Space Patrol!

by Sarah Nicole Nadler

  “That will not be nethethary,” The werewolf had a distinct lisp, which took Mr. Bilderbus aback. It was so at odds with his otherwise powerful appearance that the President stuttered a hasty, “I…I’m sorry?”

  “I am here to dithcuth termth for your planetary inclusion in the Galactic Trade Company clientele,” the werewolf lisped.

  His air was a tad bit snooty, Mr. Bilderbus thought, especially for someone with rather too much tongue in their voice.

  “Indeed?” he inquired, having as of yet still no idea what the creature was talking about. He pretended great interest—that being the art of politics after all.

  “Yes,” the werewolf affirmed, “I believe you are now the ruler of this planet?” he gave a small nod of respect—one sovereign to another, which Bilderbus did not overlook in spite of his very great confusion.

  “Ah, yes well,” he hemmed for a moment, stalling for time. It did not seem prudent to admit to holding office before a jackal-headed body builder. Who knew what the creature’s intentions were?

  And yes, there it was. From the other side of the door came the sound of many rapid footsteps and half a dozen heavily-armed OWSF officers burst in.

  The One-World Security Force was infamous for its corruptibility, but they wasted no time asking bribes from this creature—they surrounded the werewolf and held steady guns trained on him as their sergeant barked, “Stand down!”

  “I thay!” the werewolf cried, backing up a step, “That is quite unnecessary I am sure,” he held up his hands to show they were quite empty, “Mr. President, this is no way to begin negotiations! We are here as an invitathun,” he particularly stressed this latter, a fine spray of spittle shooting out as his canine tongue attempted English.

  “Perhaps,” Mr. Bilderbus said slowly, “There has been a misunderstanding.”

  “Yeth! I do believe so,” the creature nodded.

  “Let us take it from the beginning,” the Earth President said diplomatically, “Where did you say you are from, exactly?”

  At just that moment, the analyst who had first warned of the approaching aircraft spoke again over the intercom, “Mr. President, the unidentified craft has ceased its trajectory. It seems to be standing by.”

  “Ah, yeth,” the werewolf nodded sagely, “It is awaiting further instructions from me.”

  “And what are your instructions, exactly?” the Chief of OWSF demanded.

  The werewolf straightened himself up to his full six feet. He was of a height to the human men in the room, and seemed very strange there, Bilderbus thought, with his deep gray skin and jackal head. Quite out of place, really.

  “I am Anubis, your new Reprethentative for the Galactic Trade Company,” he gave another small bow.

  “Representative of what, exactly?” Bilderbus asked, curious in spite of himself. He thought he knew all the minority groups lobbying on Earth currently, but had never heard of this one.

  “And, erm…what is the Galactic Trade Company exactly?”

  In reply Anubis made a grand gesture with the hook-ended scepter in his right paw and a beam of light shown forth from its tip. The light shimmered and twisted into a holographic image of Earth and a tiny voice rolled forward a narrative tale for his edification.

  “Earth,” the tiny voice squeaked.

  “Third planet in its system, carbon-based life including one known sentient species. Primitive cultures cover six of the seven major landmasses, no significant habitation of oceanic surfaces. See note under Europa for a list of alien residency,” the voice added with a trill at the end as though it were proud of its recitation.

  “Explain Galactic histhtory, last thousand yearth or so,” Anubis directed.

  “Galactic Trade Company,” the staff stated in a rich contralto voice, “Seat of commerce for the Milky Way galaxy over the last 76 thousand years. Originally began as a trade venture throughout the Centauri system by Rex Fitterdorf—a Jerz from the planet Jeropul, distant cousin to Rasha the Terrifying,” the voice paused and then continued, “Current CEO Cle-zea ab Dul has no criminal background or record of governmental graft. Last test for illicit substances was Tuesday—passed.”

  It seemed odd to Bilderbus that the company tested their CEO for illegal substances on a regular basis, but being a Jester himself and used to doling out illegal drugs to appease the masses, he nevertheless pressed on.

  “Very well,” he began.

