo Shatners erupted in a hail of energy blasts. A voice crackled over the comm-system’s emergency broadcast channel. It was gruff and angry. It was also, without question, the most beautiful voice anyone on board had ever heard.
“President Carver, Symmorium Threshers at your disposal. We await your command.”
“Ooh, fonk, are we glad to see you guys,” said Cal, as dozens of Symmorium ships dropped out of warp all across the sky. “As for my command?”
He wriggled in his seat, adjusted his grip on his gun controls, then smiled grimly. “Let’s go beat the shizz out of these things.”
* * *
A metal fist clanged against Mech’s jaw, staggering him. Around him, Zertex troops, alternate Cal Carvers and a few plucky citizens were fighting back against the tide of pasty-faced Echoes. Ninjas and Dwarves chopped through a whole regiment – the Dwarves using axes, the ninjas, their hands.
The Echo Mech’s fist swung again. Mech ducked it, but couldn’t avoid the follow-up right hook that exploded against what would have been his ribcage, had his ribs not long since been replaced by a flexible Durium alloy.
Further damage reports and error alerts scrolled across Mech’s eyeline, making it difficult to predict where the next strike was coming from. He’d tried to suppress the information, but it turned out that his ‘suppress visual damage reports’ functionality had, ironically, been one of the first things to go.
Somewhere, far enough away for them to be unaware of Mech’s current predicament, Mizette and Splurt tore and hammered their way across the battlefield. Miz was on a collision course with her duplicate, who was currently at the back of a long line of cannon fodder.
Splurt wasn’t heading in any one particular direction, and was instead just twirling around, squishing Echoes into lumpy piles of paste with ten very long, very heavy tentacles. It was, judging by the way he was pulsating, the most fun he’d had all day.
Another battering-ram blow caught the side of Mech’s head. His vision flickered, like a TV screen with a bad connection. He reached for the dial on his chest, remembered it was gone, then swung wildly with a punch that his Echo easily avoided.
KABAM!
The duplicate’s shoulder hit Mech like a freight train, launching him backwards. Too startled to even flail his arms, Mech sailed several feet through the air until he collided with a wall behind him.
The Echo was already stomping towards him. Mech tried to stand, but his legs were twitchy and unresponsive. His vision flickered, and the duplicate was suddenly closer, a leer twisting its waxy white face.
“H-hey, back off!”
Gluk Disselpoof stepped between Mech and the Echo, a blaster pistol trembling in his hands.
“No! No, don’t,” Mech said, but his voice came out like a series of synthesizer notes from the 1980s.
The Echo didn’t stop. Gluk opened fire, squeezing the trigger over and over again. The first shot punched cleanly through the Echo’s shoulder. The second left a deep dent in its chest.
The third shot ricocheted harmlessly off, and the Echo kept coming.
It was learning, Mech realized. Adapting.
“Go. Run!” Mech warned.
But Gluk Disselpoof did not run, would not run. He stood his ground, eyes wide, hands shaking, firing round after round at the oncoming Echo.
Frantically, Mech reached into the hole in his chest. He knew the schematics. He’d repaired himself a hundred times before, although never with this much damage, and never under this much pressure.
But he knew the schematics. And he knew what had to be done.
There was no dial. Not anymore. But then, that didn’t matter. The dial was only there for his protection – a failsafe, to safely divert power from brain to body without the risk of him burning himself out by using both to their full capacity at once.
But that was possible. Easier, even, than rigging up another failsafe. And quicker. Much quicker.
He wouldn’t have long, but the time he did have would be spectacular.
Sparks flew as Mech twisted a knot of wires together in his chest cavity.
Blaster bolts crackled as Gluk Disselpoof fired again and again and again.
The Echo drew back its fist.
The blaster, its charge depleted, went click.
And the ground rumbled as Mech got to his feet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The vast orange face of Ikumordo was crisscrossed by ships, all engaging in battle. The Symmorium had quickly eliminated the second wave of Echo crafts, but the third wave was proving more difficult, having adapted to the Thresher ships’ attacks.
The Echoes were no longer just of the Shatner, either, and picking the enemy ships from the friendly ones was proving increasingly difficult.
