'You're not against me, are you Cadet? You always obeyed my orders on the Scavanger, a top prospect, that young man. Yes, things were better back then, top top prospect. Why I wish I was back on the Scavanger right now, we should show those Voravians a thing or two about respect, wouldn't we Cadet?'
Trigger was panic-stricken, he had no idea what to say to this raving mad man who was rambling at him with a frantic and frenzied smile playing across his feverish lips. Yes, he thought that covered it in terms of description, each word making him increasingly terrified. Franticly frenzied feverish raving ramblings were high on the list of things that he couldn't deal with. The shaking gun in the Captain's grip certainly didn't help matters either.
It was then that he caught sight of Smith, who was nodding his head at Annika for some reason. What were they doing back there?
'Well sir, it looks like we've got a bit of a...'
'Silence!' Darwin bellowed, his voice cracking. 'I did not ask for you to speak, pilot. I want to know what the Cadet thinks. Are you against me, Cadet?'
Hawkins gulped, but he never had to answer.
The movement was as lithe and graceful as it was deadly, the injection into Darwin's neck instantly incapacitating him. Annika grasped at the weapon as it fell from nerveless fingers, and then came the thud of the Captain hitting the floor plating.
Smith walked over, a smile upon his face as he bodily dragged Darwin from the cockpit. 'Prepare to drop out of hyperwarp RJ, we have a present for the Voravians.'
'Aye sir.' the pilot replied.
A minute later the manned escape pod shot off into space, back in the direction of the soon-to-be-pursuing Voravian vessel.
'You do realise that what you're doing is treasonous, sir?' Trigger asked, aghast at how easily they had rid the ship of its Captain.
'A regrettable loss to the Voravians, there was nothing we could do to stop them.' RJ replied with a wink.
'But who will Captain the ship now?' Trigger asked.
'Set course for Earth, Ensign. You'll soon find out.'
Chapter 32
Tibbums! Cows! Probe!
Mr. Terrance Stevens was not a complicated man. That is to say he knew his place in life and he stuck to it rigidly and without error. There was nothing remarkable or interesting about who he was or his day-to-day business at all. Until now.
It had been an entirely ordinary day, the songs on the gym radio had all blurred into one and he had been hit with the usual barrage of excuses from his various clients to further sustain their lack of progress under his continued urgings.
He was used to such behaviour from people with more money that sense, a constant revolving door of adamant nobodies attempting to convince themselves that this year would be the one where everything changed. In reality all it resulted in was his being the scapegoat for all their inevitable failings, none of which were ever disheartening to him personally as he could always tell whether the person really wanted to be there or not the minute they walked through the door.
He was making his way home now off the back of a particularly harsh tongue lashing from one of his soon-to-be-former clients and the cool night was like a balm as he cycled through the dimly-lit streets. He let the pedals take the brunt of his frustrations and the flowing air engulf and remove any remnant of his pent up anger.
The familiar sights flew by him as he pedalled harder, more out of eagerness to get back in time than anything else now. Mr. Tibbums would be waiting patiently at his doorstep, possibly with a little furry present between his jaws. The vegetables in the slow cooker would be just ready for the soup and the television awaited him after that.
It was a routine that had kept him strong for many a year, staving off the loneliness of living by himself all this time. It couldn't prepare him for what was about to happen.
He blinked at the light coming toward him, and veered away from it cautiously, slowing as he did so. Some kind of truck on the road perhaps? No... the headlights would have been visible by now.
It continued to approach and he cut the music he had been listening to, only to be greeted by the still silence of the night. Had the thing stalled its engine somehow?
Terry idled toward it and it continued to speed onward at a rate far too fast for any stalled vehicle, yet without any noise to indicate it was being powered. Maybe getting this close wasn't such a good idea.
Turning the bike, he decided to take a different route home. It was childish to be afraid of strange lights in the dark, but he was always a man to err on the side of caution and some primordial signal in the nape of his neck was urging him to avoid this.
He turned into a side street, trying to focus on the task at hand and not looking back to see if the light would pass him by. It was when the road ahead became illuminated that he knew he was being followed.
Pedalling furiously onward, he felt his limbs gripped by a fear born of pursuit and shot through the cool night, weaving through a series of alleyways and corners that led him home to safety.
The light followed.
Pushing himself faster than safety would dictate, Terry went crashing through a series of boxes and out into the open once again, increasing the pace and hoping to put some distance between himself and the light, which had somehow followed him through the narrow alleys in a way no vehicle could.
Everything went white, and then Terry knew no more.
Except that he did.
He awoke to a strange floating sensation, and tried to grasp at the sucking thing attached to his face in the panic of those regaining consciousness in a strange place.
His limbs refused to obey him, pinned out of sight and seemingly immobile.
'Ah Mr. Stevens, glad you could join us.' came a voice from what sounded like a speaker pressed to his ear. 'I do hope your accommodations are comfortable enough, this is merely a temporary circumstance we assure you.'
