Space Team: The Guns of Nana Joan

by Barry J. Hutchison

  “Welcome to the Currently Untitled,” Cal said, once he’d let the woman go. “Our brand new, state-of-the-art experimental prototype ship. Please, don’t touch anything, because we don’t know what ninety-percent of this stuff does, and there’s a good chance you’ll kill us all.”

  Junta lowered his head in a bow of respect. “We appreciate your intervention,” he intoned. “Without it, we would surely now both be dead.”

  “Hey, any time. We were in the neighborhood… What are friends for, right?” said Cal.

  Junta’s shiny black eyes became dull, as if a cloud had passed behind them. “If only you had arrived a few moments earlier. Perhaps you would have been in time to save my crew.” He swallowed. His voice, when it emerged, was as rough as sandpaper. “My daughter.”

  “Your daughter?” said Cal, thinking back to his and Junta’s first face-to-face encounter. “You mean Angry Testicles-Headbutt Girl? Oh, yeah...”

  Cal tapped a button on the door directly across the corridor. It slid aside, revealing the kitchen area. Nine Symmorium stood by the food replicator machine, sniffing curiously at plates of banoffee pie.

  “About that.”

  Tyrra looked up from her plate. Her already wide eyes almost doubled in size, then she raced for Junta’s arms as he threw them open. Father and daughter collided, squashing the banana-based dessert between them as they hugged and rubbed their snouts together.

  “Well,” Cal muttered. “That was a waste of a perfectly good pie.”

  He watched a tear roll down the side of Junta’s face. “But, meh, I guess I can let it go, just this one time.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Currently Untitled hadn’t been able to save Junta’s whole crew, but they’d put a sizeable dent in the death count, at least. Junta had greeted them all with considerably more stoicism than he had his daughter, but his relief at discovering they were alive – and their own relief at being alive – was as palpable as the aroma of toffee and banana that hung in the air.

  Cal sat at the long kitchen table, digging into his third slab of pie with a homemade spoon. He was quite proud of the spoon, having fashioned it himself using a piece of scrap metal, a lot of brute force, and several minutes of creative swearing. Admittedly, it had turned out that the piece of metal wasn’t actually scrap, and was, in fact, quite an important part of the life support systems. But, other than a somewhat alarming period of asphyxiation, there had been no real harm done.

  “Seriously, I can’t believe you guys don’t like this,” Cal said, masticating the sticky banana mush around in his mouth. He felt like he’d been chewing for quite some time now, and his jaw was feeling the burn. Still, there were four more pies on the table, and he was damned if they were going to go to waste.

  Some of the Symmorium crew had gone off to explore the ship, or to use the comm-system to update the folks back home about their run-in with Zertex. Only Junta, Tyrra, and Glorian had remained in the kitchen. They all watched in growing disbelief as Cal pushed aside an empty plate, thumped the heel of his hand against his chest a couple of times, then reached for the next slice of pie.

  They had been joined by Splurt, the shapeshifting green blob who, despite lacking the ability to speak or utter a sound, Cal now considered to be one of his best friends ever. Possibly the best, and certainly the most useful. Whether saving Cal from torture, killing a lot of bad guys in quick succession, or just generally looking fonking adorable, Splurt was Cal’s go-to ball of goo, every time.

  Splurt sat on the bench beside Cal, only his two bulbous eyeballs visible above the edge of the table as he watched the Symmorium in silence.

  “You have the eating habits of a gurslug,” said Tyrra, watching Cal shovel another spoonful of caramel into his mouth. “And a juvenile, at that.”

  “Tyrra!” Junta snapped, but Cal held up a hand.

  “It’s fine. It’s fine. Seriously. Kids, right?” He shrugged. “I mean, I don’t even know what a gurslug is, so I’m just going to go ahead and assume it’s something nice,” he said. “In my head, I’m picturing a baby panda, but with those, like… What are those things bugs have on their heads? Like fuzzy antennae. You know? Like pom-poms on little jiggly bits of wire. I’m picturing a baby panda rocking a couple of those. Only purple.”

  “It is a parasite,” said Tyrra. “Of the anus.”

