Hank reached into the folds of his sweaty belly and retrieved a crystal cube—as well as his four stunners. Before Quasar knew what was happening, the Carpethrian had started firing, whirling like a dervish and sending a shockwave of energy at Chad and her gunmen.
Quasar let out a whoop as the bandits slumped to the ground, unconscious. "Way to go, Hank! Expect the unexpected—that should be your motto."
"Humph." Hank tucked the cube and stunners safely into his fur flab. The path to the transport pod now lay unimpeded, and he trudged straight toward the small vessel.
"Yes, after you," Quasar said with a chuckle.
As Hank busied himself with the pod's preflight sequence, he cleared one of his twin throats. "Captain, do you really want to work with these people? Might be more trouble than it's worth."
"I think Chad was warming up to me." Quasar cooled himself in front of an air vent inside the cabin. "Regardless, the consortium's mining our quartz now, and we'll relocate those pesky bandits to another moon far, far away. That's the deal I struck with the miners, by the way." Quasar winked. "Now that I know what we're up against, I'll be sure to bring you next time. You're a real badass!"
Grumbling into his fur, Hank plotted a course, and the transport pod lifted off, leaving the blistering moon with a burst of dust and groans from the bandits as they came to.
"Call me," Chad mumbled with a grimy smirk.
The Deep Space Identity Crisis
"You ever wonder what we're doing out here?" Bartholomew Quasar paced the bridge of his sleek star cruiser, the Effervescent Magnitude, as it swept through the lonely black. The rest of the crew had already turned in for the night. Only Hank, the very hairy, four-armed Carpethrian helmsman, remained at his station.
"Are you referring to our mission, sir?" Hank grunted through his fur. "Or something else?"
"Discovery and acquisition seemed like such complementary terms when we left space dock. But now? Light years from Earth with all these dangers we encounter on a daily basis? It's not so clear-cut."
"What are you saying, Captain? We're no longer on mission?"
Quasar sighed, lips flapping. "Space Command wants us to make allies and bring tons of quartz dust back to Earth. It's business to them, and we're a means to an end. But how can I be the hero when so often I find myself completely out of my element?"
Hank cleared one of his twin throats, giving his voice an oddly harmonic quality. "You sound disenchanted, sir."
"That's it!" Quasar strummed his clean-shaven chin. "We've been through a lot together, ol' buddy."
"Yes. I know."
"No need to recap?"
"Not really necessary, sir."
"I suppose you're right. You were there, after all!" Quasar chuckled to himself. "What if we decide… To heck with Space Command? I mean, now that we have the cold fusion near-lightspeed reactor courtesy of your people—"
"Already knew about that, sir."
"—between time dilation and other sordid physics, centuries have already passed on Earth. My superiors are dead and long gone. Laboratory eggheads have probably devised a replacement for quartz dust to fuel Earth's technology. Meanwhile, we're still trekking the farthest reaches of the galaxy oblivious that our mission is no longer relevant!"
"Captain, are you suggesting—?"
"We'll plot our own course, Hank. Be the masters of our own destiny." Quasar clapped the Carpethrian on his superior left shoulder and pointed to the helm console's star chart. "That's where we'll go."
Hank wrinkled a bushy eyebrow. "Three light-years in the opposite direction, sir?"
"Yes!" Quasar grinned, giddy with delight. "We have absolutely no idea what we'll find out there. We'll be explorers!"
"Shouldn't we maybe wake up Commander Wan and—?"
"Best not to disturb any woman's beauty sleep, including my first officer's." He winked. "Just imagine: No more seeking out cantankerous alien life-forms—no offense—to negotiate with over mineral rights. No more obeying orders from ashes!" He winked. "See what I did there? Metaphor."
"Humph," Hank grunted, altering the ship's heading.
"We'll make our own path through the wilderness, if you will. Befriend all manner of alien species, both awful and amazing. Come to the aid of the needy. Rescue the downtrodden, teach the oppressor a thing or two."
"Uh-Captain?" Hank pointed as a bloated Goobalob toll-collecting vessel appeared on the main viewscreen.