A few battalions of Xandrie fighters had now warped into orbit, and their more unorthodox fighting style – ‘fly around wildly, shoot even more so,’ – seemed to be more effective at taking out the Echoes.
The peace deal between the Xandrie and the Symmorium was pretty flimsy, though, the president knew, and all it would take was some accidental friendly fire to set relations back a decade.
Of course, if that happened, it would mean the universe had survived, so it was a price worth paying, he reckoned.
President Carver spun in his chair, taking down a Thresher Echo that had found their tail. Previous ships had required a single pulse of cannon-fire, but now they needed a direct torpedo hit to take them out, and the Shatner only had a handful left.
“Argh! Look out,” warned Tobey Maguire. The first lady punched the thrusters, banking the ship up and over an approaching enemy fighter, then tilting to bring it directly into the president’s sights. He used up another torpedo and the ship exploded into debris.
“Two missiles left,” warned Tobey Maguire.
“They’re not missiles, they’re torpedoes,” said the president.
“Is there a difference?”
“Yes. ‘Torpedoes,’ sounds cooler.”
“Greyx ships incoming,” said the first lady. She swung the Shatner around, bringing the heart of Ikumordo into view again just as it spat out another armada of Shatners, Threshers and now Xandrie fighters. “But it’s not going to be enough.”
She tightened her grip on the controls, looked down at her bump, then back at her husband. “Cal? What do we do?”
Even through the visor, the president could feel her eyes on him. “We fight,” he said. “In fact, no. We don’t just fight. We space fight. And we keep on space fighting.”
“That makes literally no sense,” his wife replied.
“What good is it doing?” asked Tobey Maguire. “For every one we destroy, that thing spits out five more. And besides, if what those… yous said is true, then this isn’t just happening here, it’s happening to millions of other Earths, too. Billions.”
“Then we’ll make sure this one is the last to fall,” the president said.
“How?! Forgive me if I’m out of line here, but there’s nothing we can do against that thing. We’re not even delaying the inevitable, we’re just spectating the inevitable, very close up.”
The president tapped a button on the visor, retracting it upwards towards the ceiling. “So what am I supposed to do, Tobey Maguire?” he demanded. “Hmm? Any suggestions? Because I’d love to hear one. It’s not like the solution is going to just miraculously appear out of thin air, is it?”
&nbs
p; A few hundred miles ahead of the Shatner, something appeared out of thin air. Well, technically not ‘air,’ what with being in space, and everything, but out of nowhere.
It was a ship. A green ship. Or black. Or possibly silver, depending on which way you looked at it.
“Who the fonk is this now?” asked the president. He looked across at Tobey Maguire.
“What? How should I know?” the advisor replied. “It’s another ship.”
“Seriously?” said the president. “That’s the best you’ve got?”
“Uh, honey…?” said the first lady. The president looked round and saw that a face had appeared on screen, as if someone had taken over the comm-channel and forced their way onto it.
At least, that’s what everyone aboard the Shatner thought, at first, before they realized the face wasn’t on screen, at all. It was being projected into space itself, several thousand feet high from chin to forehead.
The president leaned forward in his chair. “Holy shizz, is that… Is that me?”
Tobey Maguire looked long and hard at the floating head, then at the president, then back to the head.
He repeated this a number of times.
“I think it might be.”
“Of course it is,” said the first lady, with just a note of exasperation in her voice. “It’s identical.”
“But bigger,” Tobey Maguire pointed out.
“Well, yes, obviously it’s bigger.”
The president grinned. “I’m a giant face,” he said, then he gasped. “No! I’m a giant space face! Way to go, me!”
* * *
Miz carved through a couple of white-faced waxy things, snapped the neck of another, then hissed as a club cracked across the back of her skull.
“Witch oot, quine!” hollered Carver Eighty-Three, tossing his axe. It buried in the chest of Miz’s attacker with a satisfying thunk.
Miz nodded briefly to the little man, bounded through the oncoming crowd, then stopped in front of a distorted reflection of herself. “Like, who are you supposed to be?” she snarled.
“Like, who are you supposed to be?”
“I asked you first,” said Miz.
“I asked you first.”
Miz growled deep in her throat. “Wait, are you, like, copying me?”
Space Team: Return of the Dead Guy Page 21