  “Oh,” said Cal. He tried to picture this. “Well, I don’t see how that would fit up there at all.”

  “You would not notice a gurslug enter,” Tyrra told him, enjoying his reaction. “It would slip in while you slept. You would not become aware until its first acid emission.”

  Cal froze with the next piece of pie halfway to his mouth. He shifted on the bench. “Jesus.”

  He continued eating the pie.

  “Perhaps you have one inside you, even now.”

  Cal put down his spoon. “Look, I’m sorry I punched you in the face and made you cry last time.”

  “I didn’t cry,” Tyrra spat.

  “Well, OK, then I’m sorry I made droplets of salty water come from your eyes, then. Is that better?” Cal retorted. “To be fair, you had very recently headbutted me in the balls, and then almost broke my neck, so – even though I felt bad about it at the time…” He shot Junta a wary glance. “And, you know, obviously still do – you kind of had it coming.”

  “I have trained harder. I would best you now,” Tyrra told him.

  Cal shot her a patronizing smile. “Well, I’ve been given a wizard’s magical life force. So, no. You wouldn’t,” he said. “I mean, he wasn’t really a ‘wizard’ exactly, but the point still—”

  Tyrra lunged across the table. The next thing Cal knew, the tabletop was coming up fast. He barely managed to push the pie to safety before – WHUMP! – his face slammed into the metal. He grabbed for the wrist of the hand holding him, but her other hand caught three of his fingers and somehow managed to twist them all in opposite directions.

  “Yield!” Tyrra hissed.

  Cal raised the middle finger of his free hand. The girl’s teeth clamped around it, not tight enough to hurt, but tight enough to certainly imply that pain was a looming possibility.

  “OK, shizz, tap out. You got me. Uncle.”

  “Tyrra, that’s enough,” said Junta. “Let him go.”

  Her various grips were released. She smirked across the table at Cal as she lowered herself back onto the bench. Cal flexed his fingers and rubbed his forehead where it had met the tabletop. He shot Splurt an accusatory look.

  “So you just sat there and watched that, huh?” he said. “You didn’t think to intervene at all? I’m very disappointed.”

  Splurt sunk lower on the bench. Cal sighed. “But I still love ya.”

  Splurt straightened again. Cal turned to Tyrra. “Why do you always want to fight me, anyway? What have I ever done to you? Apart from punch you in the face, I mean, which – as we’ve already established – you totally had coming.”

  “It is probably just your face,” said Glorian. She wilted a little as everyone turned to look at her. “Or your personality. I just mean… I am sure it is nothing personal.”

  Cal raised his eyebrows. “Oh. Well that’s OK, then.” He stood up. “Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I think I’ll just pop next door and kill myself.”

  Junta cleared his throat. “We do appreciate it.”

  Cal blinked. “What, me killing myself? Jesus, what is wrong with you people? I mean, you try to help someone…”

  “Your intervention. We appreciate you getting involved in the conflict,” Junta clarified. “The Symmorium owe you a second great debt.”

  “Oh. Right. Yeah, well, you know, not a problem. Just happy to help.”

  “Your ship and your crew will be useful additions to our fleet.”

  Cal began to nod, then stopped. “Uh, yeah, about that. This was a one-time deal. We saw you in trouble, and decided to pitch in. We’ll take you home, but then we’re out of here. We all had a chat about it, a
nd it turns out – intergalactic war? Not really our thing.”

  “So, you are a coward, as well as an imbecile,” Tyrra grunted.

  “Jesus, what is with her?” Cal said. He held a hand up to Glorian. “And please don’t say my personality and face. Believe it or not, that doesn’t actually make me feel much better.”

  “Your smell, then, perhaps?” Glorian replied. From the way she said it, Cal could tell she was genuinely trying to be helpful. She just wasn’t very good at it.

  “What? I don’t…” He sniffed his armpit. “OK, maybe a little, but it has been a long day. Have you ever heard of the Spider-Dragon of Saktar? No. Well, I suggest you look it up. Splurt.”

  Splurt twanged quietly as he hopped onto Cal’s shoulder and draped himself around his neck. With a flourish, Cal tossed one of the blob’s dangling ends across the opposite shoulder, like a scarf.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go take a shower.”