"Ah, yes. Goobalobs. Speaking of awful." Quasar sighed. "Hail—"
"We're being hailed."
Quasar sniffed. "On screen then."
An oozing, gelatinous blob filled the viewscreen. "Earth man," it droned, its myriad eyes staring without much interest. "Either remove yourselves from Goobalob space or pay the requisite toll."
"Are you happy with your life, my lopsided friend?" Quasar peered up at the creature. "Goodness, you look exactly how I felt a moment ago. Before I put my life and my ship on a new course, that is!"
"Through our space."
"Apparently." Quasar cleared his throat. "Do you ever wonder what you're doing out here?"
"Enforcing the toll."
"Beyond that." Quasar swept a hand through the air. "Ever wish you could do more with your life? Break the shackles of the Goobalob High Command and go exploring?"
"Every quadrant of the galaxy has already been explored, Earth Man." The creature paused. "You are a little late to the party—as a species."
Quasar frowned. "So you're saying…there's no undiscovered sector out there waiting to be found?"
"Not that I am aware of."
"But that's the infernal point! What if it's really out there, but we're so mission-oriented that—"
"Will you pay the requisite toll?"
Quasar blinked. It was like talking to a wall. "Fine. How much do we owe?"
"For a vessel your size with a crew complement of 1,491—in addition to the Carpethrian…"
"Humph," said Hank.
"Two hundred million credits."
"That's absurd!" Quasar cried.
"You also have the option of returning to your original course, headed in the opposite direction. We will not enslave your crew as due recompense if you leave Goobalob space within three Earth seconds."
"Generous of you."
"I am feeling quite benevolent today."
Quasar cursed under his breath. "Do it," he ordered Hank. "They can keep their space. We'll find another sector more hospitable to wandering starfarers such as ourselves."
"Good luck with that, Earth Man," the Goobalob droned. "Perhaps you should return to your little blue planet. Space is a cold, dead place. Many have realized it far too late."
"Gloomy Glob," Quasar muttered, reaching toward Hank's console to end the transmission.
"I was like you once," added the Goobalob. "Full of vigor."
Somehow, Quasar couldn't imagine it.
"Reality can be as cold and unforgiving as the depths of space, Earth Man."
The viewscreen went dark.
"Upbeat fellow." Quasar glanced at Hank's console and noted they had resumed their previous course, headed for a nebula with planets rich in quartz deposits, by all accounts. "Oh well, it was worth a shot. Maybe someday we'll strike out on our own and find some terra incognita instead."
He patted Hank on the shoulder and shuffled off to his quarters with a yawn.
"Maybe we will, sir," Hank said.
Once Quasar left the bridge, Hank adjusted the ship's heading slightly, taking them off-course enough to miss the nebula entirely and instead reach Cielo 7—a planet the captain had never heard of, yet a place he would think was akin to the legendary Garden of Eden.
"Maybe even sooner than you think." Hank almost grinned.
The Most Insidious of Computer Viruses
Captain Quasar had a sneaking suspicion something was wrong with his star cruiser's main computer when it started playing ancient Earth show tunes. But he dismissed his concerns, telling himself
the system was probably running some sort of diagnostic and sorting through its sound files.
When the computer started posing strange queries—"Why is there a hairy ape at the helm?" "Who is that bumbling idiot in the captain's chair?"—Quasar knew something was definitely amiss.
So he turned to the ship's engineer, Bill.
"Definitely a virus, Captain. No doubt about it." Bill climbed out from under the computer's mainframe on the engineering deck and wiped both hands across his orange jumpsuit.
"Why is a janitor inspecting the ship's memory systems?" said the computer.
"Oh, I'm not a janitor anymore," Bill answered brightly. "The captain promoted me to chief engineer!"
Quasar bit his lip. "Right. About that. You see, Bill, we were short on engineers at the time, and—" He cleared his throat, folding his muscular arms. "What can be done about this? I'll not endanger my crew by gallivanting around the galaxy with an infected computer aboard my ship."
Bill nodded, staring at the captain expectantly.
"Keep me informed on your progress, Bill."