  To his surprise, the Chief of OWSF now leaned in and whispered in an undertone, “Mr. President, I think these are the guys you Jesters sell slaves to. You know, the off-world project?”

  “Ah!” Bilderbus had been briefed on this. The Court of Jesters, by the interference of certain citizen protection groups, had recently been deprived of the authority to detain and torture the population. Feeling thwarted, they had instead resorted to secretly selling Earth’s denizens off-world.

  “Well, if we’re already engaged in commerce with you, why are you here?” He asked peevishly. It had been a nice nap, after all.

  “Due to recent unfortunate thircumstances, our clandestine arrangement is no longer possible,” Anubis said smoothly, “The cat is out of the bag, you might thay. I am here to negotiate termth for your inclusion as a company client.” He gave another polite bow.

  Now the Chief of OWSF spoke to the alien visitor, “Does this have anything to do with the “space-napping” of that kid in Switzerland this morning?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Anubis said in an air of extreme disappointment. He sighed and waved a hand idly in the air, “A slaver ship trying to exit your atmosphere ran thmack into Space Patrol. Unfortunate timing. Now, of course, in order to avoid unnecessary fees and any awkward questions, the CEO has directed me to pretend that Captain Nask was acting of his own accord. He will be spaced, and you and I have the unpleasant business of enacting a cover-up. Very inconvenient.” He shook his head in displeasure.

  “But I can assure you, Mr. President,” Anubis gave another polite bow, “The CEO is most thertainly looking forward to meeting your chosen ambassador. Now, shall we discussth who that will be?”

  “Oh! Yes, of course,” Mr. Bilderbus wrung his hands, wishing for the first time he still had one or two of those advisors he had so eagerly fired. It would be convenient to have someone on hand to blame for any poor choices, if nothing else.

  “GTC polithies demand a certain level of character and sense of discretion in a planetary ambassador, I’m thure you underthtand,” Anubis said smoothly.

  “Oh yes, yes.” He nodded, still thinking.

  “And by law, no ambassador may be elected who has passed the age of puberty,” Anubis added with a flick of his paw as though this were to be expected.

  “Wait, what?” Bilderbus stuttered, flabbergasted.

  “Why, it is the law,” Anubis widened his round canine eyes in great surprise at the Earth President’s reaction, “How else are we to determine the correct latitude of opinion and opennessth of mind that is so apparent in the young?” he asked philosophically.

  “You want someone you can manipulate easily,” Bilderbus muttered under his breath, seeing through this dirty political ploy.

  “It is the most logical tholution,” Anubis argued, “Children are more likely to pick up the nuances of galactic interrelations quickly—a fact that could sthave you time and quadrillions of credit,” he nodded sagely at his own sanguine hint.

  “Credit, do you say?” Bilderbus’s eyes shown greedily for a moment. How much money could he possibly gain from this venture? Surely there was treasure out there in space, and opportunities for commerce unlike any here on Earth.

  “Yesth,” Anubis nodded. If he noticed Bilderbus’s drooling reaction he pretended not to, “But come—we thould choose an Earth delegate.” He stood and gestured for Bilderbus to proceed him toward the door. The OWSF, still surrounding him with weapons trained on the alien man, shifted around to point away from the Earth President while still keeping Anubis within their sights.

 
; “Oh, stand down,” Bilderbus said belatedly.

  Nodding to Anubis, he led the way to the Situation Room down the hall, wondering at the same time how he was going to find a child he could control.

  Captain Lissa Phelps

  Mr. Piff stood on the bridge of the Forty-Five. He watched from fifteen paces as her new Captain, Lissa Phelps of Earth, stood at the helm listening intently to the ‘bot explain the basics of spatial navigation. Lollipop shuffled from one foot to the other, bored yet refusing to leave the Earthling’s side. Interesting, Mr. Piff thought. Friss, being telepathic, were known to be scrupulously picky. That this one was so obviously attached to the Earthling was a point in the girl’s direction. More proof of his speculations toward Man.

