The Bounty Hunters from Arachnxx Three

by Milo James Fowler

  So he did what any self-respecting United World Space Command starship's captain would do:

  "Very well. Send a transport ship to dock with our vessel, and tell your superiors to expect us shortly." With a nod from the pilot and a nod in turn, Quasar faced his first officer and said clearly, in no uncertain terms, "End transmission."

  The screen on the fore wall returned to a view of the fighters, one small ship from each house rotating end over end as if participating in some sort of slow-motion choreography. The blue one from House Bromidia did so in a continuous motion while the crimson one from House Ciliac vented gases, and with each short burst, its rotation went off-angle and spiraled the small vessel in a new direction. The pilot would have to radio his people to be tractored back to the nearest Ciliac star base, Captain Quasar assumed.

  But then the Bromidian fighter opened fire with its cannons as it made a complete rotation, locking onto the Ciliac vessel and cutting it in half. The pilot ejected in an environmental suit, but he too was cut asunder by another laser beam from the Bromidian.

  Such were the allies Quasar had made. The savagery chilled him, truth be told.

  "Join me in the conference room." He nodded to Commander Wan as he strode up the deck toward the rear exit. "Hank, you have the bridge."

  "Captain?" the Carpethrian grunted in surprise.

  "Captain?" Wan's disbelief was evident in her tone as she followed Quasar down the corridor outside. "He's not a commissioned officer."

  Quasar faced her before turning to enter the conference room. "I trust him not to kill anyone while I step out for a minute."

  Episode 7: An Explosive Arrival

  The door slid open, revealing a dark room with a long glass conference table. A dozen roller-chairs sat tucked under each side. A larger, plusher chair sat at the head of the table, and Quasar leaned on it with one arm as he surveyed the star-punctured black outside the room's wide portholes. What remained of the Ciliac pilot drifted in opposite directions, frozen as stiff as a broken statue.

  Commander Wan approached the captain with her spine as erect as ever. Once the door shut automatically behind her, she spoke.

  "I will report to the brig, sir. There is no excuse for my actions."

  Captain Quasar couldn't agree more. After all, it was by her hand that the entire crew of the Effervescent Magnitude had entered the middle of what appeared to be a planet-wide civil war. They didn't belong here, and the last thing they needed was the enmity of House Ciliac for destroying three of their fighters with a single torpedo.

  The Magnitude hadn't ventured out beyond Sol's system for battle or conquest. Of course, the ship was equipped with enough torpedoes and weapons to defend Earth's interests in deep space, but their mission was one of exploration and acquisition only—not involvement in petty skirmishes on alien worlds.

  "I should never have criticized your hand gestures in front of the bridge crew, sir," Wan continued. "I was out of line."

  He turned to face her. "Yes, you were. But what about the lives of those Ciliac pilots? Have you no remorse for snuffing them out of existence without provocation?"

  She held his gaze. "Permission to speak freely, Captain."

  "Granted." He crossed his arms.

  "After the Goobalob incident, it has been unclear what our policy is toward alien antagonists. When we destroyed that Goobalob vessel—"

  "That was an accident. We had no idea one of our torpedoes would destroy an entire ship!" All he'd wanted was to target their engines—or was it their weapons array? Either way, a single low-yield detonation had blown the Goobalobs to whatever afterlife they believed in, and there had been very little left of their vessel to salvage afterward. "Regardless, I thought we'd learned from that rather unfortunate incident and were determined not to repeat the same mistake!"

  Commander Wan raised an eyebrow. "I don't believe you made that clear to the crew, sir."

  "Ah. I see. You're not able to read my mind, of course." He chewed on his lip for a moment, chagrined and not enjoying the sensation one iota. "Well then. From this moment forward, let's be clear on this, shall we? No more blowing up alien vessels unless the safety of our crew is at stake. Understood?"

  She nodded. "And when the Arachnoids arrive?"

