by Tom Dublin
"I was just about to say exactly that!" said Tc'aarlat, surprised. "Great minds drink alike!"
"Come on," said Jack, leading the way off the bridge and along the corridor to the nearest exit. "Solo, have you had any response from the local officials yet?"
"I'm afraid not, Captain. Do you think it will take long to find someone in a position of authority?"
Jack tapped his personal access code into the keypad beside the starboard side forward exit, and the trio watched as the door hissed open, allowing icy gusts of wind to blow in from outside.
There was a series of clicks as a dozen Malatian soldiers flicked off the safety switches of their weapons, all aimed directly at the three surprised crew members.
Jack slowly raised his hands, and gestured for Tc'aarlat and Adina to do the same.
"No, Solo,” he said. "I don't think it will take us very long at all."
Alma Nine, Taron City, Channel Three News, Studio 4a
The report from outside the hospital where Tor Val had been taken after the accident was longer than the channel's usual pieces to camera.
Cal Car sat silently while the junior reporter on screen droned on and on about how the doctors and nurses on duty that night were coping with the emotional fallout from attempting to revive the late president, and how the hospital car park had become a sea of flowers, stuffed toys and handwritten messages of love.
Although he was barely paying the reporter any attention - he had already given up trying to remember her name - he kept his 'listening face' fixed in position in case whoever was mixing the vision up in the gallery decided to flick focus back to him.
He occasionally nodded his head as well, just to be sure he looked as if he was interested in what was being said.
Despite being the very thing he had wished for, broadcasting about a serious, worthy event such as Tor Val's death was proving to be excruciatingly boring. He never believed he'd find himself yearning for the days when the headlines consisted of thinly veiled propaganda from whichever government department's turn it was to appear to be successful.
Bumper crops, beautifully controlled weather, falling crime rates. The constant stream of good news may have lacked any real depth or opportunity for debate, but he was getting so tired of hearing minuscule details about the regularity of brake fluid top-ups, examinations of the surface of the road, possible reasons why Tor Val was heading away from her home and daughters, and whether the driver had drunk one beer or two during his dinner break that day.
It wasn't as if he could avoid the subject when he was away from work, either. Flags of Tor Val's colors flew at half-mast everywhere there was a vertical pole, and frequently where there wasn't. Popular TV and radio shows had been cancelled to make way for even more opinionated 'experts' to blather on about unimportant factors relating to the tragedy. Every front page of every newspaper was given away to the story, with bold print headlines yelling the latest tidbit of information - real or imaginary - at its suddenly increased readership.
And Cal Car was at the heart of it all.
Ha! he thought to himself. I must remember not to make any flippant comments about hearts until all this nonsense is over and done with.
"...and now back to Cal Car in the studio," said the reporter, jolting the news anchor out of his reverie.
Cal Car spun his chair back to face the camera. "Thank you..." he began, making one last rummage through his memory for the reporter's name. But, no. It simply wasn't there. "...my friend. And now we go over to the weather control laboratories where Sim Ket has been hearing about efforts to solve the ongoing issues with the weather, and if these mysterious surges in gravity will be solved in time for Tor Val's funeral and Journey Back."
Fucking hell, she's even in the pissing weather report now!
As Sim Ket began his report, Cal Car allowed himself to return to his daydreams where he fantasized about sharing a new, frivolous morsel of celebrity gossip.
Those were the days.
19
Alma Nine, Taron City, Government Buildings, Vice President's Office
Saf Tah perched delicately on a hastily repaired chair in his office while his two executive assistants worked at clearing up the debris from around what remained of the vice president's desk.
The gravity surge hadn't proved to be as destructive to the government building as it had been at the weather control labs, but there was still a lot of damaged equipment and splintered furniture to be cleared away.
Jus Clo scooped the broken computer from the center of the floor and dumped it into a large metal trash can which sat beside two identical bins, both of which were already full.
"Such a waste," he sighed, peering down at what had once been a state of the art laptop.
