"Captain!" Commander Wan lurched forward.
"Stay back." The kid gave her a threatening look. "He's fine for now, don't you worry. He just can't move is all." His thumbs twitched, and Quasar shifted position, first standing on one leg, then on the other. Then he was hopping up and down. Next came jumping jacks. "What do you think?" Kaasjager laughed out loud. Cautious chuckles meandered through the townsfolk. "Funny, huh?"
Captain Quasar had never felt so humiliated in all his life. Here he was to save the day, yet he'd become this barely-bearded youth's plaything. Nothing but a marionette, for the galaxy's sake!
"Stop it." Wan's hand slid toward the stun-gun cased at her side.
"I wouldn't, lady. Not unless you care to join him," the kid sneered. "I can make any of you do whatever the hell I want!"
The captain dropped to the dust and started doing one-armed pushups. Truth be told, he was pleased by this opportunity to show off his upper body strength; but then again, he was being controlled by Kaasjager's device, so it wasn't really him doing the pushups at all. Disgusted by the whole situation, he attempted to communicate his ill temper but found he couldn't use his vocal chords any more than his own muscles. They'd all betrayed him.
"Let him speak," Wan said. "Please."
Kaasjager narrowed his eyes at her. "Very well. But only because you asked so nicely. And because you're kinda hot." His thumbs jiggled.
"—this stupid kid!" Quasar yelled, reaching the end of what he'd planned to be an internal monologue. He cleared his throat mid-pushup. "You've had your fun now, Kaasjager. No firearm of any type can stand against you, much less anyone with a discernible amount of muscle tissue. You've somehow managed to hijack the electric signals from my brain, is that it?"
The kid grinned in all his gap-toothed glory. "You get it! Nobody else on this podunk rock has a clue what I'm able to do."
"Uh-he's right about that," the governor added. "Honestly, Mr. Quasar. We didn't know he could do anything like this. I'm so very sorry—"
Kaasjager threw back his head with an abrupt laugh. "This is my big reveal, you idiot!"
"But you cannot be the only one on this moon with such power," the captain said, and from the corner of his eye he could see Commander Wan nodding in agreement. "It's absolute. And you know what they say about the corruptive influence of absolute power..."
Kaasjager squinted at Quasar. "Huh?"
"Give me the device, and you can go back to selling the sorts of things a gunsmith should be selling. No one else has to die here today."
"I've never killed nobody. And besides, you're in no position to make demands, mister!" The kid's speedy thumbs sent the captain into a series of cartwheels, somersaults, and handsprings, and the townsfolk cheered uproariously. It seemed this was the type of diversion that really held their attention. Kaasjager grinned, loving every moment of his time in the spotlight, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the screen and twitching as he created and executed brand-new commands right there on the spot like a techno-savvy genius.
Until he went down with a sharp yelp, and the gamepad skittered end over end into the dust. Released from its hold on him, Quasar collapsed to the ground like a wet noodle. He gasped for breath and looked up it time to see Commander Wan return her stun-gun to its holster without batting an eye.
"Something you learned on that vacation?" Quasar managed, struggling to his feet.
"Session 12 of the conference," she replied, watching as the governor scurried to claim Kaasjager's device while the rest of the townsfolk checked to see if the kid was dead. He wasn't. But they stole his boots and clothes anyhow—a quaint Ancient Western custom, by all appearances.
"They must have saved the best for last." Covered in moonpowder, Quasar slapped at his uniform. Dust billowed into the air all around him. "What did they call that maneuver, by the way?"
"Negotiation failure, sir."
Back on board the Effervescent Magnitude, all cleaned up and sporting a crisp new uniform, Captain Quasar reclined in his chair on the bridge and watched stars rush by the portholes in brilliant streaks of frosty white. Absently he toyed with his Cody 52 Special.
"A Gamer's revenge," he mused.
"Captain?" Hank half-turned from the helm, all four of his very hairy hands gliding across the blinking display as if with minds of their own.
