Andromeda Mayday

by D. Tolmach

  “Uh, definitely. Sure, of course.”

  “Are you sure everything’s ok? What’s that chanting?”

  “Yeah, no, I’m fine. It’s the radio. Talk to you later.”

  The headquarters of the Archosaur Illuminati were in an underground mansion in a hollowed-out planet from which they enacted their control over Andromedian politicians and elites. After she had gotten a distress message from Andy, whose kidnappers were unaware that she could make free long-distance phone calls and had unlimited texting from inside her own head, it had taken Karlatte a month to track them down, infiltrate them, and find where and why they were holding her, only to be caught when her robot lizard costume malfunctioned and she collapsed during one of the plethora of black masses they insisted on celebrating several times a day.

  When she came to, she found herself tied up in a chair next to Andromeda, who had saved up enough money to clone herself a new body and implant it with the computer she used as a brain before being taken hostage by the ancient race of humanoid reptiles. A large shriveled old crocodile man dressed in elegant velvet robes with an oblong headpiece was pacing back and forth in front of them, flanked by two guards in anachronistic armor.

  “Humans! It has been so long.” He reached out and touched Karlatte’s face as she recoiled in horror. “Please, don’t be afraid. I must admit, I’ve rather missed you.”

  “Missed me?”

  “Not you you. I mean homo sapiens, you beautiful bastards. I’m sorry, this must all be very confusing. Let me introduce myself.” He tipped his hat and bowed. “Archbishop Archibald, High Priest of the Archosaurs, at your service.”

  The captives looked at each other.

  “What magnificent specimens.” His voice was thoughtful with a hint of regret. “I must say, you make me very proud.”

  “Proud?”

  “Of course. I am your father. The father of humanity.” He let this sink in. “We are your masters, your creators, your primordial gods. And you, in your simian arrogance, enter our lair and try to take what we have taken? Let’s just say no Andromedian would have the balls to do that. Which is why we had to abandon the Human Project and, in the end, leave the Milky Way. You are not fit to be slaves, not even for such benevolent masters as us. You are too chaotic, too stubbornly independent, too . . . inherently self-destructive.”

  “Slaves?” Karlatte was too overwhelmed to form anything more than one-word sentences.

  “We Archosaurs have grown accustomed to a certain standard of living, what with our orgies and our black masses and our virgin sacrifices, and we have no time for something as banal as work. The best kind of slave is a slave that doesn’t know it’s a slave, so we created you. I was the chief engineer on the Human Project, you know. The very DNA that makes up your bodies was carefully crafted in our labs. It’s a shame . . .”

  “Shame?”

  “. . . your existence would have been so much easier had you just submitted. But, being the insolent, self-important apes you are, you forced our hand, and now we must use any means necessary to stop Humans from coming to Andromeda. We have a good thing going here, and we can’t risk the likes of you messing it all up. So, we bide our time as we build up the Andromedian army, and when we are ready, we will reconquer the Milky Way and destroy that which we created.”

  “And if the people of Andromeda vote for Finkworth and he lets the Human refugees in?” Andy stepped in with a complete sentence.

  “The people of Andromeda, my pretty little clone, will vote for whoever we want them to vote for, and best of all, they will believe they are doing so out of their own free will and in their own self-interests. Now”—he snapped his fingers and the guards moved toward Andy and Karlatte—“we must get you ready for the feast.”

  “Feast?” Their ankles were untied and they were forced up and marched down a cold stone corridor.

  “You will be fed to Wayne.” He paused, expecting Karlatte to say “Wayne?” but, knowing that was exactly what he wanted, she stayed silent. “Even gods need someone to worship,” he continued, disappointed, “and ours is a hungry god.”

  * * *

  The chants of the robed lizard priests echoing from the seaside cave grew louder, and the waves became even more frenzied as the head and long neck of the dinosaur swayed in between the rocks, glistening in the light of three suns and drenching the chained women. He looked first at Karlatte and then at Andy, as if to decide which would make a better appetizer and which he should save for the main course, before focusing his attention on Andy, bringing his head within inches of her face, sniffing her suspiciously, and running his tongue along her brand-new body, seriously grossing her the fuck out. C’mon, Karlatte, I thought you had a plan. . . .

