For the Love of Gelo!

by Tom O'Donnell

  “Atmospheric conditions can certainly disrupt transmissions. There’s probably an electrical dust storm down there. We’ve seen many since we began observing the new—er, Kyral,” said Ydar to me. “I’m sure all is going according to plan. Kalac is a very brave and capable leader.” Did I hear a tinge of nervousness in the High Observer’s voice?

  All that day, we heard nothing. And the next day as well. The days turned into weeks. Still there was no message from Kyral’s surface. I began to think about Kalac all the time. I pestered Ydar daily for information. There was none.

  I realized now how my originator must have felt when I had seemingly disappeared in the days after the asteroid quake. I regretted putting Kalac through such pain. Even Hudka, who always made jabs at Kalac when it wasn’t around, was strangely quiet.

  The lack of mission contact was an open secret in Core-of-Rock. Soon tensions were running higher than ever. Neighbor began to turn against neighbor. Accusations—that certain citizens were using more than their allotted share of power or were hoarding food or other supplies—ran rampant. Several fights broke out in the marketplace. There were even a few cases of houses getting robbed—something unheard of in our small, tight-knit society. Beneath it all was the underlying fear that the Vorem—perhaps a whole new legion from their distant homeworld—could arrive at any moment to destroy us. After all, we had no Stealth Shield to conceal us from their long-range scanners.

  More and more often, the human children and I took refuge in the hangar. We spent our time tinkering with the two remaining Xotonian starfighters, the Roosevelt and the T’utzuxe. We’d made a lot of progress on both ships, which were now mission-ready. While we worked, I often activated the ship’s communicators, hoping for any sign from Kalac. Operating under such limited power, I worried that the Observatory might miss a transmission from the Phryxus II. It was no use though. Each time, I just heard radio silence. Still, I listened.

  When the twins’ birthday arrived, it provided a much-needed distraction. We gathered in the hangar to celebrate on Yshoj 7th (August 23rd), a date that coincidentally fell just five days before our Xotonian Feast of Zhavend, the most important holiday on Gelo.

  I resolved not to bring the others down, so I tried to put aside my Kalac anxiety for the duration of the party. To start things off, Gus, Hollins, and I serenaded the twins with a traditional human birthday song. Even Pizza yowled along. The children took great pleasure, because this particular song was legally restricted on their home planet.

  “But how can someone own a song?” I asked. Among all the aspects of human culture that baffled me, this one was the hardest to grasp.

  “I dunno,” said Little Gus, “but if you sing it back home and word gets out, you have to pay some super-old dude, like, six hundred dollars in royalty fees.”

  “It’s actually probably our best bet at getting rescued,” said Becky. “Let the copyright lawyers track us down to deliver a cease-and-desist letter.”

  Based upon my understanding of human traditions, I presented the twins with my gift: two precious Feeney’s Original Astronaut Ice Cream bars, mushed together into a vaguely squarish shape. In the center, I had placed a large, burning mushroom.

  “Um, wow. . . . Thank you, I think?” said Nicki.

  “I hope you enjoy the birthday cake! Congratulations on being born several years ago,” I said. “It took me a long time to get the mushroom burning. Somebody lost the welding torch.” I squinted at Hollins, who just shrugged.

  “Sure, yeah, it’s, uh, really great,” said Nicki as she flung the mushroom onto the ground and tried in vain to stamp out the fire. For some reason, open flames were required at every human birthday.

  We each ate a tiny sliver of Feeney’s Original Astronaut “birthday cake.” Actually, I ate three. Five, at the most. I tried to savor the oversweetened, artificial goodness. There were, after all, only a few bars left in this entire star cluster. I wished I had rationed them more carefully. Perhaps Kalac would return with the advanced Aeaki technology required to synthesize new Feeney’s Originals. A Xotonian could dream.

  After cake, it was time for more presents. Nicki and Becky presented each other with a gift. Nicki gave Becky a well-worn book called Advanced Concepts in Astrophysics. Becky gave Nicki her copy of Vampire Band Camp: The Complete Ninth Season. Neither one of them looked too thrilled, so they decided to swap.

