Space Team: The Holiday Special

by Barry J. Hutchison

  SPACE TEAM

  THE HOLIDAY SPECIAL

  By

  Barry J. Hutchison

  Copyright © 2016 by Barry J. Hutchison

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published worldwide by Zertex Books.

  www.barryjhutchison.com

  For Itchy, Malla and Lumpy. You poor, neglected souls.

  Also by Barry J. Hutchison

  The Bug

  Space Team

  Space Team: The Wrath of Vajazzle

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  INTRODUCTION

  Welcome to the Space Team Holiday Special! This short story is set between the events of the first two novels in the series, Space Team and Space Team: The Wrath of Vajazzle. While the title of the story is inspired by the hypnotically dreadful Star Wars Holiday Special, you can rest assured that there the similarities end. Mostly.

  This story was originally written as a free giveaway for members of Team Space Team, a group of readers who have signed up for notifications and news on the Space Team series, and who I regularly shower with free reads.

  If you’re reading the preview of this book and haven’t yet bought it, go ahead and grab it for free via my website. If you’ve already paid for it then, hey, at least it was cheap, and you can still grab some other free books at that same link, including an exclusive prequel to my Space Team spin-off, The Bug, and a short horror story, The Bone House.

  But for now, settle down, make yourself comfortable, imagine the cast of the story waving awkwardly at the camera while someone announces their name in an overly-enthusiastic manner, and enjoy this Space Team Holiday Special…

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cal Carver was a man of many talents. Or of some talents, at least.

  He could talk his way out of almost any situation. Granted, the situations he talked himself into in the process were often significantly worse than those he’d been in before, but at least it kept life interesting.

  He could be charmingly persuasive, particularly to women of a certain age who felt their husbands weren’t paying them nearly enough attention. To be fair, though, he’d lucked into a face that was handsome in a ‘bit of rough’ kind of way, so he didn’t exactly have to work hard to win them over. A smile would usually do it. A wink, if they were being stubborn.

  From there, even Cal would admit that there was quite a steep drop-off to the rest of his skillset.

  He could do a reasonable number of sit-ups. He knew six guitar chords, four of which he could comfortably play. Following a nine-month period of unemployment in his early twenties, he could reliably describe the plot of any given episode of Cagney & Lacey within six seconds of the opening credits ending.

  After those, he started to struggle. On a good day, his sense of balance was marginally above average. He could run quite fast, but only while being chased. He could take a surprising number of punches to the head before falling over. Nothing to really write home about.

  One thing he didn’t consider to be one of his skills was the ability to identify a space station, like the one that was currently filling most of the viewscreen of his stolen spaceship, the Shatner.

  Another of the skills Cal very much did not possess was precognition - the ability to see into the future. If that had been among his talents, he would almost certainly have turned the ship around there and then, and everything that followed could have been avoided.

  The station was an enormous barrel-like construction, made of a dark metal that would have made it difficult to see against the blackness of space, were it not for the hundreds of lights dotting its surface like well-organized stars.

  It looked… dirty, somehow, like the metal had rusted in patches. Cal vaguely remembered learning that metal couldn’t rust in space, but either no-one had bothered to tell this space station that, or the brown marks were something other than rust.

  For a moment, he had a little flashback to the cell he’d briefly shared with an enormous cannibalistic serial killer back on Earth, and to the lumpy body-fluidy streaks across the walls. He shuddered. Since being taken to outer space a couple of days ago, most of his time had been spent trying to escape death. Even so, he’d take almost being killed by aliens over shizz-stained walls any day.

  “Shizz.” He said the word out loud, testing it.

  After his alien abduction, he’d been forcibly implanted with a translation chip which allowed him to understand any known alien language (good) but censored any swear words he might attempt to say (bad). He’d been fonking furious about it to begin with, but now trying to find curse words which hadn’t been censored had become one of his favorite pastimes. ‘Jerk’ was the best he’d come up with so far, but he’d used it so many times in the three hours following its discovery that the novelty had well and truly worn off.

  “Hey, it ain’t that bad,” grunted a voice from over on Cal’s right. Mech, a seven-feet tall tangle of metal and flesh stood comfortably upright, his magnetic feet locked onto the flight deck floor.

  Actually, calling him a tangle of metal and flesh was being generous. He was almost entirely metal, except for a patch of skin on one arm, and his face, which, from the top lip to halfway up the forehead was… not exactly human, but definitely organic. His skin was a dark reddish-brown, the whites of his eyes actually closer to yellow.

  His hulking metal frame had been spray-painted with a variety of symbols and emblems which announced him as a space pirate. This, however, wasn’t true. The spray-job had been part of a cover story that had recently been forced upon him by President Sinclair, head of the Zertex Corporation. Mech didn’t like his new design. Nor did he like anything else Sinclair had done to him. And that was one of the main reasons why they had plotted a course for this place.

  “North Star station, dead ahead,” announced the pilot, her eyes flicking from the screen to her banks of controls and back again.

  Teela Loren had been a fast-rising officer in the Zertex military, marked as ‘one to watch’ by her superiors. Of course, that was before she’d realized she was working for the bad guys. Now, she was a fearless fugitive on the run from a corrupt government that was desperate to take her down. Or so she liked to tell herself, at least.

