"Seize him!" She ordered her soldiers into the arena.
"Wait a minute!" Quasar spit hair out of his mouth. The feline sulked in a corner, keeping its distance now. "Your Highness, perhaps we can reach an agreement."
"I do not see how," the queen said in disgust. "To think I ever considered you worthy of bearing my young."
Quasar cleared his throat. "Starving villagers tend to overthrow their monarchs. I can keep that from happening. If you let me go."
She contemplated his offer. "You will exterminate the vermin for me?"
"What? No. I'll feed them."
"How virtuous of you, Earth Man. Oh, very well." She sighed, nodding to her soldiers. They tossed Quasar headlong outside the arena gates.
Rolling in the dust, he activated the communication device in his collar.
"Captain, you're still alive," observed Commander Wan.
"Send down a transport pod filled with protein packs. Set coordinates for the village."
A thunderous rumble reverberated the ground beneath him. He reeled to find he hadn't been the only one banished from the arena. The giant kitty purred, eyeing him with keen interest.
"On second thought," Quasar said. "Set coordinates for right here."
The Pestiferous Pirates of Narvana 6
There was no middle ground—only do or die. And for Captain Bartholomew Quasar, it was never a good day to die.
"Orders, sir?" Chief of security Gruber stood back to back with the captain, faced by a gang of grubby, lizard-like Xenodian space pirates in an equally grimy bar. Most of the regulars had cleared out at the first signs of trouble, but the rest, numbering close to a dozen, had surrounded the two humans and slowly closed in like a serpent constricting around its prey.
"We fight." Quasar's fists rotated in a classic boxer's stance.
Gruber did his best to match the confident posturing. "Right." He swallowed, eyeing the alien buccaneer closest to him. An old Incinerator burn had left the swarthy green fellow with only half a head and one eye, but he carried twice the muscle mass of Quasar and Gruber combined. "Shouldn't we notify the ship, sir?"
"And have Commander Wan spoil our fun? I don't think so." Quasar's first officer was a stickler when it came to inter-species relations, always siding with the United World Space Command's strict noninterference regulations. Engaging these unsightly privateers in a boisterous round of fisticuffs would not earn Wan's favor.
"No way a human could win at Terillian Dize," growled Half-Head, the leader of the pack. "Your minds aren't equipped to handle the variables."
In any other situation, Quasar would have argued that he was indeed well-equipped; but since he intended to bash in what remained of this brute's head, he let the comment slide.
"Is he insinuating you cheated, Captain?" Gruber glanced over his shoulder.
Quasar narrowed his gaze. "I believe so."
"Did you?"
"The game is simple enough for a child." He raised his chin, liking the effect his words had on the seething, glowering pirate. "A child without a brain, no less. Abandoned by its parents and raised in the wilderness by Xenodian hornbeasts."
As if on cue, all ten of the aliens growled and drew their jagged blades, each unique in its vicious homemade design.
"Uh..." Quasar's fists froze in midair.
"Looks like we brought our knuckles to a knife fight," Gruber whispered.
The sordid degenerates chuckled, chortled, and guffawed—all but one, who sounded more like a large cat coughing up an extra-large hairball.
"I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding," Quasar said. "We were planning on hand-to-hand combat. As you can plainly see, we're unarmed."
Gruber nodded, glancing at the flickering neon sign on the wall above the batwing entrance doors: NO FIREARMS OF ANY KIND. Begrudgingly, he and the captain had handed over their pulse pistols to the bartender upon arrival, to be returned when they departed from the only establishment on this desolate moon.
"You don't see a gun in my hand, do you?" The pirate chuckled. "If I had my Incinerator, your shoulders would be lamenting the loss of your sweet little head right now."
"I see." Disappointment sank heavily into Captain Quasar's gut. Not only was this uncouth buccaneer devoid of honor, but it was starting to look like there would be no rip-roaring bar fight after all—at least not the kind he had envisioned, with fists flying and tables flipping as he and Gruber bested their foul foes in spite of the odds.
"Of course, if you'd rather turn tail and run, be my guest. But we'll let it be known far and wide that you Earthmen are nothing but cowards."