  There were two more wrapped gifts for Becky sitting on the ping-pong table. Both had cards that said they came from a “Secret Admirer.”

  The first was a gaudy necklace of big pink and purple jewels. The second was an old sock full of stink-pods, a horrifically pungent variety of Gelo fungus. As predicted, Becky gagged when she opened it. Instantly, the whole hangar smelled like hard-boiled feet.

  “Ha ha. Super funny,” said Becky to Hollins, who was doubled over with laughter. “Honestly, I think one gag gift would have been sufficient, you jerk.” He just managed to duck out of the way as she whipped the ridiculous pink necklace at his head. It clattered across the floor, and Pizza ran to chase it. From the corner of my third and fourth eyes, I noticed that Little Gus was frowning.

  Next, Nicki unwrapped her gift from Hollins. It was a small, intricate x’yzoth crystal carving of a human female holding a round shield and a spear. A few days earlier, I had gone to the market to help Hollins commission it from Layiz the jeweler.

  “It’s Athena,” said Hollins. “The Greek goddess of wisdom.”

  “Huh,” said Nicki. “Thanks.” She seemed less than impressed.

  “You know, because you’re the smart one,” laughed Hollins.

  “The smart one?” asked Nicki.

  “I mean, you know how—I mean,” said Hollins, “how I’m the ‘brave leader’ or whatever, and Becky is the rebellious one—”

  “So you don’t think Nicki’s brave?” asked Becky with an evil grin. After the stink-pods, it seemed she was out for revenge.

  “What? No,” said Hollins, “I just mean that each of us is extra good at something different. That’s all.”

  “Maybe I’m capable of more than you know,” said Nicki, looking unhappy. “And maybe I would be brave if other people gave me the chance once in a while. Instead you think you’re ‘extra good’ at telling other people what to do. But sometimes it can be a bit much, Hollins. Ordering everyone around in the fire, even though your Xotonian is terrible. Trying to protect me from a bunch of stupid rockbats . . .”

  Hollins tried to defend himself but only succeeded in digging himself deeper the more he talked.

  And so the birthday party ended on a glum note. Nicki was insulted. Becky was annoyed. Hollins was defensive and frustrated. Once more I descended into my own private concern for Kalac’s well-being. Little Gus was the saddest of all. He sat alone, a sour expression on his face, while Pizza snored at his feet. At least the thyss-cat seemed happy.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked Little Gus once I was out of earshot from the others. “Are you jealous we’re not celebrating your birth for no real reason?”

  “No,” he said. “Becky hated the necklace.”

  “Yes, pretty funny. We Xotonians don’t really have the concept of ‘gag gifts,’ but I’m definitely starting to see the appeal. I was thinking I could give Hudka a new hat, except it’s really a hibernating woolrat—”

  “No, you don’t understand,” said Gus. “I got the necklace for her.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Good one. She hated it worse than the stink-pods.”

  “Chorkle, I didn’t give it to her as a joke!”

  “But . . . the gift said it was from a ‘secret admirer.’ And the necklace was just so . . .” I trailed off as Little Gus stared at me. “Oh,” I said.

  He sighed and nodded. “I can’t believe I blew it so bad,” said Little Gus. “It’s pink. It’s a necklace. It’s expensive. Those are three things that girls are supposed
to like, right?”

  I shrugged. I was truly out of my depth here. In my experience, girls seemed to like holodrive programming and piloting starships and playing extremely aggressive ping-pong. In short, I could see no particular pattern. Plus, I already found the dynamic between Hollins and Nicki hard enough to fathom. Now Little Gus was supposed to be Becky’s “secret admirer”? It was just too much.

  So I offered him my advice: “Just a thought, but it seems like this might cause a lot of trouble and confusion,” I said. I was thinking of the tortured, tangled romances of Vampire Band Camp; I didn’t want any of my human friends to get an oboe through the heart. “Perhaps you should stop,” I added.

  “Stop?”

  “You know. Forget about it. Choose to focus on something else that humans enjoy. Like flossing your teeth.”

  “Chorkle,” said Little Gus pitifully, “I can’t just forget about it.”

  I left him to his misery and joined Hollins inside the Roosevelt. He was angrily attempting to recalibrate its flight controls.