Quasar looked pensive. "Back on Zeta Four. That kid was a direct descendent of the Great Gamers who left Earth during the First Exodus." He flexed one of his thumbs, nowhere near as limber as Kaasjager's. "How he ever ended up on that moon's a real mystery, though. Why would Gamers ship out with a crew of terraformers? And why would he be running an old gun shop, for the galaxy's sake?"
Hank shrugged his superior set of shoulders and returned to his console.
"Perhaps his great-grandparents' expertise was needed at the time," said Command Wan, appearing at the captain's elbow without warning. He would never admit it, but sometimes she really startled the heck out of him. "Before the actual terraforming could begin, they would have needed to run multiple batteries of virtual tests to ascertain whether the moon was suitable for colonization. A Gamer's technical abilities would have proven invaluable. It's in their DNA."
"And with such genetic expertise no longer required by later generations…?" Quasar raised an eyebrow.
She nodded. "Idle hands, Captain."
He blew out a sigh. "Well, at least that gamepad thingy is now in the capable hands of the governor, and it's good to know those dead bodies weren't dead after all." Apparently, Quasar had not been the first marionette at the mercy of Kaasjager's thumbs, and the kid's prior subjects had been reduced to vegetative states. And subsequently buried. "The governor assured me they'll be dug up toot-sweet and should be back to perfect health in no time."
Wan didn't seem convinced. "You're comfortable leaving such a powerful device with him? If he was ever to reverse-engineer it for broader applications—orbital offensives, for example—I shudder to think what a politician could do if left unchecked."
The captain shook his head. "His flabby thumbs are no threat. But if you're right, maybe when our travels bring us back this way, we may be asked to lend a hand yet again."
She nodded pensively. "Against the governor, you mean?"
Quasar shrugged. Then he drew his Cody 52 Special and spun it in three complete rotations before gripping it at the ready. "Guess that's just how it is when you're a gun for hire, eh Number Wan?"
A sudden pulse round erupted from the muzzle in a flash of blue light, blasting into the ceiling and fizzling to black. Cowering with short cries of alarm at the unexpected shot, the entire bridge crew stared, wide-eyed. Unbeknownst to them, many of the captain's muscles had yet to recover fully from his ordeal on the Zeta moon, and unfortunately for them, his trigger finger in particular was still suffering from unpredictable spastic episodes.
"As you were." With a dashing smile, Captain Quasar returned his weapon to its holster, and the Effervescent Magnitude forged on through the black, flying into the golden glow of a distant nebula.
The Popularity Contest on Goobalox Five
"Name," droned the myriad-eyed female Goobalob, wedged into an ergonomic chair designed for a humanoid half her girth.
"Captain Bartholomew Quasar." He put on his most dashing smile, but his brow wrinkled with uncertainty. The transparent plasticon barrier between him and the Goobalob official was smudged with unknown substances. Could she even see the irresistible radiance of his pearly whites?
"Quasar—is that your surname?"
"Uh-well, no—"
"Name," she repeated without a change in inflection, her oily tentacles hovering over the console that carved itself into her gelatinous midsection.
Captain Quasar leaned in close to the circular grillwork serving as a two-way intercom. "No one knows me by any other name. It would be unclear to the voters—"
"Contest rules, sir."
"Just give 'er your name, pal," grumbled a swarthy privateer i
n line behind Quasar. The fellow had a bruised, broken-but-badly-reset face and a mouthful of teeth stained various shades of brown due to chewing Goobalox tunneling worms—a rare local delicacy. And a disgusting habit. "We ain't got all day here."
How could such an unsavory character even consider entering the same event as Quasar? It was ludicrous. The murmuring queue had multiplied exponentially since he'd arrived, but if this degenerate represented the competition, then the quadrant's voters would be presented with a real no-brainer.
"Bartholomew Quasar," he told the Goobalob. "That's my given name."
"What kind of name is that?" the pirate guffawed, and others in line echoed his sentiment.
The captain's frame tensed, but he did not favor the fellow or the mob with another glance.
"Sir," countered the Goobalob, "you stated that 'Quasar' is not in fact—"
"I gave myself the name, all right?" he hissed into the intercom. "Captains name their starships all the time. Why can't we name ourselves?"
The Goobalob had no response to that. Her slick tentacles swept over the console, entering his data. "Name of vessel," she droned.
