Then nothing.
He opened his eyes and saw only stars, with a larger one glowing brighter than the others, in the center of his field of view, like some far-off homing beacon, urging them on.
Kirk looked out to the front and side and saw that of the four claws they started with, only one seemed likely to be functional. Even then, he wasn’t certain. Two had been completely sheared of, while the third was mangled beyond repair. Looking back, he could see that they had ripped a large ragged hole in one of the loading bay doors. Despite the situation, he had to smile. Lu was back on form.
A small orange light began to flash on the dashboard.
“Get that, will you?” Lu asked.
Kirk hit the button below the light.
“Special Agent Pillah,” said the voice of Shé’vah. “Our sensors indicate that the String freighter is at critical mass. You will not reach it before it creates and enters the breech. I recommend that you turn around and return at once. I assure you, we sympathize with your situation, and will take no actions against you for the damage you have inflicted to the Citadel.”
Kirk looked back again, and with a little distance he began to understand just what the superstructure was.
“They connected all their ships into one giant one,” he murmured. “They joined them all and made a floating world that they could move and keep hidden from unsuspecting eyes.”
“That was why Sarge had so much trouble accessing their mainframe, realized Lu. “It really was a bunch of different machines all working together. But for now, we have bigger problems.”
Kirk turned and was surprised to see that what he had thought was a star was in actual fact a large ball of energy that was floating behind a large space freighter.
As they closed in on the freighter, Kirk was reminded of large, blood-swollen ticks he’d seen on dogs. The main part of the hull was a rough half-dome, with several large outcroppings resulting in a look that made him wonder if space-freighters could get acne. He vaguely remembered something from a book he had read: In a vacuum, there was no need for aerodynamic design as there was no air resistance. The designer of this freighter had obviously taken this concept to the nth degree.
Sticking out from the circular base of the main fuselage were ten long pylons, each twice as long as the rest of the ship they were connected to. On the end of each pylon was what appeared to be a large hook that aimed inward. From the tip of each hook crackled white hot energy which hurt to look at for any length of time, it was so bright. Raging like a small sun between the pylon tips was a ball of raw energy that even now was pulsing with a foreboding rhythm.
Suddenly the dashboard seemed to explode in flashing lights and warning alarms.
“What is it?” shouted Kirk, suddenly aware he was shaking and knowing it was only partly due to the loader.
“Shé’vah wasn’t bluffing. The stringer is about to open a breech. There’s no way we can get on board before she drops.”
“I recommend that we abort,” Sarge said, sounding a little uneasy himself.
“If we don’t pull out, we’re gonna get sucked down into the event horizon and crushed as the breech heals,” Casio shouted.
“Do something, Deighton, she’s gonna get us all killed!”
As Kirk watched, the topmost pylon seemed to lift away from the ball of energy. The ball of raw power tried to stretch and follow this, but soon snapped back, then seemed to expand as a whole slightly, before collapsing in on itself. The stars on the periphery of the ball of energy seemed to distort and stretch.
Where the bright pulsing ball had been only moments before, there now appeared to be a complete absence of anything at all.
As Kirk watched, the freighter began to distort and twist.
He was sure that if the ship was really experiencing such torque and tension it would shatter. But the stretching continued and slowly the ship sank into the blackness of the breech.
“Pull out!” screamed the F.R.B.’s in unison.
“Hold on,” shouted Lu.
The loader’s engines screamed in defiance at the limits Lu was pushing them, but the small ship sprang forward and sank down into the breech, distorting as it entered.
There was a loud crack as the breech healed and space returned to its normal dimensions.
Aboard the Citadel, the Council of Enon was closely studying the escaping loader on their sensors. As the breech snapped closed they let out a collective sigh.
“They will not survive being sucked into the event horizon,” Shé’vah said, a sad tone evident in her voice.
“But at least we are assured that our secret remains intact,” said Shé’lae.
“True,” said Shé’poh. “But I would have preferred they remain as our guests. Our people have seen enough death.” They all nodded in agreement.
“But we are still safe,” said Shé’lae. “And above all, that is the most important thing.”
Chapter Ten
The conversion process was going slowly. Too slowly. The Lord High Grand Provost of Prio glared with unconcealed hatred at Hg’Wlz. The Y’lem was still held in the detention cube, but the containment field that had been previously in place to restrain him from any possibility of escape had been added to. A large egg-shaped chrome machine had been wheeled into the room. Wires, tubes and framework jutted out and around the egg and were plugged directly into the containment field control panel.
The egg hummed softly and occasionally one of the tubes would vibrate as if something a little too big was passing through it.
From the top of the egg protruded a small transmitter dish, and from this, a wispy arc of green tinged energy leapt raggedly across and hit the gelatinous surface of the Y’lem.
Close inspection would have revealed that in the very core of the blob there was a subtle, yet definite hint of green.
“Increase the power!” ordered the Provost.
“It is at maximum, my Lord,” whimpered the technician who was mothering the machine.