Quasar uncurled one of his fingers to point at the data cube in the pirate's grasp. "I won that fairly, despite your attempt to besmirch my sportsmanship. But it appears I'll have to take it from you."
"You can try." The alien snorted.
Quasar stood with every muscle at attention, straining against the seams of his uniform. "Then let it be a match between you and me. There is no need to involve our subordinates."
"Thanks, Captain," Gruber said with relief, returning to his table and neglected drink.
Half-Head laughed out loud. "That won't do, Human. My subordinates anticipate skinning you alive—after we beat you to bloody pulps."
Sometimes Quasar truly hated his collar's translation device. It didn't decipher alien speech word for word, but it always carried the speaker's full intent.
"Sorry to disappoint you." Quasar gestured sharply for Gruber to rejoin him. The chief downed his glass with cheeks bulging and jogged back. "But I must insist that you put your daggers away."
Without a signal of any kind, the gruesome band charged, growling with fangs flashing. Captain Quasar and Chief Gruber threw powerful punches and kicks, landing more blows than not, twisting and ducking to avoid the jagged blades and gnarled fists. Tables and chairs flipped across the floor. Blood sprayed into the air. The two humans held their ground, outmatched but valiant.
So engrossed were they in the battle that no one noticed the tall woman in uniform enter through the batwing doors and survey the scene. Then she drew her sidearm and fired a burst of energy that flooded the room. The combatants dropped limply to the floor.
Holstering her weapon, Commander Wan stepped over the bodies until she reached the captain, sprawled out with his uniform slashed and gory. She pinched the side of his neck.
"Wan." He sat up, wiping blood from his nose across his sleeve. "I don't recall summoning you."
"You didn't, sir."
Quasar leaned on his first officer as she helped him to his feet. Reaching down, he tugged the data cube from Half-Head's grasp. As an afterthought, he grabbed hold of Gruber and slung the chief over one shoulder.
"Did you enjoy yourself?" Wan raised an eyebrow at Quasar's wounds.
He glanced at the data cube—containing the coordinates to a planet rich in precious quartz deposits—then at the bodies strewn about. "Mission accomplished, Number Wan. Never let it be said that Captain Bartholomew Quasar runs from a fight!"
Half-Head snarled as he came to.
Quasar limped out of the bar as fast as he could.
The Momentous First Date
Bartholomew Quasar never looked as good as he did in his full dress uniform. And he wasn't the only one who thought so. Many a female in the quadrant—human and otherwise—happened to be of the same opinion.
"I hear this Princess Ularia is quite a looker." Quasar adjusted his burgundy tunic and gold sash as he leaned against his deluxe-model captain's chair. "How long has it been since my last hot date, Hank ol' buddy?"
"Uh…" Hank—a very hairy, four-armed Carpethrian who served as helmsman of the Effervescent Magnitude—half-turned from his post on the bridge. "Technically, sir, this is a negotiation."
"Don't I know it." Quasar winked.
Hank grunted, returning to his console where all four of his hands moved simultaneously, adjusting the star cruiser's trajectory through a treacherous interplanetary mine field
.
"Thanks for coming along, by the way."
"Did I have a choice, Captain?"
Quasar laughed. "No one else could possibly navigate the Vyperian Death Hurdles like you!"
"There's no one else on board," Hank muttered into his fur.
"Figured they could use some shore leave. Besides, suicide missions are always optional on my ship. Careful!" Quasar gripped the side of his chair as Hank careened the Magnitude around an asteroid-sized mine rotating their way with wild abandon. "Nicely done."
"Humph," Hank grunted.
A few near-collisions later, the Effervescent Magnitude reached the Vyperian home world, a desert planet inhabited by sleek, snake-like humanoids with a penchant for Earth antiques—Victorian timepieces, in particular. There was nothing a Vyperian liked more than a shiny pocket watch on an equally shiny gold chain. They simply adored the sound of time passing.
"We're being hailed, Captain," Hank said.