  "Let's hope we can get the holy heck out of here before they do." He strode to the door and glanced back at her as it slid open automatically. "You have the ship, Commander. I'll lead the team." With an awkward head jerk, he activated the communication device sewn into the collar of his uniform and returned to the bridge. "Chief Gruber, meet me at the portside docking bay with a security detail of six officers. Gather whatever late-model plasma pistols and rifles you have sitting around. We'll be meeting our Bromidian friends with a few gifts."

  "Aye, Captain," Gruber replied on the comm.

  Quasar pointed to the Carpethrian at the helm. "Hank, you're with me."

  "Captain?" Wan didn't seem to approve.

  "We won't need a helmsman until we get that near-lightspeed reactor up and running again. And I believe Hank's the only man—uh, person—able to tell if the Bromidian reactor coils can do the trick."

  With a noncommittal nod, Commander Wan took a seat in the captain's chair. As always, she looked a little too comfortable there for Quasar's liking.

  Grunting into his shaggy fur, the Carpethrian shuffled across the deck with the captain, and the two of them made their way without comment to the docking bay. Security Chief Gruber had already assembled his detail and stood there waiting. He was a stocky, block-jawed fellow with a short bristle brush of a haircut and a physical condition that made him sweat profusely from every pore. It was an affliction that caused him no shortage of embarrassment—which unfortunately led to even more perspiration. Literally, it was a vicious cycle.

  "Here you go, Captain." Gruber handed over a crate of older-model Cody pistols and a couple of well-worn assault rifles. "All I could scrounge up on short notice. Not the latest and greatest, but they'll do the job. Assuming the job is target practice?"

  "More or less." Quasar accepted the crate and handed it off to Hank. "Beware of Carpethrians bearing gifts?"

  "Humph." Hank grunted, holding the crate with his lower pair of hands and crossing his upper arms across his very hairy chest.

  "Never mind." Quasar winked at no one in particular and struck his Confident Starfarer pose. "Let's make first contact."

  For a few awkward moments, nothing happened as they waited for the Bromidian transport vessel to arrive. The security detail shifted from one foot to the other, and Chief Gruber continued to perspire. Hank switched off between his pairs of hands holding the heavy crate, giving each pair a break every few minutes. The captain maintained his pose as if there were a sculptor nearby wielding her craft.

  Eventually, the Magnitude's proximity scanner bleeped, and under the captain's supervision, the docking bridge extended to connect with the Bromidian transport ship. The airlock opened with a rush of stale air, and three Bromidians stood in a tight formation before their hosts. They carried themselves with the poise of well-built gymnasts, each wearing a form-fitting bodysuit of what appeared to be a blue leather-like material. Their three-eyed stares darted from the captain to Hank to Gruber to his security team and finally rested on the crate of weapons in the Carpethrian's grasp.

  "Welcome to the Effervescent Magnitude," Quasar said with a dashing smile.

  "Is that all you have?" The familiar pilot, having obviously been rescued from his derelict fighter and brought aboard the transport ship by his people, shook his head at the crate with disappointment. "Compared to the incredible power of your vessel—"

  "Oh, these pack a punch, believe me," said Quasar. "And besides, my Carpethrian friend is trained in hand-to-hand-to-hand-to-hand combat—something your Ciliac enemies have undoubtedly never witnessed before." Nor had Quasar, truth be told; he'd made up Hank's fighting prowess right there on the spot.

  "We shall see," said the pilot with a pensive sigh.
"Very well. If you would join us, we will have you down on the surface in a matter of minutes. Not nearly as fast as the Ciliac with their skills in transference, but we make do with what we have."

  "Don't we all." Quasar nodded, following the Bromidians through the airlock to their ship. Behind him, he heard Gruber whisper to Hank.

  "You really know how to use all those hands of yours in combat?"

  "Humph," the Carpethrian responded as he lugged the crate of firearms.

  Their shuttle ride to the surface was uneventful—except for the moment when the Bromidian vessel breached the invisibility barrier that shrouded their Homeworld, and suddenly Quasar and company saw the planet in all its verdant glory. It was a jungle paradise, as lush as the ancient Amazon rainforests of Earth.

  As astounding as that was to behold, the main event did not occur until they had landed at the Bromidian base and were preparing to disembark.