  That was the last thought she had before being blasted unconscious by several kilograms of plesiosaur flesh, brain, and bone. The priests dove for cover as Ms. Magnificent de-cloaked, turned her plasma cannons on the mouth of the cave, and opened fire. After it collapsed, the door to the ship opened and a small figure stood silhouetted against the interior light.

  “Cinnamon! Good boy. Now come unchain me.”

  Her pet tardigrade scuttered down and clung to the rock, chewing through the rusty links, and Karlatte pulled herself up. They crossed the hull and jumped on the rock where Andy was hanging limp. Karlatte cradled her slimy body as Cinnamon bit through the chains, struggling with all her might to keep her friend from slipping through her arms into the sea.

  “Go get us a rope.”

  They were both covered in blood and mucus as they collapsed on the floor of the hangar, the giant airlock doors closing behind them. Karlatte had finally caught her breath when the ship rocked with a large explosion. Cinnamon scurried off to the cockpit, and as he steered Ms. Magnificent into the upper atmosphere, she set the coordinates and released a cluster of thermonuclear bombs.

  * * *

  When the nanobots in her brain were done repairing the damage from the plasma-electrified dino flesh that had covered her, she awoke with a jolt to find herself robed in a soft bed, clean and bandaged, and complete with a mani-pedi. She replayed the memories that her unconscious mind had recorded of Karlatte hoisting her up into the ship, dropping some bombs, and cleaning her up.

  Damn, bitch, I think I’m in love.

  She followed ambient music and the scent of weed down the long familiar metallic corridors of Ms. Magnificent until she came to the sauna, where Karlatte was wearing a sleep mask, soaking in a hot tub next to a small bong and a glass of wine. Before she could turn around and leave, Karlatte pulled off the mask.

  “How are you?”

  “Great. That’s the good thing about having a computerized brain. You never feel any pain.”

  “I envy that. My back is fucking killing me. You’re heavier than you look.”

  “Thanks for coming.”

  “I wanted to ask—why did you call me? Why not your friend, what’s her name, Lou? Or the police?”

  “I don’t know. It didn’t even occur to me. You had followed me all the way from the Milky Way, so I figured you’d find me again. I trusted you.”

  “Can I ask another question? I’m sorry, and you can stop me if it’s too personal, but . . . why do you have a penis?”

  “C’mon, Karlatte, if you had the chance to build yourself any body you wanted, you wouldn’t give yourself a thick meaty cock, just to see what it’s like?” She smiled and winked. “No, I guess you wouldn’t. You’d give yourself a prim and proper ladylike member, and it’d wear a hat with a bird’s nest and probably go to church every Sunday.”

  Her next question was going to be does it work? But then Andy shed her bathrobe and she could see for herself with widening eyes that it worked just fine.

  Karlatte took an extra-large gulp of wine.

  Illuminati No-Show

  “Did you try turning it off and then turning it back on again?”

  “Of course, you dolt. Whatever’s wrong seems to be on their end.”

&
nbsp; The secretary of the interior lowered the ornamental dagger he was holding over the heart of the young lady gagged and bound and writhing in fear on the pentagram-shaped table and pulled up his plague-doctor mask, peering into the holoconference screen, which was just showing three-dimensional static.

  “Are we gonna do this or not?”

  The president of Andromeda shushed him. This is not good. The electoral debates were coming up, and the Illuminati still hadn’t sent the script. More and more sapients were arriving from the Milky Way, and she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to welcome them or turn them away. And now Archbishop Archibald was late for a virgin sacrifice.

  Archbishop Archibald was never late for a virgin sacrifice.