"I should expect so." Quasar practiced his most dashing smile and smoothed back his close-cropped blond hair. Contrary to form, a strand or two had sprung loose whilst traversing the mine field. "On screen."
Hank nodded and tapped the command on his display.
"You have successfully navigated the Death Hurdles," said the Vyperian on the main viewscreen, bigger than life and more seductive than Quasar could have imagined. Gorgeous, heavy-lidded eyes stared back at him. "You have our attention."
"I hope to have more than that, Your Highness." Quasar struck a very debonair pose. He liked to think of it as the Consummate Casanova. "Lots more."
The Vyperian's beautifully smooth-yet-scaly face remained expressionless.
"Hank, is the translator functioning?" Quasar hissed between his teeth.
The Vyperian hissed as well, slender tongue flicking outward briefly. "Her Highness, the Princess Ularia, was not expecting you to arrive in one piece. She assumed you would perish in the Hurdles. I am Count Slongur. I will conduct our negotiations in her stead."
"Right." Quasar's expression faltered. Not the princess. He cleared his throat. "Allow me to ready a transport pod, and I'll be right down—"
"With your permission, I will come aboard your ship."
"Very well." Quasar straightened his shoulders. "We're a little short-staffed at the moment, but I'll be sure to have a cargo bay ready to receive your shuttle."
"No need." Slongur suddenly materialized before Captain Quasar on the bridge of the Effervescent Magnitude. Yet he also remained on the viewscreen, watching them with large, unblinking eyes.
Quasar remembered to close his mouth, since he could think of nothing coherent to say.
"What is that?" Count Slongur on the bridge glared at Hank.
"Uh-he's my helmsman. A Carpethrian—"
"We are unfamiliar with the species," said Count Slongur on the viewscreen.
"Great bunch, really. They outfitted my vessel with a near-lightspeed cold fusion reactor a while back. More trouble than it was worth, but—" Quasar realized he was babbling. "So you're here. And you're there." He glanced up at the screen. "How the heck did you pull that off?"
"Skin shedding. Obviously not a technology you are familiar with."
"I see…" Quasar said absently, strumming his clean-shaven chin. "Well, I know you folks are fond of clocks, so let me show you what I have in storage, and we can discuss a fair trade. From what I've heard, your planet is rich in premium quartz deposits, and folks back on Earth have unfortunately depleted all of—"
"We have already taken your timepieces, Earth Man."
"How's that?"
"Uh—Captain—" Hank scowled at the display on his console. "He's not the only Vyperian on board. Well, he is, but… You'd better take a look."
Quasar did so, and the situation remained just as confusing. "How many of you are there? How's it even possible—clones?"
"Skin shedding," Slongur repeated tolerantly. "In return for the ancient timepieces from your planet—many of which are to our liking—we will allow you to leave our space. If you can safely navigate your way out of the Hurdles, you will be rewarded with your lives."
With a curt nod, Count Slongur vanished from the bridge, the screen, and everywhere else aboard the Magnitude.
Quasar's shoulders sank. "I got dressed up for that? Our first contact with this exotic species, and we end up with squat."
"Maybe not, sir." Hank pointed at the viewscreen where a different gorgeous Vyperian watched the captain intently.
"The rumors are true. You are indeed quite handsome… for a human. And you have proven yourself to be worthy of our good graces. Bring us more of your timepieces, Captain, and we will negotiate terms for the superior-grade quartz dust you require. You and I alone."
Quasar raised an eyebrow. "Princess Ularia, I presume?"
"But of course." Her slender tongue made a brief appearance as her golden eyes gleamed hungrily.
"You—uh… have yourself a date, Your Highness." Quasar cleared his throat as the screen returned to an orbital view of the planet. "You heard the lady, Hank. Just a couple more trips through that terrifying mine field, and we'll be well on our way to forging a fabulous working relationship with this reclusive race of snake-people."
"If we survive," the Carpethrian muttered.
"I'd say we're in good hands." Quasar winked. "All four of them."
The Bandits on Consortium Moon Prime
Bartholomew Quasar cringed as an Incinerator beam took off the top of the boulder he crouched behind. Cody 52 pulse pistol at the ready, he blinked back perspiration and scowled beneath the desert moon's scorching twin suns.
