SPACE TEAM
SONG OF THE SPACE SIREN
By
Barry J. Hutchison
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
A Word from the Author
Copyright © 2017 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 Mr. T
Also by Barry J. Hutchison
The Bug
Space Team
Space Team: The Wrath of Vajazzle
Space Team: The Search for Splurt
Space Team: The Holiday Special
CHAPTER ONE
Dogan Murt was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a brave man.
He wasn’t technically a ‘man’ at all, in fact. He was a Talpan – a race of wide-eyed humanoid, yet somewhat mole-like creatures who traditionally lived deep underground, and smelled ever so faintly of kitty litter.
Not content with spending the entirety of his adult life in a dark cave (or overly keen on the kitty litter thing), Dogan had struck out on his own, determined to make his way in the world. That had been several years ago. Of late, things had not been going well.
Dogan looked down at the scrap of paper he clutched in his shaking hands, then up at the flickering neon sign above the door. His reading ability was low at the best of times, and a full third of the letters in the sign were in darkness, but he was pretty sure this was the place.
He pushed open the door. Sweat and smoke and noise and movement all rushed out through the gap.
He closed the door again, alarmed by the brutality of it all.
“Do it, Dogan! Do it, Dogan!” he whispered. It had become a sort of personal mantra of his over the years, and he called on it whenever fear threatened to thwart his attempts to better himself.
‘Do it Dogan,’ had even been his nickname for a while back in the caves, although it was usually said in mocking tones, and followed swiftly by a sharp punch to the testicles. He had no nicknames now, of course. To have a nickname, first you needed a friend. Or an enemy who knew you well enough.
Siphoning some air in through his sharp front teeth, Dogan pushed the door all the way open, clenched his fists down at his sides, then stepped into the bar.
Even before getting the measure of the place, Dogan knew he didn’t approve. The Talpan were fiercely moral, and public venues where people got into fights, drank excessively and did the sort of things the three-legged gentleman on stage was doing were very much frowned upon.
Despite himself, Dogan looked more closely at the man on the stage, and came to the conclusion that the third appendage wasn’t actually a leg at all.
Horrified, Dogan turned away, blinked several times to try to erase the images he’d just witnessed, then headed for one of the bar’s empty booths.
“Sorry. Pardon me. Can I just squeeze… thanks,” he mumbled, weaving his way through the crowds. He reached the dimly-lit booth, only to find a hulking green figure lurking in the corner, nursing a drink.
“Oh. Sorry,” said Dogan. “I just… I didn’t…” He smiled hopefully at the booth’s occupant. “Would you mind?”
The creature stared impassively at Dogan for several seconds, its eyes glassy and black. At last, it waved a clawed hand at the bench across the table, and Dogan slid gratefully onto the ripped and threadbare padding.
“Thank you,” said Dogan, nestling into the shadows. The lizard-creature nodded once, but said nothing.
Now that he was out of the crowds, Dogan took a moment to scan the place. A horseshoe-shaped bar took up around a quarter of the floor space, with the raised stage over by the far wall taking up a much smaller chunk. Clearly people came for the entertainment, but stayed for the booze.
The lights were low, the volume was high, and while there were a few groups hanging out together, most of the clientele seemed to be in pairs or on their own.
Dogan felt the lizard-creature’s eyes on him, and smiled shakily. “I’m looking for someone,” he explained. “I was told I might find him here.”
He glanced around the bar again, anxiously picking at his black fingernails. “I need his help. I am in trouble,” he explained, his voice dropping to a whisper.
Dogan caught himself just in time. He regarded the green-skinned alien cautiously. “You are not with the Xandrie, are you?”
The creature shook its head slowly.
“Zertex?” asked Dogan, eyeing up the exit. “Are you law enforcement? Because I’m not allowed to talk to them, the Xandrie made that very clear.”
The creature shook its head again.
“And you have to tell me if I ask you. It’s the law,” Dogan insisted.
The creature growled deep down in its throat, then shook its head again.
Dogan nodded, relieved. “Good. Good. I apologize. I had to ask, you understand?”
The creature said nothing.
“You understand,” said Dogan, answering on its behalf. He rubbed the tabletop that stood between them, feeling every scratch with the pink, wrinkled skin of his fingertips.
“The problem is, I do not know what he looks like,” said Dogan, gazing out across the bar again. The genetically blessed young man had been joined on stage by two alarmingly supple women, and many of the bar’s occupants had started to gravitate towards that end of the room.
Dogan clicked his tongue against his teeth in disapproval, then angled himself for a better view so that he could really disapprove if things went the way he thought they were probably going to go.
“But I am in trouble, and I believe he can help me,” Dogan said, tearing his eyes from the stage. “The Xandrie, they want money from my business. In return, they have offered to ‘protect’ it. ‘It’s a nasty part of town,’ they tell me. ‘Wouldn’t want anything happening to you,’ they say.”