"It, um... certainly is," agreed Mol Gat, tossing a shattered desk lamp in on top of the ruined machine. "I um... always liked that lamp."
"When you two have finished mourning over lost office supplies, I'd like to get back to work!" spat Saf Tah, wincing as a sharp dagger of pain shot through his groin.
When the gravitational waves had hit, Saf Tah had been locked in a passionate embrace with one of the more curvaceous secretaries from the agriculture department on the fifth floor.
Mol Gat and Jus Clo, having been banished to his outer office to ensure no-one burst in and interrupted the illicit encounter had heard a piercing scream as they had both been flung to the ground by the severity of the sudden attack.
Concerned for the well-being of their employer, and terrified of his reaction if they didn't hurry to his aid, the pair had somehow found the strength to fight against the intense force, and managed to open the door to the vice president's inner office.
There they discovered Saf Tah lying on the carpet, pinned beneath his pneumatic partner, struggling to breathe and sobbing like a child.
The lovers had, by all accounts, just been about to 'cement inter-departmental relations' when the gravity blast had thrust the unlucky woman down onto a considerably excited part of Saf Tah's anatomy, bending it in two and tearing a number of usually untroubled tendons.
It had taken the two assistants ten minutes to slide the Rubenesque beauty off their boss, and further fifteen to drag him to the vending machines at the top of the stairwell where they had purchased several cans of ice cold soda to use as aids in easing his excruciating pain.
Ever since, Saf Tah had walked with a pronounced limp, and none of the government secretaries would type up any of the letters he dictated in support of their suitably offended colleague.
Jus Clo was still reeling from the string of obscenities hurled at him after he had submitted an expenses claim to Saf Tah for the urgently purchased cans of soda.
The last of the trashed office paraphernalia ditched into the bins, the assistants stood in front of their boss's chair for a moment. Then, upon receiving a particularly unpleasant glare, they both sat down on the carpet, cross-legged.
"OK," croaked Saf Tah, his voice still almost an entire octave higher than it had previously been. "Take notes..."
Mol Gat stood and hurried to the garbage cans to retrieve a crumpled notepad and a pencil.
"I want to know exactly what caused that gravity shit yesterday," ranted Saf Tah. "What it was, who fucked up, and why he or she is still walking around freely and breathing the same air as me."
Jus Clo raised his hand. "But-"
Saf Tah ignored him. "Next, get hold of someone on Tor Val's funeral committee and find out exactly what they have planned for her Journey Back. This may be the useless heifer's last hurrah, but it's my big day, and I don't want anyone or anything to ruin it. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, sir," mumbled the two junior men together.
"Finally, find out who-"
Saf Tah was interrupted by a sharp rap, followed by the door to the office swinging open and Captain Den Pow of the Malatian army marched into the room. The soldier snapped to attention and saluted smartly.
Gripping the back of his chair,
Saf Tah eased himself slowly to his feet and returned the salute. "What is it, Captain?"
"We have intercepted three lifeforms, Mr Vice President," announced Den Pow. "They arrived in the midst of yesterday's emergency, and we believe they may have had something to do with the event itself."
Saf Tah's eyes grew wide. "Is that so?"
Mol Gat and Jus Clo remained seated on the carpet, their eyes flicking back and forth between the two men as the conversation continued.
"Where are these illegal invaders now?" the vice president asked.
"We have them locked securely in a holding cell at our barracks, sir."
Saf Tah smiled. "Very good, Captain. I shall come along and speak to these interlopers myself. That will be all."
Captain Den Pow saluted again, then turned and marched back out of the office, closing the door.
"Well, well..." Saf Tah cooed to himself. "It would appear your tasks have just been made that little bit easier, boys."
Mol Gat shared a confused look with his fellow subordinate. "Um... they have?"
"They have if the bastards behind yesterday's fuck up are already locked up, yes," Saf Tah continued. "Call for my car. I shall leave for the army barracks within the hour."