"Oh, that I will, Captain." Bill's carefree expression dimmed. "That is, once I figure out where the nasty thing has lodged itself. I'll do my best to quarantine and destroy it, but I can't promise it'll be pleasant. Other things may be infected. You know, life support, environmental systems, stuff like that."
"Are you saying this virus may be malevolent in nature? Designed to kill everyone aboard my vessel?"
"Why is the captain so melodramatic?" said the computer.
"Can we mute that?" Quasar ground his teeth.
"Sure thing." Bill dove under the mainframe. "Consider it done!" He slid back into view with a shrug. "Won't know for sure until it starts trying to kill us. Might be a good idea to have the transport pods ready, in case we need to abandon ship."
"Let's hope that won't be necessary."
As Captain Quasar strode out of engineering and walked the corridors of his gorgeous star cruiser, the Effervescent Magnitude, he kept a wary eye on the ceiling. That was where the monotonous voice of the ship's computer always made itself heard through aesthetically pleasing speakers mounted at regular intervals: INTRUDER ALERT, OXYGEN LEVELS AT THIRTY-TWO PERCENT, HULL BREACH ON DECK 12, that sort of thing. Never "Who is that bumbling idiot in the captain's chair?"
Quasar was not a bumbler, nor was he an idiot. He was a very smart man, truth be told—at least he had always assumed so. And what's more, he was a great starfaring hero who represented truth, justice, and the Space Command way to every corner of the quadrant.
Who could have infected the ship's computer with such a rude virus? Quasar paused a moment in the vacant corridor that hummed with energy. Power conduits lined both walls and set the air alive with charged particles. Dangerous to one's health after prolonged exposure, but the captain didn't intend to remain there long.
Time to count his enemies.
There were the Goobalob toll collectors, of course, the Arachnoid bounty hunters, the Xenodian pirates (not to mention a few other bands of stellar brigands), the formidable Amazonians, and the megalomaniacal Emperor Zhan. But when had any of those sordid characters gained access to the Magnitude's computer systems?
Perhaps it was an insidious, slow-acting virus, which the ship's computer had contracted months ago whilst dealing with any number of nefarious rogues. Or perhaps the threat was closer to home. Could a crew member have been responsible? Hard to imagine, but that would narrow down the list of suspects considerably. A mere fifty had access to the engineering deck.
Strumming his clean-shaven chin in thought, Quasar performed a crisp about-face and returned to Bill.
"Oh, hey there, Captain. I was just about to call you." Bill waved, leaning against the open mainframe door with a drink in hand. Break time already? "I managed to isolate the virus, and I may have figured out who installed it."
"Quick work. Well done." Quasar rubbed his hands together, popped his knuckles, and cracked his neck—but not all at once. "Who's the villainous culprit?"
"Me. I think. If you mean who installed the virus in the first place. Yep, guilty as charged—assuming you're going to charge me, that is."
Quasar's mouth hung open. Many words flailed through his mind, but none made an appearance.
"Funny, I didn't recognize it at first." Bill grinned goofily. "Guess it kind of…evolved."
"Let me get this straight. You designed a virus that would overwrite the ship's audio interface, causing it to ask inappropriate questions and play ancient Earth show tunes?"
"Brigadoon was pretty good, I thought. But no, I can't take credit for that. I just wanted to give the computer more personality, you know? I figured it has to get tired of saying the same old stuff all the time, like INTRUDER ALERT and AUTO DESTRUCT IN TEN SECONDS."
"I don't make a habit of initiating auto-destruct sequences, Bill."
"Only a matter of time. Every starship captain does eventually. Anyhow, I'm real sorry about this. I had no idea the program would take on a mind of its own—"
"Bill."
"Yes, Captain?"
"Delete your program. Ensure it has been eradicated from every computer ship-wide. And never, ever modify any computer system aboard this vessel without my authorization. Understood?"
The chief engineer's shoulders slumped. "Yes, sir. My bad."
"While we may have a use for your virus-writing abilities in the future—perhaps when dealing with one of our unsavory enemies—I would advise you to stick to engineering. Unless you preferred being a janitor?"