Quasar grinned. "The Effervescent Magnitude," he said with great pride and even greater posture, straining the seams of his burgundy and black uniform as every muscle stood at attention.
"Effer-what?" chortled the filthy buccaneer. "What the heck does that even mean?"
Captain Quasar clenched his teeth and both fists.
The pirate jabbed him between the shoulder blades with a sturdy finger. "What is it, some kind of giant gas-ball?"
Quasar whipped around to face the ugly degenerate. "Mock my name if you will, sir, but do not think to blackguard my vessel!"
The fellow's bloodshot eyes widened. Tugging at the charred braids dangling from his heavy beard, he bowed slightly. "I must apologize. I did not realize."
Quasar's jaw muscle twitched. He inclined his head forward a millimeter. "Apology accepted. Now, if you will excuse me." He turned back to the Goobalob's cubicle.
"I didn't realize we had such a nancy pants in our ranks," the fellow continued. "Sure you're in the right place? The beauty pageant is next door, Captain Starburst of the Enormous Flatulence."
The Goobalob official's tentacles froze in midair over her console. Through the smeared plasticon, it was apparent that every one of her eyes focused on Captain Quasar. The other Goobalobs in their cubicles had also stopped moving and stared at the captain with unguarded interest. Even the rabble behind the loud-mouthed privateer had fallen eerily silent.
Quasar took a moment to gather both himself and his thoughts, counting backwards from Zorthe in Flexicant decimals. The process took a good twenty Earth seconds, and by then, blinking and inhaling deeply through flared nostrils, he was able to pivot on one heel to face the mongrel.
The fellow grinned up at Captain Quasar.
"You, sir, have overstepped," Quasar said.
The pirate laughed. "Get a load of this guy!" He snickered, elbowing the muscular woman behind him. "Our big competition: Captain Nebulous of the Great Gassy—"
Quasar seized him by the beard-braids and pulled him up onto his toes. "A man such as yourself should know his place!"
"You think you're better than me or something?" He wheezed foul breath into Quasar's face.
"Of course! To call yourself a captain. Look at you. You're a disgrace!"
"You hear that, folks? Fancy Pantaloons here thinks he's better than the rest of us!"
The rabble rumbled their dissent. Even the Goobalobs scowled with most of their eyes.
"Wait—" Quasar course-corrected. "I did not say—"
"He must be planning on a landslide vote!" shouted the pirate. "Cuz I'm pretty sure I saw him skulking around earlier, rigging the voting machines!"
The captain seethed. "You, sir…are a liar."
The buccaneer's eyes bulged. "I am besmirched!"
His tattooed knuckles arced through the air, but of course, Captain Quasar dodged the grimy fist easily. And of course, Quasar's own knee jerk of a retaliatory strike made solid contact, breaking more than a few of the degenerate's rotten teeth.
And so, being the first to land his blow, it was Captain Quasar who found himself thrown out of the Office of Voting Services by numerous Goobalob security. Landing on his backside and sliding a few meters across the moon's slick, frozen surface, Quasar activated the communication device in his collar with an angry jerk of his head.
"Hank, bring the transport pod around." His breath came out in puffs. He got to his feet and rubbed his hands together for warmth.
"Already?" grunted the voice of the Effervescent Magnitude's very hairy, four-armed navigator from orbit.
"There will always be next year." Quasar stomped his feet and breathed on his bare hands, glaring at the icy wasteland around him and the towering, obsidian edifice of the quadrant's voting center—the only structure on this moon.
"That's what you said last time." Hank remained on the line.
"Starship Captain of the Year. Stupid popularity contest." Quasar grumbled. "Who even votes, anyway?"
"I do."
"Who'd you vote for last year?"
Hank paused. "A write-in."
Captain Quasar almost grinned as Hank brought the pod into view, sublimating the ice in billows as it descended.
The Coliseum of Queen Kronikthalia
The massive arena was filled to capacity with aliens of all shapes and sizes and smells. They'd gathered for one reason: to watch the Earth Man die.
But Captain Bartholomew Quasar didn't intend for them to go home happy.