  “Yeah, we can totally see it. It’s, like, right there,” sighed the voice of a teenage girl. Cal glanced across at the creature sitting in the chair closest to his. As well as a teenage girl’s voice, she had a matching attitude and dress sense. There, though, the similarities ended. Unlike most teenage girls, Mizette of the Greyx – Miz to her friends – was a powerfully-built werewolf-like alien who was covered with fur from head to toe.

  She had recently adapted her chair to make it more comfortable. Largely, this involved tearing a hole in the base with her claws for her tail to fit through. Cal could see it now, hanging down below the seat. It gave an involuntary flick of excitement when she realized Cal was looking at her.

  “Hey,” she said, adopting a seductively husky tone. She flicked her tongue across her lips. It was presumably meant to be a sexually suggestive gesture, but all it suggested to Cal was that she’d just enjoyed a delicious bowl of Pedigree Chum.

  “Hey yourself,” said Cal, smiling weakly. He turned his attention back to the screen.

  “I’m supposed to annou
nce it,” said Loren. “It’s protocol.”

  “It’s pointless,” said Miz.

  “It’s so everyone on the flight deck is aware of our current status,” said Loren, sounding annoyed. “What if you hadn’t been looking at the screen? You wouldn’t have known we were approaching the station.”

  “I wouldn’t have cared,” Miz said with a sullen shrug. “I’m not flying the ship. I don’t need narration.”

  “But it’s protocol,” Loren insisted.

  “Zertex protocol,” Mech pointed out. “You don’t work for Zertex no more.”

  Loren sighed. “Fine. That’s… fine. I won’t announce anything again. We all happy now? We’ll just fly towards things without me saying a word. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Miz.

  “Oh, I bet you would,” Loren said, her voice taking on a slightly manic shrieking tone. “I bet you would.”

  Miz turned her seat just a fraction towards Cal. “Is she having, like, a breakdown or something?”

  Cal shrugged, just briefly, then flashed an encouraging smile at the back of Loren’s head. It was quite attractive, as far as backs of heads went.

  Her hair, impossibly dark, was scraped back into a viciously tight ponytail. At the edges of her seat he could just make out the outsides of both shoulders. The skin looked starkly white, but on closer inspection was actually a very pale blue. Not that he’d actually had a chance to inspect it all that closely, though not for want of trying.

  “Well, I for one appreciate you announcing things we can all clearly see on screen,” said Cal. He winced a little. “Which, I appreciate sounds sarcastic, but it isn’t. Honest. This whole being in outer space thing is all pretty new to me…”

  “Really?” sighed Mech. “You ain’t mentioned that before.”

  Cal pointed to him and grinned. “Now, that was sarcastic. I had no idea you were programmed to understand sarcasm.”

  Mech’s face darkened. His metal bottom jaw snapped up and down as he spoke. “Programmed? I ain’t programmed!” He tapped the side of his skull. It made a low clanging noise. “Up here, this is all me, man. I ain’t no robot.”

  “Of course you’re not,” said Cal, soothingly. He turned back to the front. “You’re a space robot.”

  Mech’s metal fingers whirred into fists, but before he could make a move, a line of text flashed at the lower right of the viewscreen. “We’re being hailed,” said Loren.

  Cal shuffled himself into a more upright position in his seat and channeled his inner Captain Kirk. “On screen,” he said, then he jumped in fright as something that was 70% teeth, 22% eyes and very little else filled the screen. “Jesus Christ, what the fonk is that?” he yelped.

  “You know he can hear you, right?” said Mech.

  Cal cleared his throat and smoothed the front of his shirt down. “Uh, by which I mean… hello!” He waved at the monstrosity on the monitor. “Hi there. I’m Captain Cal Carver of the… of the…”

  He licked his lips, which had suddenly gone very dry under the boggle-eyed glare of the tooth-thing. “Uh, Loren, you’re better at all this official stuff than me,” he croaked. “I’m going to let you handle this.”

  Loren stiffened with excitement. This was her moment. “This is First Officer Teela Loren of the Shatner, a scavenger-class vessel on route through this system. We request docking authorization so that we might affect some repairs on--”

  “Gluk?” said the tooth-thing, in a voice that Cal thought was probably male, but with a light dusting of female inflections he suspected were put on for effect. “Gluk Disselpoof, is that you?”

  At the mention of his real name, all eyes went to Mech. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, it’s me.”

  “You know this guy?” asked Cal.

  The tooth-monster put a clawed hand to his chest and gasped in mock indignation. “You mean he’s never mentioned me?”

  “I only known them for two days,” Mech said. “I ain’t exactly given them my life story.”

  “Two whole days and you haven’t told them about me?” said the creature, feigning hurt.

  “Oh, please be his wife, please be his wife, please be his wife,” Cal whispered, crossing his fingers.

  “Wife? Ha! Chance would be a fine thing,” the tooth-thing snorted, waving a dismissive claw. His terrifying mouth contorted into something that very vaguely resembled a smile. “Harlosh Ko.”