As the assistants clambered to their feet, Saf Tah sat back down - a little too hard. His chair, held together with little more than sticky tape and glue, collapsed causing the vice president to crash to the floor and land right on his damaged majority.
They say you could hear his scream three blocks away.
Alma Nine, Taron City, Army Barracks, Holding Cell
Jack sat with his back against the wall, watching Tc'aarlat as he paced tirelessly up and down the length of the cramped cell.
"How dare they treat us like this?" he barked, for at least the sixth time in the last 30 minutes. "We told them who we were: official envoys from the Etheric Empire, here to pay our respects to their president!"
"I'm sure they'll work that out soon enough," said Jack. "They've got our official papers. All they have to do is contact Nathan back on the base station, and he'll clear everything up."
"That's if they can get in touch with him," Adina put in from where she was lying on the cell's single metal bench.
Tc'aarlat spun to face her. "What do you mean?"
"Well, if Solo was right, and these guys couldn't radio back to us when we were falling through their lower atmosphere, I doubt they'll be able to make a call half way across the galaxy."
"You've got a point," admitted Jack. "If their communications equipment was damaged by the gravity surge, they may not be able to confirm our identities for a while yet."
"But, they have to believe us," grumbled Tc'aarlat, pacing again. "I can't stay locked up in here. Not with you two!"
Jack and Adina looked to each other, then back at the Yollin.
"What's wrong with 'us two'?" Adina demanded.
"It's nothing personal," Tc'aarlat replied. "It's just that I'm used to having my own space. I come from a very quiet, unassuming family."
Jack laughed. "Yeah, that's one of the first things I thought when I saved you from the assassin on your tail all those years ago. That bloke's very private and unassuming for a dangerous mobster."
Tc'aarlat paused his pacing again. "I've told you again and again - I was not a mobster! I just happened to work for them."
"Is there a difference?" queried Adina.
"There are lots of differences!" protested Tc'aarlat. "Far too many to go into right now, but trust me, there are plenty."
"If you say so."
The conversation was interrupted by a screech from a room on the opposite side of the corridor to their cell.
"Mist!" cried Tc'aarlat. "Hang in there, girl. I'm coming for you."
He turned back to his crew mates, tears in his eyes. "I can't believe they've got her locked up in a cage!"
"They've got us locked up in a cage!" Jack reminded him.
"Well, not for long!" spat the Yollin. Grabbing hold of the cell bars, he began to shake them and shout as loudly as he could.
"Hey! Whichever one of you green-skinned fuckers is in charge. I demand to be set free this instant or I'll kick your teeth so far down your throat, you'll have to stick gum up your butt to chew on it!"
"See," said Jack to Adina, "quiet and unassuming."
"And they're teal," added Adina.
"What?!"
"The Malatians' skin is teal-colored, not green."
"Is there a difference?"
"Oh, there are lots of differences," smiled Adina. "Far too many to go into right now, but trust me..."
"Ha ha, very funny!" scowled Tc'aarlat. "I don't care what color they are, I just want one of them to have the guts to talk to me, face to face!"
"I have the guts for that," said a voice.
Jack stood as three Malatian men were buzzed through the security door at the end of the corridor and headed their way. Adina rose from her bench and crossed the cell to stand with Tc'aarlat.
The obvious leader of the trio was limping, and had a string of red and green lights woven into his silver mohawk, the tips of which appeared to be burned away.
The front man stopped at the bars of the cell and faced off against Tc'aarlat. "So, you're our new guests?"
The Yollin sneered. "Guests? I wouldn't treat a rabid bistok this way! I demand you let us out of here right now."
Mohawk man smiled, but not with his eyes. "You're issuing demands? Of me?"
"You?" spat Tc'aarlat. "And who the fuck are you supposed to be?"
The man limped closer to the bars, but not so close that anyone could reach through and grab him.
"I'm your worst nightmare!"
This made Tc'aarlat chuckle darkly. "Hard man, eh?"