  “Where are the stupid adjustable micro-tongs?” he snapped, flinging tools out of the chest and over his shoulder.

  “Are ‘adjustable micro-tongs’ a real thing?” I asked.

  “They used to be. Now they’re gone. We really need to treat this workspace with a little more respect!”

  I could tell he was in no mood for friendly conversation. So I left him in the cockpit and set about trying to fix the hydraulics of the starfighter’s blaster turret. They had been jittery and unreliable ever since the great battle. As usual, I turned on the ship’s com to listen while I worked. And as usual, I heard only the quiet hum of static.

  I’d been fiddling with the turret for the better part of an hour when I finally found the problem: a fluid leak near the main actuator. I sat up to get some polymer to patch the seal, when the ship’s com crackled strangely.

  I listened more closely. There was a faint noise, barely audible: a rhythmic chime. There was no mistaking it: a Xotonian distress beacon!

  “Hollins,” I said.

  I heard him grumbling from the cockpit as he pounded on something metal. “Stupid statue . . . last gift I ever buy for anyone . . . ungrateful . . .”

  “Hollins!” I cried again. “Turn on the cockpit communicator com.”

  “Huh? Okay, hold on a sec,” he called back. “What am I listening for?”

  “Do you hear a chime?”

  “Nothing,” he said.

  I scrambled down into the cockpit. Hollins had his ear cocked toward the ship’s main communicator. It was quiet.

  “I’m not hearing anything,” he said.

  “There’s a distress beacon,” I said, flooding with panic. “It’s got to be the Phryxus II. Down on the surface of Kyral. I heard it!”

  We both returned to the com station in the blaster turret to listen. Again the signal was just a faint static. The chime was gone.

  “I heard it,” I said, adjusting the frequency back and forth across the spectrum. “It was Kalac’s ship.” Hollins nodded uncertainly.

  “Hey,” said Becky, stepping onto the Roosevelt. “We’ve got a visitor.”

  It turned out to be Eromu, the guard captain.

  “Eromu, I just heard a distress beacon from the surface!” I cried as I exited the ship. “It’s got to be Kalac and the others!”

  “Kalac’s in danger?” said Eromu. “I’ll be sure to notify the Chief of Council.”

  “But Kalac is the Chief. What are you talking about?” I asked. “What’s going on?”

  The guard captain looked extremely put out. “I’m sorry,” said Eromu, “but I’ve come to escort all of you back to the city.”

  “But we need to listen for more transmissions,” I said. “We can’t leave!”

  Eromu shook its head. “No one is allowed outside of Core-of-Rock anymore. For safety’s sake.”

  “What?” asked Nicki, speaking in Xotonian. “Since when?”

  “Since the . . . Chief of Council has officially declared a state of emergency,” said Eromu.

  “Why do you keep saying ‘Chief of Council’?” I cried. “Kalac is down on the surface—”

  “Not Kalac,” Eromu sighed. “I’m talking about Sheln.”

  Chapter Five

  “What in the name of Morool are you saying?” I cried.

  “Maybe you forgot your own language because you speak so much hoo-min now,” said Sheln, reverting to its old mispronunciation of the word, “but I’ll repeat it one last time: I am now the Chief of the Xotonian Council.”

  We stood in a small, cramped office in a public building that had no name. With the Hall of Wonok occupied by Vorem prisoners, this had become the temporary seat of government.

  Upon returning from the hangar to Core-of-Rock, I’d proceeded directly here with just one quick detour. I had to tell Hudka about the distress beacon. Plus, if Sheln was attempting some sort of coup, I was going to need my grand-originator to help me stop it. Hudka was a Sheln-buster without equal.

  Now Hudka, the humans, and I stood on one side of a raised stone bench. On the other side sat the four remaining members of the Xotonian Council. Behind us stood several members of the city guard, including Eromu. The only person in the room who seemed to be pleased with the situation was Sheln.

  “You can’t just declare yourself the Chief!” I cried. “We have laws! Kalac’s not dead! My originator is on the surface of the new planet! I just heard a distress beacon—”

  “Exactly!” said Sheln, interrupting me. “Kalac is absent from Gelo, and we have laws. Loghoz, you’re the Custodian of the Council. Please explain.”

