Space Team: The Wrath of Vajazzle

by Barry J. Hutchison

  The Cal on the bench became a thick gloopy liquid, then compacted into a ball of green slime. Splurt’s eyes looped in opposite directions, coming together to gaze back at Cal. There was something almost apologetic in the expression, Cal thought, but as Splurt had no features beyond the bulbous bloodshot eyeballs, he was probably just imagining it.

  With Splurt now back in non-Cal mode, the real Cal continued down the ramp and out into the Florida sunshine. He slowed down, deliberately closing the gap between him and Kannus in a sedate, casual stroll. He noticed Filson’s two grunts had arrived on the scene. They were taking it in turns to aim their guns at everyone, but no-one was really paying them any notice.

  “Ladies. Nice of you to join us,” Cal said, giving them a friendly wave. He dodged past Mech and stopped in front of Kannus. “OK, so there’s good news and bad news. The good news is, Miz has agreed to go see her dad.”

  “She has no choice,” Kannus said.

  “Well, actually, she does, and she has chosen to go see her dad,” said Cal. “See how it works?”

  Kannus twitched in irritation. “And what is the bad news?”

  “The bad news, Kannus, old buddy,” said Cal. “Is that we’re coming along for the ride!”

  “Unacceptable. No non-Greyx may set foot on Kifo. It is a sacred place,” Kannus said.

  “Well, I guess we’ll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it,” said Cal. He turned to Mech and was met by Legate Filson’s ass, which was still hoisted up at the cyborg’s shoulder. “The question is, what do we do with him?”

  “Should we kill him?” asked Loren.

  Filson let out a little yelp. “What? No! D-don’t do that.”

  “Tempting,” said Cal, stroking his chin. “But, I dunno, I kind of like him. There’s just something about his face that makes me want to pick him up and hug him. Is that weird?”

  “Yes,” said Mech. “That’s weird.”

  “Put him down,” Cal said.

  Mech shrugged again, and Legate Filson shot backwards off his shoulder. The officer flapped his arms in frantic panic for half a second, then fell heavily to the ground.

  Jumping up, Filson dusted himself down, as if it might help him restore a little dignity. It didn’t. “Yes. And about time, too,” he said. “I was very close to taking action there, and believe me, you’d have been sorry then.”

  “Shut up, shizznod,” Mech barked, twitching in the legate’s direction. Filson let out a high-pitched shriek of fright and immediately stopped talking.

  “So, Filson. I think one good turn deserves another, don’t you? We spared your life, even though we could have killed you at any time – any time. What’s say you tell your ships up there to let us through, and we’ll all pretend none of his has happened?”

  “Never! You all belong to Zertex now!” said Filson, raising his voice so his approaching bodyguards could hear. He quickly lowered it again. “I’m sorry, I had to say that, please don’t kill me! Tell me you’re under protection of the Greyx,” he whispered.

  Cal blinked. “Huh?”

  “Do it!” Filson hissed.

  “Uh, we’re under the protection of the Greyx,” said Cal, just as the two female grunts joined Filson.

  “Ah,” said Filson, making a show of looking disappointed. “Curses. Well… that’s that, then. Well played, Carver. Well played. But I’ll get you next time, mark my words.” He wagged a reproachful finger in Cal’s direction. “I’ll get you next time!”

  “Oh yeah? We’ll see about that, Filson!” said Cal, getting in on the act. Both men narrowed their eyes, squaring off. After a few seconds of unchecked machismo, Cal buckled. “Ah, what the Hell? I can’t resist,” he said, then he wrapped his arms around the horrified Filson and lifted him off the ground in a hug. “There’s just something about your face.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Hayel Sinclair, current head of the Zertex Corporation, and president of a substantial chunk of the galaxy, sat on the edge of his desk, pointing a polished smile at a screen that took up almost the entire wall in front of him.

  On it, a grizzled, shark-like creature glared back at him with its dark eyes. The Symmorium were a warrior race, and Ambassador Druka bore the expression of someone spoiling for a fight.

  “You defied the treaty, Sinclair,” he growled. “You attacked the Symmorium and defiled the Sentience. These were acts of war.”