'Why am I here? What do you want from me?' asked Terry, stubbornly refusing to win the most surprising question of the year award.
'Mr. Stevens, we wish to ask you a series of questions regarding your employment at the gym.' came another voice, slightly higher than the previous one but utterly androgynous.
'Yes Mr. Stevens, that would interest us greatly.' concurred the first voice.
'Listen, guys. I was told it was perfectly legal to enhance performance outside of athletic competition. I would never recommend a product that would intentionally harm any of my clients, you know that! Honestly, if that's what this is about I'll swear off the stuff and cut all ties with Chile!'
A silence, followed by some uncomfortable coughing.
'Mr. Stevens, you are not here because of your use or misuse of substances. We simply wish to ask a few questions.'
'Well...er... that's okay then! Just forget I said anything about that then!' Terry replied, trying to wipe his forehead and remembering anew that he was trapped.
'You have a recent client going by the name of Phil Jones, it is he that we wish to discuss with you.'
Terry's mind was not the most gifted part of him, but even the slowest cogs can get up to speed once a machine starts running properly. 'Ah yes, Phil Jones! He came in about a month and a half ago and bought a membership at my advisement. Big man, very rotund but with a determination the likes of which I hadn't seen all year. He's made excellent progress so far for someone of his natural inclination. Big fan of the weight machines is Mr. Jones, will sit pumping away at them until the cows come home!'
This ringing endorsement of his latest client brought nothing but silence from his captors. Terry had no way of telling whether he was giving them what they wanted or talking himself into more trouble.
'He's a strange fellow. Keeps talking about being prepared for something but never specifying what it is he's getting prepared for. I like most of my clients to have a set goal in mind so it's good that he has that to work toward but he's very vague when I press him about things. Keeps saying that he needs to be ready when they come, is tha
t something to do with you lads?'
This time he got a response from the voices.
'We wish you to stop offering Mr. Jones your services, we are willing to buy out his contract at thrice its worth in order to have this happen.'
Terry gulped reflexively, was this some sort of gang that Phil had got involved with? He had seen enough mobster movies to know that he would be best taking this deal and keeping his mouth shut.
'That sounds like an amicable agreement.' he stated, wondering why he had used the word amicable. The pressure of this situation must have been getting to him.
'You will be returned to your flat and have no memory of this encounter. Your bank balance will be altered as per our agreement and your contract with Mr. Jones shall be henceforth terminated.'
He tried to nod at these agreeable-sounding words and found that he couldn't move his head. The sooner he got out of this strange tank the better, if accepting all their demands was what it took then so be it!
'You always have to use the mind probe, don't you?' the first voice said. Not knowing if it was addressed to him or not, Terry remained quiet until further coached into a response.
'The mind probe is a perfectly acceptable method of ensuring the client will not reveal any sensitive information regarding our operation.'
'He can't even see our operation, it doesn't matter what he remembers from this, nobody will believe him!'
'I still like to be absolutely certain that...' the voice faltered then. 'Can you see us, Mr. Stevens?'
Terry tried to shake his head vigorously to no effect, then informed the voice of his total blindness.
'Precisely!' the man crowed, 'and will you tell anyone of your encounter?'
'No sir! Not at all!' Terry replied, knowing when to agree with his captor.
'Well there you have it then, the man has given you his word and he clearly has no knowledge of our whereabouts or appearance. Why not just let him go instead of fixating on your mind probe business?'
Terry heard an audible sigh through the speakers. 'Very well then, if it'll stop you prattling at me with your nonsense we shall process him quickly and send him back to Earth.'
He wasn't on Earth? That was impossible. Were these aliens that had somehow abducted him? Terry's mind would have spun out of control given all the endless possibilities that this simple statement had opened up to him, but fortunately for him he wasn't imaginative enough to consider more than the above.
'Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Stevens. We shall transport you back from whence you came this instant.'
Before Terry could say a word, the world went white again.
He felt a familiar rubbing sensation across his thighs. Mr. Tibbums was most insistent in his protestations with regards to the distinct lack of feline-based nourishment available to him. Rising from the couch he attended to that as he began to get his thoughts in order.
It hadn't been a dream, because he certainly couldn't recall letting himself and the cat into the house. There was a distinct gap between his encounter and his arrival in the flat that he simply could not account for. He also had no recollection of returning to the flat by more conventional means and then passing out on the couch.
No, this had all been very real.
He chewed on some relatively fresh carrot sticks and pondered over his next move. He suspected that obeying the men would be the simplest and most pain-free way of dealing with his previous excursion. If they could sweep him up as easily as before at a whim then they undoubtedly had ways of monitoring his activity.
Yes, that would have been for the best, most definitely. Only he couldn't shake the image of the steely determination he had seen in the eyes of Phil Jones. The man's incessant need to be ready for something, without ever telling him what. Were his attempts more than a last gasp effort at becoming fit? Was there an even greater story behind his every moment? Did Terry have any business uncovering it if there was?