  Loghoz winced, then unrolled a yellowing sheaf, a page from our ancient legal code. Loghoz read aloud, “If the Chief of the Xotonian Council is absent for an extended period of time, the Provost-General of the Council shall be temporarily elevated to the rank and shall assume all duties and responsibilities as such.”

  “And guess who the Provost-General is,” said Sheln, grinning.

  “Guano!” cried Hudka. “Kalac beat the ish’kuts off you in the last election for Chief! ‘Provost-General’ is just the stupid ceremonial title we give to the loser so that they don’t weep themselves to death.”

  “I wasn’t crying! That was allergies!” snapped Sheln. “And as it turns out, the title of Provost-General is not completely ceremonial. You see, for the past few months, I’ve had a lot of time on my thol’grazes. Time to study the finer points of the Xotonian legal code. I learned some very interesting things. For one, an ‘extended period of time’ is defined as three weeks under our law. Can someone refresh my memory: How long has dear Kalac been gone?”

  “Three weeks today,” said Dyves glumly.

  “But you’re the one who wanted Kalac to go down to the surface,” I yelled. “My originator could die down there, you treacherous bag of—” Hollins placed a firm hand on my i’arda to calm me.

  “Does meeting. Does of Kalac. Forty-five red sponges? Fat pudding,” said Hollins in Xotonian. The room was silent for a moment.

  Sheln continued as if Hollins hadn’t spoken. “If Kalac were to perish, Chorkle, we would hold a new election for the position of Chief of Council. But your originator isn’t dead. Kalac has merely been ‘absent for an extended period of time.’ And that means I’m in charge. And as Eromu has already informed you, my first order of business was to officially declare a state of emergency for all of Core-of-Rock.”

  “Shouldn’t the rest of the Council vote on something like that?” said Nicki.

  “We are at war with the Vorem, are we not?” asked Sheln.

  “Oh, I don’t know, they seem all right to me,” said Becky, her voice thick with sarcasm.

  “Quiet, hoo-min!” said Sheln.

  “Look, of course we’re at war, mold-brain,” said Hudka. “What’s your
point, Sheln?”

  “Well, I think you will find that, again, according to the law, the Chief of Council may declare a state of emergency at will during a time of war. It is one of just two actions that the Chief may take without any imput from the rest of the Council.”

  “So you can declare a state of emergency?” said Hudka. “So what?”

  “Well, during a state of emergency,” said Sheln, “the Chief of Council has much broader powers than usual. It’s all in the legal code.” It was practically giggling.

  Loghoz sighed. “We’ve been arguing for hours, Hudka. Believe me, Sheln, er”—here Loghoz looked thoroughly nauseated—“I mean, Chief of the Council seems to have the law on its side. Our thol’grazes are tied until Kalac returns. Or we have . . . another election.” Loghoz was obliquely referring to the possible death of Kalac.

  Becky spoke in Xotonian. “Well, what if something were to happen to Sheln?” she said, cracking her knuckles. “Something bad.”

  “Very good conjugation,” said Loghoz primly, “but remember to roll your h’s.” It had momentarily reverted to its role as the humans’ XSL teacher.

  “What? Don’t you correct this duplicate’s grammar while she’s threatening my life!” shrieked Sheln. “Commissioner of the Guards, please remove the unruly hoo-min from the Council chamber.”

  Eromu gave Sheln a confused look. “I don’t understand, Chief. I am a captain of the guard. There is no such title as Commissioner.”

  “During a state of emergency,” said Sheln, “the Chief of Council may make certain temporary appointments for the greater good. And I have created a leadership position within your force. Allow me to introduce the new Commissioner of the Guards!”

  I had a sinking feeling in my z’iuk. Somehow, I already knew who it was going to be. From the back of the room, a huge young Xotonian stepped forward, wearing a look of epic smugness on its ugly face. It was Sheln’s offspring, Zenyk, clad in a ridiculous pseudo-military uniform: ill-fitting, brightly colored, and ornate. Practically every centimeter was encrusted with buttons and badges and crystal medals. Did they give out medals for flunking math? Maybe for picking your vel’doc and eating it?