The mole-man’s eyes moistened, and he lowered his head for a moment, composing himself. “I paid. For a long time, I paid, but now the cost has gone up, and I can no longer afford to do so. Besides,” he said, getting angry. “It is my business. My money. My hard work. Why should I pay these… these… gangsters?”
He banged a fist on the table. It very clearly hurt, but he tried not to let on. He glanced around nervously, and the anger left his voice in a long outward breath. “I just want someone to make the Xandrie understand that I cannot be pushed around. That they cannot continue to do as they please.”
Dogan’s eyes swept the bar again, searching for someone he didn’t know, but on whom he’d pinned all his hopes. “I am told this man and his crew may help me. I was told he might be here.” He sighed. “It appears my information was incorrect.”
Drumming his hands on the tabletop, Dogan met the gaz
e of the lizard-creature and had another attempt at a smile. “My apologies. None of this is your concern. Forgive me for bothering you.”
As Dogan spoke, one of the alien’s clawed hands fumbled at a spot halfway up its scaly throat. Dogan watched in amazement as the claws dug into the spongy flesh, then blinked in surprise as a square flap was peeled aside, revealing a sweat-soaked human face inside.
“Holy shizz, it is fonking hot in there,” gasped the man. He grabbed for his glass, shut his eyes, then tossed his drink in his face. “Oh, yeah. That’s the stuff,” he sighed. “Wow. That’s better.”
Dogan’s face crumpled in confusion. “I… I do not understand. Who are you? What are you?”
“Oh. Yeah. Forgot that bit. Sorry. Name’s Cal. Cal Carver,” said the man in the suit. He gave a rubbery thumbs up. “And, mister, you just hired the Space Team.”
Cal swept the clawed hand across his face, wiping away his drink. “I mean, technically it’s just ‘Space Team’ not ‘the Space Team’ but, well, there was this TV show where I came from, and every week the leader, Hannibal, would…” He shook his head. The rubbery lizard head shook, too. “Know what? It doesn’t matter. The main thing is, you’ve got a problem, no-one else can help, and you’ve found us.”
“Uh… ‘us’?” said Dogan.
The back of the bench behind Dogan shook as someone moved in the next booth over. There was a whirr and a series of clanks, then a scuffed and dented metal figure stepped into view.
Cal looked the cyborg up and down. “Mech! I thought I told you to find a disguise?”
“I did,” said Mech. He ducked a little and pointed to the top of his head.
“A tiny hat,” said Cal. “That’s your disguise? A tiny hat.”
“I’m a seven foot tall cyborg. What the fonk should I have disguised myself as?”
“I don’t know, maybe a different seven foot tall cyborg?” Cal suggested. “One who isn’t on a list of the galaxy’s most wanted.”
Dogan looked between Cal and Mech, his mouth hanging open. A sudden movement at the edge of the booth caught his attention, and he almost screamed when a wolf-like creature in a tightly-fitting leather outfit slid onto the seat next to Cal.
“Hey,” she said. “Who’s the wrinkly pink guy?”
“Uh, D-Dogan,” the wrinkly pink guy stammered, silently adding the “Please don’t eat me,” part in his head.
“Miz! Why aren’t you disguised, either?” asked Cal, turning to look the wolf-woman up and down. Because of his costume, this wasn’t easy, and it took several attempts before he could twist his body enough to let him see her properly.
Miz shrugged. “I don’t know. Seemed kind of lame. Besides, look at me. Blending in? Totally not my thing.”
Cal tutted and shook his head. “How hard would it have been to pop on a pair of glasses or something? You know? A fake nose. A mustache! You couldn’t even give me a mustache.”
“Why are you disguised?” Dogan asked.
“Because we’re wanted by the government for a crime we didn’t commit,” said Cal. He caught the looks from Mech and Miz. “OK, OK, we’re wanted by the government for a crime we did commit. A number of crimes, actually. Mainly, abducting the president, ejecting him into space, and stealing an experimental ship, but it’s a pretty big list.”
Cal pointed a clawed finger at Dogan. “But we’re not here to talk about us. We’re here to talk about you.”
He leaned across the table, but it made his costume ride up and forced his cheeks up into his eyes, so he leaned back again. “Tell us more about these Xandrie guys. And, more importantly, just where we might be able to find them.”
* * *
Cal, Mech and Miz stood in a darkened doorway, watching the building directly across the street. Cal had ditched the lizard costume in an alleyway behind the bar, and now wore the black shirt, cargo pants and scuffed brown boots he’d picked up on their recent trip back to the Bug-infested wasteland that was now the planet Earth.
“So, if I had to say who was who,” said Cal, rubbing his hands together to drive away the cold, “I’d be Face, because, you know, I’m the smooth-talking one who always charms his way out of trouble. But – and here’s the thing - I’d also be Hannibal, because I’m the leader.”
Mech raised an eyebrow. “Leader? You ain’t the leader. We ain’t got no leader.”
“Well, we do, obviously, and it’s me, but that’s OK, because you’re B.A., and everyone loves B.A.!” Cal said, patting Mech on the chest. “‘I ain’t goin’ on no plane, sucka!’ You know?”