  Sinclair rolled up the sleeves of his expensive shirt and raised his hands, half in surrender, half in a calming gesture. “I understand how it may have seemed that way, ambassador, I honestly do. Hey, in your position, with the information you had, I’d be feeling the same way right about now.”

  He picked up a ball that was just a little bigger than a baseball and passed it from hand to hand. “I mean, the Sentience gets – what, infected? Wow. Is it OK now? Back fighting fit?”

  Ambassador Druka said nothing.

  “Well, give it our love,” Sinclair said. “We’re all rooting for it here at Zertex.”

  He tossed the ball up and caught it. “The truth is, Druka, Zertex was coming to help. We’d been chasing the pirates who infected the Sentience since they’d left the Remnants. We knew they were planning some kind of attack on the Symmorium, we just didn’t realize what it was. Of course, had we known the Sentience was in danger, we’d have alerted you at once.”

  “You sent an invasion force,” Druka snarled, showing a flash of his pointed teeth.

  “I sent a police force,” Sinclair said, his smile fixed in place. “To apprehend the pirates and offer help to the Symmorium. An act of friendship, not of war. I give you my word on that.”

  Sinclair squeezed the ball, then set it back on his desk. “We’ve worked so hard. All of us. I – we - have put in hundreds, thousands of hours negotiating the treaties. Negotiating peace. How many days have we spent locked in rooms together, Druka? How many months have we - you and I - invested in bringing this pointless war to an end? Together. Why would I jeopardize that now? Why would I even want to?”

  Druka’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t reply.

  “I’m not going to be around forever,” Sinclair said. “I want to retire, hopefully not too far in the future, settle down, have kids. Do I want them growing up in a galaxy ravaged by a senseless war – a war no-one even remembers the reason for? Or do I want them growing up in a galaxy where Zertex and the Symmorium work together? Build together? I think we both know the answer to that.”

  “Your imaginary future children aside,” Druka intoned, “there are many Symmorium who wish to see us retaliate. Swiftly. Without mercy.”

  “I’m sure there are,” said Sinclair. He stood up and crossed his hands behind his back. “The question is, what do you wish, ambassador? What sort of galaxy do you want us to work towards?”

  Druka ground his teeth together, considering the president’s words. “I shall talk to those above, and try to determine which way the tide is flowing,” he said. “But be warned, Sinclair, if I find out you were responsible for what happened to the Sentience, I shall wait until those future children of yours are born, then I shall eat them while you watch.”

  Sinclair nodded, his smile widening. “Fair enough,” he said. “I assure you, we’re not your enemy, Druka. Those pirates you’ve been hailing as heroes? They’re the ones you have to worry about. Rest assured, though, I’m taking steps to deal with them, personally.”

  At the corner of the screen, a little alert message flashed up. Sinclair glanced at it, just briefly, then turned his attention back to the ambassador. “Speaking of which, one of the squadrons I sent to apprehend them has just reported back. Hopefully, I’ll have some good news for you soon.”

  Sinclair bowed his head. “Farewell for now, old friend.”

  “Don’t push it, Sinclair,” Druka warned. The image of the ambassador cut off, and was replaced by a sweeping view of outer space. Sinclair blinked in the sudden glare of the nearest sun.
It cast a flickering lens flare effect across the window’s glass. Any other time, he might have taken a few moments to admire it, but there were more pressing matters to attend to.

  “Come,” he said, turning to the door. Legate Filson marched in, stomped to a stop, then pulled off a textbook salute.

  Sinclair resisted the urge to sigh. Filson was well-meaning enough, and efficient in his own little way, but he was no replacement for Legate Jjin. Now that had been a right-hand man. Fiercely loyal, fiercely dedicated and just fierce in general, Sinclair could always count on Jjin to do what needed to be done.

  Could. Past tense. The removal of Legate Jjin from the present tense was just one of the many reasons Sinclair was very keen to get his hands on Cal Carver.

  The president crossed his hands behind his back again. This time, he crossed his fingers, too. “Legate Filson. So good to see you back. I trust you bring good news?”