  Decisiveness is not the first thing that comes to mind when someone asks you, as they occasionally might, to describe the national character of Andromedians. In fact, it’s not even last. It’s simply not to be found anywhere on the list, or even lying on the nightstand next to the list between your digital alarm clock and your dog-eared copy of The Martian. They can be impulsive, of course, especially when drunk and horny, but that’s hardly the same. Decisiveness is for Humans, and, charismatic and self-confident they may be, Human Beings are savages. As Andromedian schoolchildren are taught from their first day of class, your first decision is always your worst decision.

  And now the president had to decide.

  “Borgus.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Start writing the outline for the debate. Make Finkworth win.”

  Everything broadcasted on Andromedian holovision was carefully scripted, especially the reality shows, and the Galactic Communications Commission attentively followed the decrees of their scaly overlords, producing programming to sway public opinion in whichever way the Archosaur Illuminati instructed.

  “Um, Finkworth? Are you sure?”

  The president had been moved by the stories of Humans being slaughtered by their own government in the Milky Way and found herself gravitating toward compassion for the creatures. “No, I’m not sure, but we have to air something, and barring any direct orders from the lizards, it’s up to me. And tell Immigration to continue approving asylum requests.”

  “Madam President, what should I do with her?” The secretary of the interior pointed to the virgin, still struggling against the leather straps.

  “Throw her back in the dungeon.”

  * * *

  Vax had spent the last two weeks in bed, using a broomstick to turn her sheets into a tent and leaving only to shower in the en suite, which she did at least five times a day. Her servants brought her meals that she only picked at, and her children were confused as to why Mommy never left her room and bored with pretending like they were camping all the time.

  She didn’t know how to explain stress-induced agoraphobia to them, which was what she had diagnosed herself with.

  Pritchard’s calls and texts were ignored, and she answered Jorg with as few syllables as possible. Not that he inquired too intensely into how her life was going, busy as he was with raising campaign funds from his rich friends and preparing for the upcoming debates.

  Naturally, just as her reddened eyes finally closed and her brain allowed itself to get some sleep for the first time in days, she received a ping on her tablet.

  “Hello, Vax,” said her blackmailer.

  It’s a Fucking Invasion

  It was your usual Friday night parade at the station: flashers and hookers, dealers and junkies, pickpockets, con men . . . you name it, we saw it. The cream of fucking society.

  “Hey, Gustav.” I hadn’t even heard the phone ring, but Rikki was cradling it to his ear and yelling at me with that shrill, girly screech of his.

  “What?”

  “Good news. We got a floater.”

  “Shit. God damn it, Rikki, I was just about to get off.”

  “You can get off when you get home. The chief wants you on it.”

  The chief was an asshole. And so was Rikki. I downed the cold coffee that had been daring me to finish it for the last hour with a wince—I had gotten greedy with the cognac—and grabbed my jacket. In less than a minute we were driving through the streets in Rikki’s shitty old car. God, that man and his ride reeked of stale sweat and cheap cologne like he fucking bathed in the shit.

  “Jeez, Rikki, when’s that asteroid supposed to hit? This city needs to be wiped clean off the fucking planet.”

  “You know, Gus, if an asteroid hits the city, the whole planet’s fucked.”

  “Yeah? Well, fuck the planet.”

  “Fuck the planet.”

  “Fuck the planet.”

  At least that was something we could agree on.

  By the time we got to the docks, they were pulling the stiff from the river and I was starting to regret increasing my ratio of booze to instant coffee throughout the day. When the car finally rattled to a stop, I popped off his rearview mirror and did a couple lines to wake myself up.

  “You’re gonna give yourself a heart attack, Gustav.”

  “Go to hell, Rikki.”

  The photographer and geeks were already at work, and some beat cops were standing around trying to look useful. As we got closer, I could tell there was something off about the corpse.

  “What’s wrong with his skin?”

  Rikki and I peered down at the body bathed in floodlights.

  “It’s a Human,” said a familiar, silky voice from behind me. We both turned, knowing exactly who it was, just taking the excuse to eyeball her from her stiletto heels all the way up her long blue legs to the bottom to her lab coat, which hung mid-thigh just below the bottom of her red sequined skirt.