He tried to brush it off, staring at the clock and realising he was a good twenty minutes late for the soaps. The thought kept jabbing him, willing him away from the controller and forcing him to challenge what he had experienced.
It had been wrong, what those men had done, to pluck him off his bike and whisk him away to somewhere as their captive. Their intentions seemed less than pure regarding Phil and Terry knew he may be the only warning that the man got.
Mr. Tibbums voiced his own concerns, expressing disbelief at the lack of fleshy radiator to accompany him on his journey to the sofa. For once, Terry wasn't listening to him.
He couldn't leave this man to face whatever crazy plan these men had in store for him. He couldn't live with himself if he did that, especially after all the effort and devotion Phil had shown in being ready for what could be this very moment.
Shaking his head in disbelief at his own actions, Terry picked up the phone and dialled Phil's number.
One way or another, the man deserved to know that something was about to happen.
Mr. Tibbums was positively unimpressed at this resolve, and proceeded to give himself a good clean between glares at his servant.
Chapter 33
Pyramid! Mexico! Vangelis!
Another piercing of cool rays greeted Phil's eyes, informing them of the dawning of a new day.
He stared up at the ceiling briefly and then smiled at his alarm clock before shutting it off, he was dead on time once again.
Rising to a sitting position from his current state proved impossible, as various muscles he had forgotten he possessed groaned in sharp protestation. Instead he managed an undignified roll across the mattress and onto the immaculate floor, from which point he righted himself and cursed his own drive.
It felt good though, he had to admit. Every day had been a struggle and each night proceeding it he had woken in agony, fiercely regretting his decision to empty his larder and fridge of anything he'd previously considered food. The pain had lessened over time and the burning desire within him to be prepared for his crew was now coupled with a burning of the fleshy form he was encased in.
When he had faced the Voravians it had been with the help of an incomprehensible other in the form of a pink glove. He had no doubts in his mind that without this aid he would have perished in short order and now that he was without it he was very much on his own.
He had come to terms with his amazing journey and the effect it had upon him, the life or death experiences had extracted him from a rut he hadn't realised he was in.
He stared at the key chain for a moment, eyeing the ship attached to it and reinforcing that which he already knew. He grasped the keys, pulling them closer as he rose. The journey wasn't over yet, and when it picked him up once more he would be ready for it.
Initially he had tried to sink back into old habits as a means of recovering from all he had been through, but when you had commanded a starship through exploding Voravian vessels and survived legions of their death squads hunting you down in their mother ship there wasn't much excitement to be had from killing pixellated wolves.
No, gone were the lazy pleasures of the past and in their place was the joy of slowly preparing himself for the voyage to come.
A ringing sound from his house phone cut his thoughts off, he crept over to it with some suspicion, given that this was the first time in months that anyone had called him without being prompted to first.
'A-hoy-hoy?' he spoke cautiously into the receiver, listening to the faint background of a dozen chattering voices.
'Mr. Phil Jones?' came the strangely-accented voice.
'Who is this speaking?'
'I am Guy from your ISP. It turns out your complaint was correct, we were able to fix the problem and have credited you free service with our compliments.'
The line went dead.
'Hello?' Phil said stupidly into the clearly dead line. 'Hello?'
The line remained dead in spite of Phil's cajoling efforts to make it otherwise.
On the third attempt of asking
he managed to mash the redial button, only to receive a series of strange tones and an automated female voice.
'The number you have dialled does not exist, please put down the phone.'
Phil complied, not wishing to upset the automated voice.
It was a most odd occurrence, given that he couldn't recall making a complaint in the first place. Then again, who was he to complain about a mix up that resulted in free broadband?
He mulled over it further, noting that Guy was a very unoriginal name and that he hadn't mentioned the name of the ISP he represented. And since when did a phone tell you to put it down? They were getting awfully pushy these days!
Chalking it up to another oddity of life, Phil proceeded to struggle into his tracksuit bottoms and trainers in preparation for his morning walk.
The phone interrupted him once more. This time he was a bit swifter in picking it up, realising that lightning didn't often strike twice.
'A-hoy-hoy?'
'Mr. Jones, this is... Raymond, yes. Raymond from Pixelbitch Studios. I'm just calling to inform you that your account was hacked by Russian mobsters!'
'Oh no!' Phil cried, secretly thinking that the mobsters were pretty desperate if they were after his character.
'Yes, a tragedy. Fortunately we were able to recover your account and have credited you with a free Power User subscription to make up for all the lost hours playing time.'
'Well actually, I haven't been playing that mu...'
'Thank you for your time Mr. Jones, happy gaming!'
The phone line went dead again, this time without inquiry from Phil.
How odd. There now seemed to be a definite causal link between his getting calls and his acquiring free stuff. A man could get used to this whole phone business.
Phil straightened up and prepared to head off for his walk, navigating his now clean and surprisingly spacious room with ease. He had no idea he possessed this much carpet, or how he had managed to move at all without it.
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