"Not anymore," announced one of the other men. "A chubby secretary broke his dick."
Saf Tah sighed. "Excuse me for a moment." Turning, he punched Jus Clo hard in the face, then returned his attention to the three prisoners.
"Now, where were we?" he said, ignoring his assistant's muffled cries of pain.
Jus Clo had both hands pressed over his nose and mouth, trying in vain to stem the flow of blood from both.
"Do you have any idea who we are?" asked Tc'aarlat.
"But, of course," replied Saf Tah. "You're the aliens who attacked our planet with some type of gravity weapon."
Jack stepped up to join Tc'aarlat and Adina at the cell bars. "You think that was us?"
"But, of course!" said Saf Tah, matter-of-factly. "Or perhaps it's mere coincidence that an uninvited spacecraft appears in orbit around our planet at the exact moment Alma Nine's gravitational forces became weaponized."
"We had to fight off those gravitational waves ourselves," protested Adina. "They almost caused us to crash. We're here for Tor Val's funeral."
Saf Tah threw a self-satisfied smirk towards Mol Gat who beamed back, terrified he might be on the receiving end of his boss's next burst of anger. While he felt sympathy for Jus Clo, who was still cradling his now clearly broken nose, he wasn't brave enough to demonstrate that pity while the vice president was in mid-interrogation.
"The funeral does not take place for another two days," said Saf Tah. "And guests will not begin to arrive until tomorrow morning."
"We were asked to come early," Jack responded. "We're here to deliver your public safety barriers."
Saf Tah blinked, looking unsure of himself for the first time since he and his entourage had arrived. "I don't believe you," he announced. "Anyone could say that."
"Yes," agreed Jack, "but not everyone would be in possession of both our official delivery docket, and our invitations to attend the president's funeral as emissaries of the Etheric Empire, would they?"
Adina fought to hide her smile as Saf Tah visible paled. "Captain!" he roared, not taking his eyes off Jack. "Where are their papers?"
"Here, sir!" replied Den Pow, stepping out from his office and passing a handful of documents to Mol Gat, who handed
them to his boss as if simply touching them could prove poisonous.
There was a moment of silence while Saf Tah flicked through the paperwork, occasionally glancing up at either Jack, Tc'aarlat or Adina.
The Yollin grinned and wiggled his fingers in a mock friendly greeting when it was his turn to be considered.
Without saying a word, Saf Tah handed the documents back to Mol Gat, then punched him hard in the face as well.
While both of the political advisors wailed and staggered about, holding their noses, Saf Tah relaxed his fist and slid his arm through the bars to shake Jack's hand.
He cleared his throat.
"Welcome to Alma Nine."
20
Alma Nine, Taron City, Outside Tor Val's Residence
Cal Car took a final opportunity to examine his hair in his hand mirror before slipping it into his pocket as the Channel 3 News theme tune began.
The past couple of days had been so hectic, he was worried the extra shifts he was having to work would have some effect on his appearance, and that would never do.
With seemingly endless TV coverage of the colony's display of grief for Tor Val, channels were trying every trick in the book to ensure theirs was the news service the public chose to watch.
Some anchors had taken to wearing only the official mourning color of purple, while others openly wept on camera while reading updates.
Then the higher-ups at Channel 3 had held a meeting, from which they emerged with a wonderful idea...
Get Cal Car to host the bulletin from outside the late president's official residence.
In the open air!
Bundle up in the thickest, warmest coat the station's wardrobe department could find, Cal Car shuddered - not from the cold, but from his proximity to the general public.
For the past 48 hours, there had been a constant stream of well-wishers making a pilgrimage to Tor Val's residence, each loaded down with flowers, cards, poems, teddy bears, candles and - in one of the day's more unusual tributes - a highly decorated prosthetic leg.
Beneath a hastily erected canopy was a table with a large book of condolence in which grieving citizens could write a personal message. The tome now being used was the sixth volume.