  Lissa peered down at the brass bot and shook her hair from her face, looking as though she wished she could settle the new information into place along with the locks of her brown hair.

  “So essentially, it’s like sailing through narrow straights between spatial bodies, where the tides are determined by different gravitational pulls, and you use basic geometry plotted against a compass rose to determine where you are?” she looked at the ‘bot for confirmation.

  “In so many words, yes,” the little butler said.

  Stephanie, a few feet off, laughed and shook her head ruefully, “You’re the geek around here, Lissa! If anyone can fly this thing, it’ll be you.”

  Mr. Piff had done all the paperwork necessary to turn over ownership of the Forty-Five Dancing Girls to Lissa, who had changed the name to simply Forty-Five, and was making short work of understanding the mathematics involved in piloting. These Earthlings are smart, Arthur Piff thought, and he was glad to have found an opportunity to deny GTC their capture and enslavement.

  With a satisfied nod, Lissa now turned her attention to the Mursi siblings. Shika stood proudly against the rail, alien armor now covering much of her, the white chalk paint on her limbs slightly smeared from her adventures. She looked back into Lissa’s green eyes and gave a small smile. Her brother stood beside her, one hand draped casually on his sister’s shoulders in a protective air.

  “Did you understand any of that?” Lissa asked them.

  “I understand that you are now owner of this ship,” Ash spoke with a heavy Ethiopian accent, his white teeth flashing in a smile as he imagined the young girl before him flying through space, “But these words of space travel I do not understand.”

  He squatted down, placing his spear on the cool planks of the deck and gesturing for Lissa to be seated. She marveled at the differences of culture—an American would have hunted around for a chair.

  Shiro wandered over from where he had been in deep conversation with the Space Patrol Captain. Tugging once on his sleeve to indicate he should join them, Lissa took her own seat and turned to watch him remove his fur-lined red silk cap and sit beside her. Lollipop hopped happily onto her lap, eyestalks darting about in intense curiosity.

  Stephanie casually leaned against the forecastle to listen in, and Mr. Piff leaned closer as well to watch with interest this first meeting of the crew.

  Lissa glanced from one sibling to the other, “How did you both get here?” she asked at last.

  Shika settled into a cross-legged seat on the floor beside her brother. Her hands moved expressively as the bot translated her words into melodious English. Lissa was amused to note that her tale sounded much like an epic ballad told around a campfire, but then, oral traditions were still strong in places such as northern Ethiopia where the Mursi twins hailed.

  Shika began:

  “On the day I was born the gods cursed me with a beautiful face.

  Or so the Elders say. They condemned me for denouncing the Old Ways, for refusing the plate lip and the tattoos that scar the faces of the other women of our tribe.

  Yet I am fifteen years old—a woman grown, and I will choose my own fate.

  Our people live a simple existence—the land gives us life just as it did when our ancestors laid paths here a thousand-thousand years ago. We raise our cows and supplement the milk they give with crops of corn and wild honey.

  But the beauty of the land is a stark contrast to the appearance of my people.

  It is said in legend that years ago, as the dry summer winds blew across the ripening gold of our fields, the devils blew in as well. Borne upon the hot winds in their chariots of fire they butchered our people and searched our faces for the Curse. Any woman not cured of beauty by a plate lip or scars was taken away across the deserts to slavery and death.

  Or so the Elders tell us.

  No one in living memory had ever seen a devil. Why should I scar my face and cut my lip for a phantom? I did not think they really existed. Nor did Akira, my younger sister.

  For us the world was vast, the honey milk sweet, and the warriors of the tribe looked admiringly on our dark faces—unmarred like many of the more traditional girls—and my sister and I planned to marry the best of them.

  We were in the hut; Akira was smearing white chalk paint on my face, her own skin bare as she waited for me to do the same for her. She drew stripes across my cheek bones and painted around my eyes as we prepared for a celebration. It was dawn, and the air was cool—I had reeds wrapped around my lap to keep the chill off. The only light in the hut was the dawn coming in, which she was using to draw lines of white down my face. As we sat there I heard a whirring sound from far off. I remember Akira’s dark eyes meeting mine, questioning. No beast in Africa makes such a noise. It grew louder quickly.