Faced on the arena floor by a cat the size of a small house, he maintained his fighting stance: legs shoulder-width apart, torso leaning forward, arms up with every muscle at attention. Already, he'd survived an attack from not one, but two Xenodian hornbeasts—vicious creatures with razor-sharp claws covering their reptilian bodies. Quasar's uniform bore the tell-tale scars of their altercation: torn across the front to bare his tanned chest, stained with his own blood and that of the creatures he'd lured into the middle of the coliseum before ducking at just the right moment. The hornbeasts had plowed headfirst into each other, shattering their oddly fragile skulls, and now lay where they'd fallen, never to rise again.
But this massive cat was a different matter entirely: powerful and very fluffy. Quasar's eye contact with the creature never wavered.
Until the monster coughed up a colossal hairball that reeked with such fetor that Quasar cried "Foul!" and staggered back with a hand over his nose, imploring the queen where she sat on high with her attendants. "How can I be expected to fight under these conditions?"
Queen Kronikthalia was not amused. Nor had she been earlier when Quasar attempted to seduce her. Instead of taking his advances to mean what they did everywhere else in the galaxy—that he wanted something in return: usually reactor components for his ship—she had assumed he wanted her to lay eggs inside his skull. It was a great honor, the queen declared, perplexed that Quasar hadn't seen it that way. Instead, he'd attempted to flee from her presence, shooting two of her guards in the process.
The queen deigned to look upon him now. "You will fight until we have seen your true virtue."
"My what?" Quasar caught his breath. "I've killed two hornbeasts. What more do you want from me?"
"Your blood!" shouted her right-hand man—who wasn't a man but a Mantidaen as she was: a tall, spindly humanoid species that resembled an upright praying mantis. "You will pay for your disrespect!"
Captain Quasar assumed his most favorite pose: the Confident Starfarer. There would be a statue made of him someday, he knew. Probably not on this planet, but certainly elsewhere.
"How could I have shown the proper respect? She wanted to lay eggs in my head, for crying out loud!"
"Any Mantidaen male would be honored to carry my eggs to term!" the queen roared.
"Well, there we are then. I'm Human. And I'm captain of a gorgeous star cruis
er, the Effervescent Magnitude—ever hear of it?" The Mantidaens glowered down at him. "I'd lay down my life for just about any member of my crew. The good of the many and all that. But to have your younglings eat me alive as they burst forth from my skull? No thanks."
The Mantidaens grumbled among themselves, chitin jaws click-clacking sounds the translation device in Quasar's collar couldn't decipher.
"Captain?" came the voice of his first officer from the communication device also sewn into his collar. "We've been monitoring your situation…"
He wished she wouldn't do that. Couldn't a ship's captain strike out on his own every now and then for a little fun?
"Got everything under control here, Commander Wan," he reassured her. "Did you get those reactor components from the village?"
"Yes, sir. In exchange for certain exotic foodstuffs."
Quasar stifled a grin. "Protein rations?"
"Queen Kronikthalia's people are starving, Captain."
Quasar narrowed his heroic gaze at the Mantidaen monarch on her throne. Clenching his jaw until the muscle twitched, he made a mental to-do list. First, he would best this giant, hairball-spewing kitty. Then he would escape from the arena more or less unscathed. Finally, he would arrange for a transport pod to bring down a few tons of exotic foodstuffs from the Magnitude in orbit. Then he'd call it a day. Maybe take a long sonic shower in his quarters, followed by a little nap.
If only all had gone according to plan.
First, the cat pounced on him, smothering him in its copious fur as it batted aside the corpses of the hornbeasts like playthings. Pinned to the ground, Quasar wheezed as his lungs compressed.
"What was that, sir?" said Wan.
"Does she even know?" he managed.
"About her people? I would assume she doesn't care, sir."
"We'll see about that."
Desperate times called for desperate measures. With his last breath, he blew a raspberry into the creature's underbelly. The monstrous kitty leapt into the air wide-eyed, its four legs splayed. The creature had never felt so sullied. Quasar rolled out from underneath it, dashing straight for the Queen.
Captain Bartholomew Quasar: Starfaring Adventures Page 3