  Cal frowned. “Uh, yeah. Harlosh Ko to you, too.”

  The creature let out a high-pitched giggle. “No, silly, my name is Harlosh Ko. I’m one of the hosts here on North Star station, and will be pleased to welcome you aboard.” He turned to the side and his face was illuminated by a glow from off-screen as he tapped a few controls. From that angle, and with the light shining up from below, he managed to look even more terrifying. “There is, of course, a docking fee to pay. How do you wish to make payment?”

  Cal looked around the bridge. “Anyone have any cash on them? No?” He turned back to the screen. “Would you take an IOU?”

  “Haha. Unfortunately not,” said Harlosh. He tapped a few buttons again. “But your ship appears to have an open line of credit, funded by… huh.” He blinked his many eyes and looked more closely at his off-screen display. “The Zertex Corporation. Should I charge the fee there?”

  Cal smiled. “Yes. Yes you should. Can we use that for other purchases while on board?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Harlosh. “I’ll just need your thumbprints when you arrive.”

  “Excellent!” said Cal, leaning back in his chair. “Then spread the word – drinks are on us!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  It took Loren four attempts to line the Shatner up with their assigned docking platform aboard the North Star. Technically, she had been one of the best pilots in the whole of the Zertex fleet, but that ranking was based almost exclusively on her flight simulator scores – a form of training which, she had discovered, didn’t necessarily translate to the real world.

  On the fourth try, she’d managed a textbook landing, but when they’d tried to leave they’d discovered she’d parked too close to the landing bay wall for them to get the exit ramp open, so she’d had to reverse out and come back in again.

  Finally, and accompanied by a running commentary from Miz which was surprisingly catty for a dog-woman, the ship touched down in the correct position. Unbuckling his seat belt, Cal reached under his chair, then briefly recoiled as something wet and slimy pressed itself against his palm.

  “Sorry, buddy, still getting used to that,” he said, holding his hand steady this time for the blob to hop aboard.

  The part of Splurt that was green and gelatinous quivered. As the little guy was almost entirely green and gelatinous, the effect was really rather impressive.

  The only bit of Splurt that was neither green nor all-that gelatinous were his eyes. They floated inside the goo - two perfectly round and oddly human-looking detached eyeballs. Cal had convinced himself that he could read the emotions in Splurt’s eyes, despite the fact their range of expression stretched from ‘bloodshot’ to ‘marginally less bloodshot’.

  He – if, indeed, that was even the correct pronoun – was a shapeshifter that had been discovered in deep space by a Zertex mining operation. President Sinclair had intended to use him as a bargaining chip for a deal with an alien gangster-type, but Cal had intervened, and now Splurt was considered a valuable and much-loved member of the Shatner’s crew by everyone aboard - with the possible exception of Mech, Loren and Miz. Still, Cal thought he was fonking adorable.

  “You ain’t taking that thing, are you?” Mech grunted.

  “He’s not a thing,” Cal pointed out. “He’s Splurt.”

  “You ain’t taking that Splurt, are you?”

  Splurt’s eyes tick-tocked between Cal and Mech, watching them both. “Of course I am,” said Cal. “He’s part of the crew. If we go aboard, he comes, too.”

  “North Star can be a little… lively,” said Loren. “By
which I mean unpleasant and dangerous.”

  “Yeah, I got that from the way you pulled that face when you said ‘lively,’” Cal replied.

  “Something like that – rare species, or whatever – it’s going to attract unwanted attention,” said Mech.

  “It’ll be fine. He’s a fonking shapeshifter. Look.”

  He set Splurt down on the floor. “So, let’s say there’s trouble. Some bad guy has spotted Splurt and fallen in love with him – because, let’s be honest, only a monster wouldn’t.” He shot Mech an accusing glare, then continued. “He decides he’s going to Splurtnap him, then – boom – what does Splurt do? He shapeshifts!”

  With a dramatic flourish, Cal pointed to Splurt. Splurt stared back at him, impassively.

  “He shapeshifts!” said Cal, louder this time.

  Nothing happened.

  If Splurt had eyelids, he would have blinked.

  But he didn’t.

  Cal cleared his throat, leaned down, and spoke out of the side of his mouth. “That’s your cue, buddy. Help me out here.”

  He straightened as Splurt’s surface began to ripple. The green goo expanded upwards, stretching and twisting as it adopted a new form. Cal turned and grinned triumphantly at the others. “He shapeshifts, blending into the background as he transforms to become…”

  He turned back to the now drastically-altered Splurt and stopped. “Dorothy out of the Golden Girls!” he said, the words surprising even him as they slipped from his mouth.

  And it was. There, standing in the middle of the flight deck, was a tall, gray-haired and ever-so-slightly masculine older woman.

  “Who the fonk is Dorothy?” demanded Mech.

  “And, like, what are the Golden Girls?” asked Miz.

  Having lived their entire lives on other worlds, none of the rest of the crew were even passingly familiar with 1980s TV sitcom, the Golden Girls, or its spin-off sequel, the Golden Palace. This extended to Splurt, too, who Cal had to assume had never seen even one of the original show’s one-hundred-and-eighty episodes.