  Filson hesitated, just for a moment, then decided to spit it out. It was like pulling off a sticking plaster, he would probably have reckoned, had he even the faintest idea what a sticking plaster was. Best to get it over with quickly.

  “No, Mr President, sir,” he said. “They escaped.”

  Several seconds passed before Sinclair said anything. It wasn’t really worth the wait. “Escaped?”

  “Yes, sir. We had them cornered on Earth, but then the Greyx turned up. Hundreds of them. All armed. They declared the pirates under their protection.”

  “Did they? Did they really?”

  “Yes, sir. We tried to object, but they were quite insistent. Any attempt to take the pirates would be considered an attack on the Greyx themselves.”

  “So?”

  Filson frowned. “Uh, well, like I say, there were hundreds of them, sir. They’d have killed me.”

  “And I ask again,” said Sinclair, his smile losing some of its polish. “So?”

  This wrong-footed Filson a bit. He tried to match Sinclair’s smile, but decided it was inappropriate, then went too far in the opposite direction and scowled instead. “Uh, I didn’t think I’d be much use to you dead, sir.”

  “It appears you’re not much use to me alive either,” said Sinclair. He made a weighing motion with his hands. “Dead, I don’t have to pay your salary.”

  “I did find out something interesting,” Filson said, scrabbling for the president’s approval. “Graxan of the Greyx is dying. The girl, his daughter, has been summoned to some death world or something.”

  “Kifo,” said Sinclair. He nodded slowly. “Oh. That is interesting. That is very interesting. Well done.”

  Filson brightened. His chest had been slowly deflating for the last minute or so, but a burst of pride puffed it back up for him. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Thank you for the information, legate. You are dismissed,” Sinclair said.

  “Very good, sir,” said Filson. He pulled off an extra-enthusiastic salute, then crisply about-turned. He was halfway to the door when Sinclair spoke again.

  “On the other hand…”

  Filson stopped.

  Filson turned.

  He was surprised to see that President Sinclair was standing less than an arm’s length away, his salesman-smile showing more teeth this time. “I sent you to carry out one specific task. You did not.”

  “Well, no, sir, but I’m sure I can--”

  Sinclair lunged, grasping at Filson’s throat. The officer gargled as the president’s finger dug deep into his windpipe. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc, bathing Sinclair’s face in its sticky warmth. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just smiled and stared and stared and smiled as he buried his fingers up to the third knuckle in Filson’s flesh.

  Then, with a jerk, Sinclair tore the legate’s windpipe out of his body. Spluttering and choking, Filson began to topple backwards, but then the windpipe went taut and he just hung there, leaning back on his heels, Sinclair holding him up by the bloodied remains of his throat.

  Filson’s gargling became a strained wheeze. His eyes rolled back. His legs went limp. Sinclair let the fleshy tube slip through his grip, then gave a nod of satisfaction when the officer sunk all the way to the floor.

  “I’m sorry, Filson, you were saying?” Sinclair asked, pushing one ear forward as if straining to hear. He allowed himself a chuckle, then returned to his desk, wiping his hands on his clothing.

  So, Carver and the others were under the protection of the Greyx. That could be a problem, even if Graxan was on his deathbed.

  It was a problem that could be solved, of course, just like any other. A Zertex fleet could obliterate Kifo in a matter of minutes, but that would only agitate the Symmorium situation, and now wasn’t the time for that.

  He could tread lightly. Try to make a deal with the Greyx. Take the diplomatic route.

  But where was the fun in that?

  No, the solution was obvious. Carver and the others – the Greyx, too – needed to be taught a lesson. As circumstances with the Symmorium prevented him doing so himself, that left only one option.

  Sinclair flicked the comm switch on his desk.

  “Yes, Mr President?” chirped a cheerfully efficient voice from the speaker.

  “Hey, Janet. I’m going to need a cleaning crew and a fresh shirt in here,” he said.

  “Right away, sir. They’re on their way now.”

  “Excellent. Thank you, Janet,” Sinclair said. “Oh, and one other thing.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  Sinclair smiled. It was his first genuine one of the day. “Get me Lady Vajazzle.”

  Hidden in the soft hiss of the speaker, Sinclair could hear his secretary’s surprise. “Are… are you sure, sir?”