  “Jeez, Zax, you getting ready to dissect a corpse or blow johns on Ninth Avenue for fifteen bucks a pop?”

  “I was at a party, Gustav. You know, those things that people who aren’t complete social rejects go to?” She walked between us and crouched by the dead guy. “The question you should be asking is ‘why would somebody kill a Human?’”

  “Maybe it’s a hate crime? You know, people are getting pretty upset about the prospect of twenty billion refugees on welfare.” That’s Rikki for ya, always trying to show off that he watches the news and knows shit about current events.

  “Or maybe a jealous husband? Andromedian girls love that meat from the Milky Way, right, Zax?” I put on my rubber gloves and tipped his head to the side, exposing the entrance wound. “Hubby finds out: boom.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll find out more when we get him back to the lab.”

  “You do that. Take your time.” Hell, I already knew the killer was a dame, five-foot-two give or take an inch, and this wasn’t no simple crime of love or hate, but I keep my cards close to my vest. “I’ll have this thing nice and tied up before you lab rats even get your scalpels dirty.”

  That’s when she came in close to me and lowered her voice.

  “Don’t be a dick, Gustav. You reek like a distillery and there’s enough coke in that dead possum you call a mustache to powder a doughnut.” She pulled out a fifty. “You got enough to share with the rest of the class?”

  * * *

  Finding where the Human had lived wasn’t hard. We took his picture down to the Bureau of Immigration and Naturalization, and they gave us a name and the address to his dormitory. The place was a fucking nightmare, full of aliens from all over the cluster speaking weird languages real loud and stinking the place up with their weird foods and weird kids running and fighting in the halls.

  I tapped on the office window with my badge, and the rent-a-cop put down his copy of Murder at Mugger’s Point Hotel.

  “I need access to apartment four twenty-nine B.”

  “Okay, but the lift is broken. You’ll have to take the stairs.”

  “Ferchrissakes, four twenty-nine, that’s what, the fourth floor?”

  “Yeah, no, sorry buddy. It’s four twenty-nine B. That’s the four-hundredth floor.”

  * * *

  It
smelled like mold.

  The paint on the wall of the stairwell was chipped into what looked like the map of a long-forgotten planet, and the more we climbed the deeper the cracks in the concrete steps got, crumbling with each step and sending pebbles and dust bouncing down behind us. Soon blades of grass appeared, sprouting up in any available space, and moss covered the wall along the bottom, growing higher and higher with each floor. Brown, dried leaves crunched underneath our shoes.

  A few floors up and squirrels darted around oak trees. By the time we got north of the fiftieth floor, the climate was subtropical, with monkeys dashing from tree to tree overhead, birds crying out in the distance, and mosquitoes the size of your fist buzzing around us. Damn it, why didn’t I bring my insect repellent? After a while, this turned to desert, and as the sun started to set behind red mountains in the distance, we came to the wreckage of an abandoned stagecoach. The skeleton of a settler with an arrow through its skull stared back at us grimly as an ominous wind blew from the south.

  “I’m getting tired, Gus.”

  “Yeah, me too, Rikki.” I busted off a couple of planks from the wagon and cleared a place in the sand. “Let’s settle here for the night.”

  We sat around the campfire in an uncomfortable silence, listening to coyotes howl.

  “You know, Rikki, what you said about people getting mad about the refugees got me thinking. This veneer of civilization we got going for us is pretty fucking thin, if you ask me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, Andromeda is a civilized galaxy, probably the most civilized in the cluster. We consider ourselves so enlightened, evolved. You know, the Beacon of Freedom and Prosperity. We don’t cut people’s hands off for stealing bread no more or stone people for screwing around, but when our compassion, our liberal ideas, are really put to the test, out come the fucking fangs and the lizard brain and the prehensile tail. We’re the same fucking savages as everyone else. No better than Humans. For chrissakes, it’s twenty billion people. That’s what, three planets? To save women and children from certain death?”