  He picked up his spoon. “Oh, and Tyrra?”

  Cal flicked the spoon. A blob of banana whistled through the air, then splattered across the girl’s face. “You’ve got pie on you.”

  With a satisfied grin, Cal twirled the spoon like an old-west gunfighter twirling his six-shooter. He lost control of it almost immediately, and ducked for cover as it flew upwards, clattered against the ceiling, then dropped to the floor.

  Mustering the best ‘totally meant that’ air that he could, Cal bent down, retrieved the spoon, then strolled in what he hoped was quite a casual fashion out of the kitchen.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Cal stood in the shower, enjoying the heat blasting from its many nozzles. It was, hands down, the best shower he’d ever set foot in. It had all kinds of built-in bells and whistles, from ultra-violet pulse lighting to a streaming music service. The throbbing blue light, which was supposed to be relaxing, hurt his eyes, though, and the music all seemed to be trippy instrumental shizz played on some kind of space panpipes, which made him want to pull his teeth out.

  The joy of the shower wasn’t in its extras, but rather in the basics. Somehow, the shower knew exactly how hot he wanted it to be, what pressure he enjoyed, and precisely which crevices to aim for at any given time. The thing knew him better than he knew himself, and he’d spend his entire time in there alternating between getting clean and just giggling happily as another cascade of perfectly-targeted heat washed over him.

  More than even that, though, the shower was his own personal escape pod. It was the one place on the ship that he could be alone and undisturbed. At least, now that he and Miz had had that conversation about privacy and the purpose of door locks. It was a sanctuary. A haven. His Fortress of Solitude.

  “You missed a spot, sir.”

  Kevin’s voice chimed so close to Cal’s ear that he screamed and jumped, then slipped and fell. His bare ass-cheeks slapped against the wet floor.

  “Jesus fonking Christ, Kevin!” Cal yelped. He spluttered as the torrent of water rained down on his face. “What are you doing in here?”

  “I’m always in here, sir,” said Kevin.

  Cal sprackled himself into a standing position, trying – but not succeeding – to retain some semblance of dignity while doing so. He cupped his hands over his crotch. “What? What do you mean, you’re ‘always in here’? Not always, surely. I mean, you’re not here when I’m…?”

  “I am, sir.”

  Cal cleared his throat. “And what about when I’m…?”

  “Alas, sir, yes.”

  “Ooh, boy. From now on, you’re not allowed in here, OK?”

  “Oh, thank you, sir,” said Kevin, and the relief in his voice was palpable. “Before I take my leave, however, I have been asked to pass on a message from Ms Loren. We are approaching the Symmorium’s requested destination. We should be arriving any moment…”

  The ship lurched, slamming Cal face-first against the shower glass.

  “Now.”

  “Christ,” Cal hissed, rubbing his tongue across his bottom lip to test for blood. “Kevin, can you please handle landings from now on? And maybe take-offs?”

  “She won’t let me, sir,” Kevin replied. “I’ve asked. Believe me.”

  Cal sighed. “Fine. But next time, can you at least give me a little warning when we’re going to—”

  A jarring impact shook the ship. Cal flew backwards against the opposite wall of the shower, jamming the control knobs into his back.

  “Look out, sir,” said Kevin.

  “Ow! Fonk. A little late there, Kevin,” Cal grimaced. “What now? Should I brace myself? Is it going to happen again?”

  “We have now successfully alighted on the Symmorium landing bay deck, sir,” said Kevin. “I suspect even Ms Loren would have difficulty hitting anything now.” He paused, as his processors considered this. “However, I can’t guarantee it.”

  Cal rolled his shoulders, flexing his aching back. The water felt good against it. “OK, tell them I’ll be five minutes,” he said. “And get out of here. I’m going to… You know.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Kevin. “Enjoy.”

  “Oh, I will,” said Cal. He waited for a reply, but none came. “Kevin?”

  Silence. Cal smiled. “Alone at last,” he said.

  And then, safe in the knowledge that no-one was watching, he began to sing.