  We are too young to recognize the devils’ chariots but there are others in the village with longer memories and their cries erupted around us.

  It was a horror. I ducked out of the hut leaving Akira to clean up the chalk, and my eyes were met by an awful sight—one of the Elders had Sishi’s daughter in his hand and was slashing her cheeks with his belt knife, a grim look on his face as she screamed and tried to twist away.

  “What is this madness!” I cried, running to her side and trying desperately to loosen his iron grip. He turned to look at me. His eyes were impassive until they lit with fury at the sight of my unmarked face. Quick as an adder he slashed my left cheek, leaving a shallow cut—a scar I wear to this day.

  Crying out I dropped the child’s arm, my hand going to my cheek and coming away smeared with blood.

  “The devils are coming,” he snapped at me, “It is your Curse that tempts them—only blood will keep you safe now!”

  Dropping Sishi’s girl, he strode off across the village and as my gaze followed I saw that he was not alone—all the Elders of our tribe were stalking the space between the huts, entering inside to drag out the inhabitants. Only those with plate lips or other disfigurements were spared.

  To my horror, the worst was yet to come. The whirring sound from above turned into a large bird on the horizon. It grew and grew until it was a monstrosity hovering over the village, its drone so loud it drowned out the wails of the injured women and children below.

  Akira was behind me, crouched in the doorway. The way she held her face in shadows made the Elders skip over her, and I, believing them touched by cow-disease or madness, hid her partially from view—my cut face obvious and dripping, blood mixed with chalk-paint so they could clearly see I was “cured”.

  The monster came to land beside our hut, on the outskirts of the village, and from within emerged demons bearing spears that shot evil magic at our people. The warriors of our village shot at them with rifles and Sishi’s husband came running at one with a knife but the demon laughed with a loud gargling noise and brushed him aside.

  They struck down many and then took those they wanted the most into their bird-creature. Ash was one of the chosen—he fought but they captured him and placed him, spear and all, inside.

  That is when I made my move—I snuck up behind one of them, and with a cry of anguish for my brother, I pierced the back of the demon’s scull with my knife. The leader of them, this Captain Nask, he did not like this. He sto
pped laughing when I killed the demon and instead began to gather his slaves together and back up into the ship. I waited an instant after they disappeared and then leapt up as the bird began to rise in the air—determined to follow and rescue my brother.”

  When she finished speaking, the deck was silent for a moment. Lissa wondered if she would have had the gumption to do that—grab the landing skid of a moving space ship and climb aboard an alien vessel after someone she loved. Primitives they might be, but they were no cowards, these Mursi people.

  “But…the ship that landed and picked you up—that wasn’t the Forty-Five,” Stephanie said, confused, “This boat can’t land, except on water. And you said it made a whirring sound?”

  “It was a helicopter,” Ash told them, “Shika has never seen one before, but I had. It was an Earth machine, and it had a human pilot. Once we were aboard, the pirates used some kind of magic to bring us here.”

  “The same gold glowy thingy that got us,” Lissa said to Stephanie, who nodded, but she looked troubled at the idea of humans helping Nask catch slaves on Earth.

  “Now what do you want to do?” Lissa asked at last. She noticed out of the corner of her eye that Mr. Piff still stood close by. He must have heard the tale Shika told. She wondered briefly what he thought so far of the Earthlings he had helped to set free.

  “You plan to travel out there?” Ash asked her, his black eyes large and intent.

  “If I can, yes,” Lissa nodded.

  “We will come with you,” Ash nodded. He spoke to Shika for a moment, and she nodded as well.

  Shiro was also in accord, but he added, “Rasta may stay inside the cage for now. She will need food soon, however.”

  “Rasta is your bird?” Lissa wanted to know.

  “She is a golden eagle,” Shiro said proudly.

  “I’m sure we can capture enough food for her before we leave,” Lissa assured him, “We will need to go planetside for supplies first anyway.”