"I can barely get a shot in edgewise." Quasar aimed and fired a split-second before two blasts showered him with dust. "Not very sportsmanlike."
"Bandits seldom play fair, sir." Hank—the captain's very hairy, four-armed Carpethrian helmsman—stood with a stunner in each hand. His fur clung matted with perspiration to his flabby belly.
Quasar moved quickly, firing two pulse rounds before a barrage of Incinerator beams sent him diving for cover. A hoarse cry let him know he'd hit one of his targets.
"Score one for the good guys, Hank ol' buddy."
"Humph," Hank grunted.
"Are you sorry I brought you along on this little excursion?"
"Doesn't Commander Wan usually accompany—?"
"New protocols from Space Command, I'm afraid. Our first officer is now required to remain on board the Magnitude whenever I go down to the surface of a potentially hostile planet. Just in case things end badly."
"Didn't realize this was a suicide mission."
Quasar chuckled. "I do enjoy your pithy wit."
The barrage ceased. As Quasar moved to take advantage of the lull, a gravelly voice called out, "Earth Man, we have you surrounded. If you don't plan on dying today, I suggest you throw down your weapon and—"
"Not happening!"
"Allow me to finish, you egotistical buffoon."
Quasar's mouth worked mutely.
"Drop your gun, Earth Man, and step out into the open. We'll try settling matters like civilized folk."
"There's only one thing to be settled here, Desert Moon Man," Quasar boomed in his most authoritative tone—one he reserved for ordering ensigns to swab the decks (even though robots existed for such tasks). "Stop shooting and allow us to board our transport pod. Then we'll be on our way."
The distant voice chuckled drily. "Well now, you megalomaniacal ass, allow me to set you straight. First off, I ain't no man. Been a woman all my life and damned proud of it. Second, there's no way you're leaving this moon in possession of those mining rights."
A slow smile spread across Quasar's chiseled features, and he gave Hank a knowing look. "Leave this to me."
He pointed his Cody 52 Special at the aubergine sky and stepped out into the open. Immediately, the situation became clear. While he and Hank weren't technically surrounded, they were outnumbered ten to one by scruffy-looking desert people in tatter
s and sand goggles, wielding charged Incinerators.
"Thought I said to drop your weapon." The leader of the pack was human, and while her gruff voice could have easily been mistaken for a middle-aged man's, she was quite an attractive example of what exercise and proper diet promised for the lithe fifty-year-old.
"This gun doesn't have a scratch on it. I'd like it to stay that way."
"Worry about yourself. You don't have any scratches either."
"Thanks for noticing." Quasar's dashing smile caught the suns' light, blinding the scroungy desert people closest to him.
"The data cube. Toss it." The woman's aim drifted down the captain's torso. As did her gaze. "Assuming you have it on you. Those bulges in your uniform—"
"All muscle." Quasar winked.
"You flirting with me?"
"Yes."
She chuckled. "I suppose you're kind of cute—for a space jock. Long as I get what I want, I see no need for bloodshed."
Quasar set his jaw. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Desert Moon Woman."
"Name's Chad."
"Uh..." Quasar cleared his throat and struck his most favorite pose: the Confident Starfarer. "Well, I'm Captain Bartholomew Quasar of the Effervescent Magnitude—"
"Fancy."
"Oh it is, I assure you. We're currently on a mission sanctioned by the United World Space Command to explore new worlds and locate large quartz deposits. The stuff fuels just about everything back on Earth—"
"Didn't ask for storytime, Captain. Just the data cube with those mineral rights. You won't be getting quartz or anything else from this moon."
"But we met with the mining consortium earlier today, and they granted us—"
"Next time, work with the real folks in charge. That'd be us, by the way." She chuckled. "C'mon out, Hairy, and we won't kill your captain."
Hank appeared, unarmed.
"Hand it over," Chad said.
Quasar nodded to the Carpethrian. "We'll do our business elsewhere, Hank. Someplace the local mob doesn't run rampant."
Starfaring Adventures Page 4