  * * *

  Cal strode down the ramp, his hair still damp, the greatest hits of The Bee Gees still replaying in his head. Loren, Mech, Miz and Splurt all waited for him, alongside Junta and two other Symmorium soldiers Cal didn’t recognize. Or didn’t recognize beyond, ‘hey, you guys all look like walking sharks,’ at least.

  All of them, with the exception of Splurt, looked to be varying levels of annoyed at him. He smiled, hoping it would offset their irritation, but fully aware it would likely only make things worse.

  “What kept you, man?” Mech demanded. “We been waiting here for forty fonking minutes.”

  “Oh now, Mech. I think we both know that’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t we?” said Cal.

  Loren shook her head. “It isn’t. I make it forty-two.”

  Cal pointed to her and winked. “Meaning of life.”

  “Huh?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I was in the shower,” he explained. He glanced at Mizette, fully expecting some kind of lewd comment, but was both relieved and a little disappointed when none came. She seemed to be watching Mech, instead, and barely paying him any attention at all. Ever since her and Mech’s spider-slaying team-up, Miz’s lustful fascination with Cal had shifted its focus to the cyborg, instead.

  And that suited Cal fine. Honestly. It was a weight off his shoulders, no doubt about it. He could walk past her in the ship without fear of molestation, and could turn round in his chair without knowing he’d find her staring at him, her tongue hanging out like a dog on a hot day.

  And yet…

  “Nice place you have here, Junta,” said Cal, stopping in front of the Symmorium commander.

  The landing bay looked like pretty much any other landing bay Cal had been on. He supposed they all performed the same function, and there was little point in trying to make them all different just for the sake of it, but a little bit of variation would have been nice.

  Metal walls? Check.

  Metal floor? Check

  Metal everything else? Check.

  It had the same enormously high ceiling, the same rows of clinically fluorescent lighting, the same shimmering energy wall through which things could fly, while air and gravity and all that stuff were miraculously kept inside.

  The Currently Untitled was one of six spacecraft parked in the landing bay. Cal had no idea what the other ships were, but their appearances ranged from ‘sleek and nimble’ to ‘this is the last thing you will ever see.’

  The more aggressive-looking ships had a pointy-teeth pattern painted on the side, giving them a shark-like appearance that matched that of their crew. When Cal had first seen the desig
n on Junta’s ship, he’d assumed that meant the Symmorium were the bad guys. It felt like the sort of thing the bad guys would do, he reasoned, like the Nazis with their little skull cap emblems.

  But, as Cal discovered, you couldn’t judge a species by the terrifying shark’s head motif on their spaceship. Although he remained confident his views on the Nazis were pretty much bang-on.

  Junta nodded. Or maybe bowed. He was kind of lacking in the neck department – or, more accurately, overabundant in the neck department to the point he appeared to move seamlessly from head to shoulders – and it made it difficult to tell.

  “Subsent Takta requests your presence,” Junta replied. “He wishes to thank you personally for your intervention.”

  Cal smiled and shook his head. “What? No. It’s fine. Seriously. He doesn’t need to thank us.”

  “He has ordered the kitchens to prepare a feast,” Junta continued.

  “Oh. Well, in that case…”

  He looked across to Mech. The cyborg shook his head, just a fraction. Loren looked much more open to the idea, while Miz hadn’t been paying enough attention to have formed an opinion. Splurt was hard to judge. The little guy was keeping his cards close to his chest.

  Also, he had no facial features, and his body language largely involved various types of shuddering, so he wasn’t easy to read at the best of times.

  Cal shrugged.

  “Sure, why not?”

  * * *

  To many people, a race of space-faring warrior shark-monsters might sound nightmarish, and Cal had been fairly alarmed when he’d seen them for the first time, himself. He’d recovered quickly, though, and discovered that despite outward appearances – and with the occasional child-sized exception – they were a pretty decent bunch.

  Cal reckoned, though, that Subsent Takta would give even other warrior shark-monsters nightmares. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the high-ranking military leader was the Symmorium’s cultural equivalent of the Bogeyman. He could imagine generations of terrified Symmorium children desperately trying to get to sleep before Takta came to take them away. If the rest of the species were sharks, this guy was a prehistoric Megalodon.