  “Quite sure, Janet,” Sinclair said. “Tell her I have a job for her, and it’s one I think she’s really going to enjoy.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Cal gripped his arm rest with one hand, and pointed ahead with the other. “Hey, watch it! You’re going to hit them.”

  “I’m not going to hit them,” snapped Loren. “They’re over forty miles away.”

  “But they’re slowing down,” said Cal. “Are they slowing down? I think they’re slowing down. They should have brake lights on that thing, it’d save a lot of confusion.”

  Forty-two miles ahead of the Shatner, the Greyx ship was tilting a little as it skimmed past the tiniest moon Cal had ever seen. He’d only seen four, including this one, but he suspected if he saw a thousand moons, this one would still be the runt of the litter. It was a dusty white with veins of dark blue. If Earth’s moon were made of cheddar, this one was Roquefort to the core.

  The Greyx ship was an OCD sufferer’s nightmare. Unlike every other space ship Cal had seen, this one wasn’t symmetrical. It had one long, swooping, eagle-like wing on the right, and a short, stubby one on the left. How it didn’t just fly around in circles all the time, Cal could only guess. Science, probably.

  It had taken them several long, boring hours to get to their current position. The Greyx ship’s top warp speed was less than a third of the Shatner’s, and so Cal had tried with an astonishing lack of success to introduce the rest of the crew to Rock, Paper, Scissors. Eventually, he’d given up and gone to fetch his guitar.

  Over the next hour, he’d performed – and taken sole credit for writing – every space-based song he could think of, from Bowie’s Starman and Space Oddity to I Lost My Heart to a Starship Trooper by Sarah Brightman and Hot Gossip. Mech had stared impassively during the Bowie, but Cal had caught him toe-tapping during the Brightman, although he quickly stopped when he realized he’d been spotted.

  Finally, the guitar was put away, Cal had declared himself the winner of Rock, Paper, Scissors by default, and both ships had dropped out of warp in the shadow of the tiny moon. Beyond it, an almost perfectly white planet shone against the stars. There were no oceans, no land-masses, just the same uniform whiteness wrapping all the way around the globe.

  “Hey, is your
death world made of marshmallow?” asked Cal, turning to Miz. She could usually be found slumped in her seat, but now she was oddly upright, her back straight, her jaw tense. She had seemed even more sullen than usual during the flight, but now she was alert and staring ahead at the planet creeping over the horizon of the moon.

  “It’s cloud,” she said.

  Cal swiveled his chair back to the front and looked again. “Yeah. Yeah, that makes far more sense,” he said, although he found it hard to hide his disappointment.

  The image on screen changed and Kannus’s face filled the screen. “This is as far as non-Greyx may go,” he said. “Land on the moon. Mizette shall board our ship, and you may be on your way.”

  Cal opened his mouth to protest, but Miz beat him to it. “No way, Kannus. Not happening. Just go ahead and land on Kifo, and we’ll follow you down.”

  Kannus’s face darkened. “But… our traditions.”

  “Blah, blah, blah. I don’t care,” Miz told him. “If my dad wants to see me, we’re doing it my way, or the whole thing’s off. Got it?”

  Kannus tightened his jaw, as if fighting to hold back something that was trying to escape. After wrestling with it for a few seconds, he relaxed just enough to spit out an, “As you wish,” before ending his transmission.

  “And that, ladies and gentlemen,” said Cal, “is why fetuses should never marry. You might end up with someone like him. You married, Mech?”

  “Do I look like I’m married?” the cyborg replied.

  “Shame. Wish I’d known,” said Cal. “I have this really high-tech toaster back on Earth I could have totally hooked you up with. Four slot. She’s a beauty.”

  “It’s on a landing approach,” Loren announced.

  Cal frowned. “My toaster?”

  “The Greyx ship. They’re sending the co-ordinates.”

  “Can you follow them without crashing?” asked Miz.

  “Yes! Of course I can!” Loren snapped, adding the “hopefully” silently in her head. She adjusted the controls and the Shatner subtly shifted direction as it curved past the moon and began its descent towards Kifo.