Miz wrinkled her nose. “What is he talking about?”
“I have no fonking idea,” Mech admitted.
“Loren’s Murdoch, because they’re both pilots, not because she’s got undiagnosed PTSD or whatever Murdoch had, and Miz…” His mind raced. “Miz is the sexy werewolf lady they rarely spoke about.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned his attention back to the doorway across the road. “I mean, we’re not exactly the same, but there are broad similarities is the point I’m trying to make.”
It had been over a month since Cal had been abducted from his prison cell and whisked into outer space, and while lots of it was all still new and exciting, there were a few parts which were already losing their novelty.
Streets like this, for example. He knew he couldn’t have seen this street before – they’d only arrived on the planet a few hours ago – and yet there was something tediously familiar about it. The shadowy nooks. The grimy windows. The flurries of litter tumbling along it on the whims of the breeze.
There were streets just like it back on Earth. Streets you didn’t walk down if you valued your wallet, your kneecaps or your life. Cal had seen more than his fair share back on his home planet, and was amassing quite the collection on other worlds, too.
“Think that’s the place?” he asked.
Mech tapped the screen on his forearm and scanned the doorway opposite. “Door’s heavy. Reinforced. Take a tank to knock that thing down.”
“Can you do it?” Cal asked.
Mech snorted and clanked his way across the street. “Just watch me.”
Cal hurried to keep up, with Miz stalking along behind him.
“OK, so let’s just go in there, throw our weight around a little – well, your weight, mostly,” Cal said, looking from Mech to Miz in turn, “and give them a warning. Let’s try not to kill anyone this time, if we can avoid it. Mizette, I’m looking at you here.”
“Fine,” Miz sighed. “But what if they deserve it?”
“If they genuinely deserve it, it’s totally fine,” said Cal. “But you said that last guy deserved it because he was wearing yellow pants.”
“He totally did deserve it,” said Miz.
“Girl’s got a point,” agreed Mech. “Those were some nasty pants.”
A car blared its horn at them as it hovered past. Miz gave it the finger, and Cal felt a swelling of pride that he’d taught her the gesture. They stepped onto the sidewalk and positioned themselves by the reinforced door.
“We should have brought Loren on this,” Cal whispered, drawing a blaster pistol from the holster on his belt.
“Why, so the two of you could hold hands?” asked Miz, the fur on her neck sticking up ever so slightly.
“How many times do I have to tell you?” Cal whispered. “There’s nothing going on between us.”
“Oh, please,” said Miz, then she jabbed a thumb towards the door and glowered at Mech. “Are you going to kick this thing down or not?”
“Get ready,” Mech said. He adjusted the dial on his chest, just a fraction, diverting additional power to his hydraulics. Then he raised a leg and thrust it out in front of him like a battering ram.
The doors flew apart with a screech of tearing metal.
“Oh, man,” Cal whispered. “That was so B.A.”
He took cover behind Mech as the cyborg ducked through the doorway and stomped into the starkly gray hallwa
y beyond. A fluorescent strip light flickered on the ceiling, sending shadows dancing over the gloss-painted walls.
“Attention, uh, the Xandrie,” Cal began, but his voice trailed away when he spotted the blood. It pooled on the vinyl flooring and dribbled down the walls. It dripped from the light fitting and seeped from below the door at the far end of the hall.
And, perhaps most significantly of all, it oozed from the quivering, gelatinous remains of what had presumably once been a living creature, but was now nothing more than gristle and flesh.
Cal’s grip tightened on his blaster. “Uh… hello?” he said, poking the fleshy lump with his shoe. He backed off a little and waited.
“Nope. I think it’s dead,” he announced.
“What do you…? Of course it’s fonking dead!” Mech growled. “Look at it.”
“Well I don’t know, do I?” said Cal, pointing to the bleeding meat. “I saw someone who looked almost exactly like that back on that last planet. The guy giving out the parking tickets. Remember?”
“That was the planet before,” said Mech.
Cal tutted. “Whatever. My point is, how am I supposed to know it’s dead if I don’t gently kick it, say ‘hello,’ and wait to see if it responds?”
Mizette’s nostrils flared. “It’s worse in there,” she said, nodding towards the door.
“Worse?” Cal squeaked. “There’s blood pouring from the ceiling and, I don’t know, a fonking hip lying on the floor. How can it be worse?”
Miz met his gaze and held it. “Trust me,” she said. “It’s worse.”
Cal took a deep breath. It tasted like pennies. “Fine. I’m sure it’s nothing we can’t handle. Let’s go check it out.”
“Why?” asked Mech. “Let’s just turn around and get back to the ship. This shizz right here? This shizz ain’t our problem.”
Cal shook his head in disgust. “And you have the nerve to call yourself B.A. Baracus,” he said.
“I don’t! You called me that,” Mech pointed out. “I don’t even know who that is.” He threw up a hand. “Come on, man. Where are you going?”
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