  For that was when a bomb exploded, tearing the shuttle in half and hurling bodies and bloody body parts in every direction.

  Episode 8: A Tangled Web

  Ears ringing from the blast and eyes stinging from the acrid smoke, Captain Quasar coughed and struggled to his feet, instinctively reaching for the Cody 52 Special holstered at his side. He attempted to call out the names of his Carpethrian helmsman, his chief of security, and the members of his security detail, but he couldn't hear his own voice, much less the responses from his team. It was only when a strong pair of very hairy hands reached out and helped him up that the captain was able to focus his eyes on Hank, Gruber, and two of his security officers who staggered toward him like soot-covered zombies from a cheap 20th century horror film.

  Quasar nodded to them and swung his weapon's muzzle around the rubble on all sides. The bodies of their three Bromidian escorts lay in pieces along with four members of Gruber's security detail. The transport shuttle was torn in two where the bomb had detonated beneath it, smoking and glowing along fracture lines as the plasteel continued to melt.

  "Lay down your weapons!"

  Quasar whirled to face the half-muted voice and found that more than a dozen well-armed, three-eyed soldiers garbed in crimson bodysuits had converged upon the scene. Ciliac troops, by the looks of them. There was not a single royal blue uniform to be seen. Strange, considering this was a Bromidian base.

  Had the Ciliac arrived earlier and overrun the place? How could they have done so without alerting the Bromidians on site—who would have, in turn, warned the transport ship to turn back well before it landed on top of that Ciliac bomb?

  "Comply, or we will be forced to fire upon you!"

  Clenching his jaw, Quasar gripped his Cody 52 Special, not taking his eyes from the Ciliac fellow who appeared to be the leader of the pack. "You've already killed seven people here. What's to keep you from shooting us as well?"

  The Ciliac narrowed all three of his eyes. "Princess Sya desires to see you, and her wish is our command." He paused for a brief, meaningful silence. "Right now, our command is that you drop your weapons, or you will be escorted to Her Highness without the use of your hands."

  "Because we'll be bound?" Gruber frowned.

  "Because they will be cut off, along with the weapons they hold!" the Ciliac bellowed, shifting his weapon to aim at the chief.

  Gruber promptly began to perspire at twice his usual volume.

  Quasar set down his pistol, and the others did likewise—all but Hank, who appeared to have lost the crate of low-yield weapons during the bomb blast and whose very hairy body wore no holstered weapons of any kind.

  "Very well," said Captain Quasar, raising his chin and holding his spine erect. His pectoral muscles stood at attention, bold in the face of imminent danger. "Take us to your leader!"

  Quasar and what remained of his team found themselves roughly escorted by the Ciliac soldiers down a series of damp subterranean tunnels that led deep into the sublevels below the demolished base. They marched two by two with a pair of soldiers before and behind acting as an armed buffer. Along the way, they spotted dozens of Bromidian bodies in blue uniforms slumped forward at their workstations or sprawled awkwardly across the floor, each with mortal laser burns through their heads or torsos.

  It was as though the Ciliac soldiers had appeared without warning, right in the middle of the base, and opened fire before a single Bromidian had the chance to defend himself.

  "Humph," Hank grunted, shuffling alongside the captain.

  "Just what I was thinking," Captain Quasar said in a low tone as his hearing returned. "Not the way I'd want to go out—with a laser through the back of my head. When I go, my Cody 52 Special will be in my hand, and I'll be facing my enemy, taking out a couple dozen of them before they have a chance to do their worst." Quasar glanced sidelong at the Carpethrian who almost came up to his shoulder in height. "Assuming that's what you were referring to." He hadn't really known Hank long enough to interpret all of the shaggy fellow's grunts.

  "I was referring to their princess. The woman you're supposed to kill." Hank cleared one of his twin throats quietly.

  "Yes. What a tangled web I've woven." Quasar nodded, strumming his clean-shaven chin.

  "Hands at your sides!" bellowed the Ciliac leader from the front of the pack. Did he have an eyeball on the back of his head, too? A revolting prospect. "No complicated gestures!"