The Provost focused his full attention on the technician, who shrank away. “Then find a way to make the maximum more powerful,” the Provost whispered, his words hung heavy with an unspoken, but clear threat that failure, while certainly ending his career, would probably end his life as well.
“Yes, my Lord,” stammered the technician, who quickly began to busy himself tending the various tubes and wires around the egg.
The doors opened and in scurried the Lord High Prime Minister.
“My Lord, I have news. It is, I am afraid, mixed,” the Prime Minister glanced quickly at the Provost to see if he could glean any reaction to his initial words. There was no reaction at all.
“My spies have managed to determine who they sent.” Again, his eyes flicked across to the Provost.
“Is it her?” The Provost’s voice was more distant.
The Prime Minister swallowed hard.
“It is,” he said.
The moment hung heavy, and the silence of the room was only disturbed by the humming of the egg.
“Her mission?”
The Prime Minister winced slightly. “My spies have yet to resolve that to my satisfaction, but it would seem...”
“She is bringing the one. The one who will rescue me and bring your reign of tyranny to an end!” said the Y’lem. Strain showed in his voice, but only slightly.
The Provost gave his prisoner a long hard stare heavy with hate, anger and a trace of fear.
“Is this true?” the Provost asked his Prime Minister, still holding the Y’lem in his gaze.
“My suspicion is that this could well be the case,” said the Prime Minister.
The Provost rapped his long talons in a rhythmic manner on the arm of his chair, considering the options before him.
“And you
are sure that your first attempt to ambush them failed?” he asked.
“It seems so, my Lord. Those who failed in their duties have already been dealt with,” said the Prime Minister.
“I think the time for subtlety is passed. I want them dead, as quickly as possible. Send your best man to hunt them down and kill them both.”
“Both?” The Prime Minister sounded surprised.
“Is there a problem with your hearing Lord High Prime Minister?” It wasn’t a question, so much as a barely concealed threat.
“No!” exclaimed the Prime Minister. “I just thought that...”
“You thought what?” snapped the Provost, suddenly standing and towering over the Prime
Minister at his full height of eight feet.
“Even her?” the Prime Minister asked.
The Provost turned away. “Especially her!” he said. “And I want proof they are dead. I want their heads!”
The Prime Minister was visibly trembling, and the technician had taken a sudden interest in a part of his machine that offered the greatest amount of hardware between himself and the Provost.
Only the Y’lem did not seem surprised or frightened. Once again, in a strange faceless way, it seemed to be smiling. Almost mocking.
The Provost took several deep breaths and retook his seat. He turned to the Prime Minister and waited for his chief advisor to regain his composure.
“You said it was mixed news,” he began. “So far you have given me bad news and no news. I assume, for your own well being, that there is also good news?”
Again, the question phrased as a threat was not wasted on the Prime Minister. He bowed, taking the extra brief moments his gesture offered to collect himself.
“The need for an assassin to hunt them down may be an unnecessary one, my lord,” he said. “My spies have indicated that their central command has lost all contact with them. They were making a Hyper Luminal Jump to Sevres Prime, but something went wrong with the system and as far as my sources could ascertain, they reappeared in the middle of empty space. They were tracked for a while, and it was guessed that they were possible picked up by a passing ship, but ultimately they seem to have disappeared completely.”
“What do you mean, completely?” asked the
Provost.
“My sources say that the F.R.B. locator signals were weak, but detectable, and then suddenly they stopped. No signal at all. Not even a weak one.”
“And you believe that she…” The Provost glanced at his prisoner. “That they, are dead already?”
“It seems entirely possible, my lord,” the Prime Minister said. “If there was an error in processing their jump coordinates and they dropped back into space, then the F.R.B. units could sustain them for a short amount of time, but that would take a great deal from the unit’s power core, and might explain the weak signal, and when the F.R.B.’s power finally failed, they died.”
The Provost seemed to consider this then looked at the Y’lem.” Do you hear that?” he said to his prisoner. “Your savior? My bane? He is dead! Dead already! I will hear your request for mercy now, Y’lem. Do you beg for mercy?”
The Y’lem rippled slightly as a renewed arch of power hit him. He said nothing, but the sensation he was still smiling ate away at the Provost like nothing he had ever experienced before.
The Lord High Grand Provost of Prio stood suddenly, swept his cape dramatically behind him and marched out of the room.
“Prime Minister?” he said, not looking around or slowing. “Dispatch your best man to Sevres Prime. If you are right, I am sure we will be able to find something equally beneficial for him to do there, and if you are wrong, I want to be prepared. She shows the most annoying ability to survive and I am not convinced the danger is past.”
The Provost disappeared through the doors and as they slammed shut behind him, both the Prime Minister and the technician visibly sagged in relief.
The egg hummed on, and Hg’Wlz grew a little greener at his core, but the look of mild amusement could still be sensed.