"No sir, Captain. That I did not." He leaned toward Quasar as he confided, "I could never locate the restrooms."
"That makes two of us." The captain winked as he turned to leave. "Carry on, Bill."
Captain Quasar vs. the Flashback
Captain Bartholomew Quasar did not believe in living in the past, and he abhorred flashbacks with a passion.
But finding him dangling from the edge of a cliff on a desolate moon—Arterion 789, to be precise—one has to wonder how he came to find himself in such a terrible predicament…
"Don't you dare!" He digs in with both hands, fingers grappling for purchase among the crumbling rocks.
How about a little exposition, then?
Grumbling curses, he adjusts his hold, boots swinging above a two hundred meter drop, and shouts,
"That's what got me here in the first place!"
Captain Quasar vs. the Computer
For days, the Effervescent Magnitude, star cruiser of the indomitable Captain Bartholomew Quasar, had been dead in the water, so to speak, with no systems functional.
Garbed in environmental suits, most of the crew had exhausted their O2 supply and were drifting off to sleep, never to awaken. Quasar punched the intercom on his deluxe-model captain's chair with what strength he still possessed and prepared to exhort all hands one last time—
Suddenly all systems, including life support, came back online. Quasar's console read: IMPROMPTU SURVIVAL TRAINING COMPLETE. WELL DONE!
The ship's computer could look forward to a complete reformatting.
Captain Quasar vs. the Tax Collector
The hideous alien on the viewscreen bared its white teeth in some sort of bizarre greeting ritual. "I am Captain Bartholomew Quasar of the Effervescent Magnitude," it said.
Gorthrexx the Goobalob Sector Twelve toll collector scowled with most of his eyes—and he had a myriad of them, located all over his gelatinous body. "Prepare to be boarded," he droned.
The alien blinked its measly pair. "I don't understand—"
"You have trespassed into our space and will be enslaved."
"Is there a second option?"
Gorthrexx sighed. "You pay the toll."
Captain Quasar checked his credit. His shoulders slumped. "Welcome aboard."
Captain Quasar vs. the Space Invaders
There would be no stopping them this time. Already the pirates had managed to breach the hull of the Efferve
scent Magnitude and phase-shift through walls and floors, straight to the engineering deck.
"They plan to cripple the ship at its core." Captain Bartholomew Quasar pensively chewed on his knuckles. Then he shouted, "Blow the reactor!"
"We'll never survive!" countered his first officer.
"Neither will they." Quasar struck a meaningful pose in his deluxe-model captain's chair. "Sometimes sacrifices must be made for the greater good."
"Whose good, sir? There's no one else out here."
"It's the principle of the thing, dammit!"
Captain Quasar vs. the Nap
The odorless gaseous intruder had managed to knock out everyone else on board the Effervescent Magnitude, even Hank the hairy Carpethrian. Only Captain Bartholomew Quasar remained immune to its debilitating effects. He'd felt a bit excluded at first but soon realized it was up to him to save the day.
"Right." He nodded in his deluxe-model captain's chair while his crew slept on the floor. "So…"
He drummed his fingers on the armrests and glanced around. Everybody looked so peaceful, some smiling, others snoring.
"Oh what the heck," he yawned.
The day could still be saved after a few winks.
The Runaway Train on Zeta Moon 3
In all his years as an intergalactic starfarer and awe-inspiring hero from Earth, Captain Bartholomew Quasar had experienced more than his share of fantastic, unique, and hard-to-classify situations, all of which he'd summarized dutifully in his log and ranked according to difficulty level. Yet nothing could compare to where he found himself on the Zeta 3 moon colony: atop a hyperspeed train filled with plasma explosives, rigged to blow as soon as it reached its unfortunate destination.
But unlike previous high-risk encounters, today Quasar did not face this perilous situation alone. When his pilot shuttled him down to the train in a transport pod, matching its speed kilometer for kilometer, and when Quasar climbed out into winds strong enough to blow the fur off a full-grown Carpethrian, his courageous ship's engineer stood right beside him.
Starfaring Adventures Page 5