  Quasar dropped his hand from his chin and kept his voice low. "So, was I right about your hand-to-hand-to-hand-to-hand combat skills? Assuming the moment arrives for us to attempt to turn the tables on our captors—"

  "We're outnumbered and outgunned," Hank grunted. "So much for getting those reactor coils from the Bromidians."

  "All is not lost yet, my friend." Quasar nodded to himself in the dark. He wondered: could the Ciliac with their extra forehead-eyes actually see in this murk? No one had a flashlight of any kind that he could tell. "We may still have a chance."

  "Huh?" The Carpethrian didn't sound convinced.

  Quasar leaned toward Hank as they marched along. "We happen to be privy to a certain plot against the life of Her Highness." He winked, but the gesture went unnoticed in the dark. "And besides, I'm not without practice when it comes to wooing members of the opposite sex. Leave the princess to me. She'll be giving us everything we need in no time."

  "Humph," Hank replied, sounding even less convinced.

  In a matter of hours, hungry, thirsty, weary, and sore from head to foot, Captain Quasar and his team emerged from the other end of a tunnel system running from the Bromidian base to the territory of House Ciliac. Prodded along by Ciliac soldiers, they found themselves taken inside what appeared to be a base identical in its hive-like design to the Bromidians'—only this one was fully intact, bustling with a full staff complement moving purposefully in every direction. No one gave the sooty Earthlings and Carpethrian more than a glance as they were shoved up a wide flight of stairs toward the command center.

  Quasar presumed he would meet the great general of the Ciliac military forces at the top of the stairs, perhaps a grizzled, formidable fellow with a battle scar running lengthwise down the side of his face. A face sporting a majestic, droopy mustache. And perhaps he would wear an ornamental steel saber sheathed at his side, one he sharpened regularly but only brandished high during hearty war cries. For some reason, such was the first thing that came to mind whenever Quasar thought of a civil war.

  But instead, the captain found himself thrust forward unexpectedly, and he stumbled headlong toward the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen or imagined.

  Episode 9: Fight to the Death

  Any thought he'd had of seducing this woman vanished from his mind as soon as he laid eyes upon her. Certainly, she was gorgeous. Flawless, in fact. Her slender yet voluptuous form was matchless in the known galaxy—as much as Quasar knew of it. But there was also that eyeball sprouting from the middle of her forehead to contend with. So instead of finding himself aroused at the sight of her beauty, he tasted a sudden surge of bile that he choked
down along with an involuntary shudder.

  "The Earth Man, I presume," she said, baring a full set of perfect teeth and locking all three of her eyes on him.

  Unlike the Bromidian and Ciliac soldiers Quasar had met thus far, the eyes of this woman each came equipped with thick, overlong lashes and eyelids painted with all the hues of a peacock's tail feathers. She stood a head taller than her men, garbed in the same shade of crimson, only her bodysuit seemed tighter, leaving nothing of her exquisite figure to the imagination. Draped about her shoulders, she wore a long cape that spread across the floor, providing an obstacle for her personnel as they avoided tripping over it. A stiff collar rose up behind her head as if setting a special stage for the splendor of her midnight-black hair, which seemed to flow upward and outward all at once. Like a fountain. Of hair.

  "Princess Sya of House Ciliac," Quasar presumed, forcing a bold demeanor. Obviously, a new plan would have to be made on the spot. Fortunately, he excelled at thinking on his feet. "We're honored to find ourselves in your presence."

  She pursed thick, cherry red lips at him and narrowed her eyes with a cold coyness—if such a thing was possible. "It was you who destroyed my fighters in orbit, yes? I am told you have a powerful ship. Very potent weaponry."

  "I'm afraid that was due to an unfortunate misunderstanding—"

  "Do not misunderstand this, Earth Man: you will die." She stared at him with all three eyes, not one of them blinking. Her personnel froze in place. In the awkward silence, Quasar could hear his own stomach churning, and it was not a pleasant sound. "We all will die, someday," she said with an alluring smile, her eyelids dropping halfway. Seductively so. "It is a constant of the universe. Most do not know the day or the hour. But you, my dear captain, have a certain advantage over them."