Chapter Eleven
Officer Pobble had seen the worst the universe had to offer. He had stared into the steely hard eyes of murderers. Locked gazes with the most violent offenders from every corner of the galaxy and beyond. He had shown even the most hardened thieves his withering ‘Don’t mess with this bad-ass lawman’ glare, and while a holo-projection of this week’s ‘Most Wanted’ could show no expression beyond the one of barely contained hate, or startled indignance, that seemed to cover most mug shots, Officer Pobble knew they would be quaking if they saw it in person.
But security matters on the tiny spaceport of Titan were commonly very quiet. The worst he usually had to deal with was the disgruntled passenger who missed his Jump-time because of chamber maintenance and didn’t think he should wait another lunar rotation for a new Jump-time.
Like many in his line of work, and his level of advancement, determined more by years of service rather than any skill or talent for the work, Officer Pobble took great pride in his uniform. He polished one of the many buttons on his cuff until it sparkled under the iridescent lighting. He was the kind of person who felt that his uniform somehow defined his character. Out of it, he was simply a faceless body in the crowd. There was no doubt in the mind of anyone who met Officer Pobble, what his calling was. Equally apparent was that, at least by his own reckoning, the state of peace and law in the universe hung in the balance; dangling from his own calm and assured hand. It would be unfair to say that he was unappreciated in the ranks of the Titan security team. Pobble was so desperate to avoid actually apprehending criminals, and thus, placing himself in danger, he would do anything, including all the paperwork of all the officers on his watch. It worked out well. All those more suited to getting their hands dirty were free to do what they did best, and Pobble was content to maintain the smooth operation of the team from behind a desk. The added bonus was that no one actually on patrol worried about being partnered with Officer Pobble, nor where their partner was when they needed back up.
When the patrol brought in Plaach and Toast, he was excited beyond belief. This was it. His first contact with real criminals. This was where his real career as a lawman was going to start. Despite his hesitancy to actually catch criminals, he was sure he could handle them once they were detained, hopefully knocked unconscious, or better still, contained in a P.R.P. sphere. This was his big chance.
Technically Plaach and Toast were free to go now. With no one around to press formal charges, they could only be detained for one rotation of the moon around Saturn. They had been free for the past hour, but Officer Pobble was practicing his hard-ass routine, and he was going to let them out when he decided it was time.
Much to his annoyance, Plaach didn’t seem altogether concerned about staying in his cell, and since at present, his cell mate was in a gaseous form in a self-contained sphere, there was a noticeable lack of complaints coming from their cell.
Most annoying to Officer Pobble was that Plaach had asked about job opportunities in the Spaceport Security Service, making Officer Pobble promise to give him an application form when he got out.
But Officer Pobble knew that behind their silence was an insolent disregard for the order he protected daily. So he was going to wait until just before the next scheduled prisoners’ meal and only then would he let them go. That would teach them.
Of course, if two meals were sent up for the prisoners, then it would remiss of him to waste that food, and today was Kenturkee Fried Chicken day. His favorite.
Down the narrow corridor that lead away from the control center of the detention block, in a large, though much less comfortably furnished cell than Kirk had recently experienced, Plaach sat on a hard bunk and gently kicked the sphere that was Toast against the wall, where it would bounce back with a hollow dink, for him to kick it
again.
“Y’ know? as prison cells go, this isn’t that bad,” he said to the sphere.
The sphere responded with another hollow dink as it hit the wall.
“I was thinking that perhaps we could take this as a sign,” he said. “Maybe we could take this as a natural break in our thus far highly successful careers. What challenges are there left for us? They say the best poachers are gamekeepers, or something like that.” He looked expectantly at the sphere, but got no responses as it rolled back toward him from the wall.
“I always thought that was a pretty stupid idea m’self. I mean, even the other way around, if you make a poacher a gamekeeper, then you just know he’s going to look the other way while he’s poaching your game. And what kind of game is he poaching anyway? Is it like a card game? Or one of those that you like to play with dice where the object is to lose all our money as quickly as possible? And for that matter, how do you poach a dice? And why not fry it? You can’t go wrong frying pretty much everything.”
This whole line of reasoning seemed to hurt Plaach’s head and he lay back on his bunk.
The sphere, which was on its way back from another bounce rolled slowly under the bunk and, with a hollow dink, wedged there. Plaach lay quietly for a minute and then sat bolt upright.
“Do you smell that?” he asked the sphere enthusiastically, beginning to drool. “Smells like Kenturkee Fried Chicken!”
Just then the cell door slid open and Officer Pobble filled the doorway. He gave the prisoners what he felt was his most imposing glare, which briefly made Plaach consider that a career with the Spaceport Security Service might not be that great an idea if it made you as constipated as Office Pobble looked now. Then the smell of the chicken hit him again, and he reconsidered that if they provided meals, maybe it would be OK.
In his hand, Officer Pobble held a large round plate with a scooped out center. He threw it down on the floor.
“Put your partner on the Rehydro-Disc,” he ordered Plaach sternly.
Lost in the heady perfume of the special blend of spices and herbs, Plaach absently reached down, tore the bunk out of its housing and picked up the sphere, now covered in large balls of lint and an even coating of dust. He dropped it on the plate.
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