Unless this is aliens.
Then we’re probably all doomed.
“Not a word,” I tell her, and then I step closer to the bridge door. It whooshes open for me.
Inside the bridge, I find Drago in the captain’s chair and Burnett already seated at his station. He looks paler than usual. Neither of them holds my attention for long, because the view through the windshield nearly makes me choke.
It’s a spaceship alright. It’s man-made for sure, but it’s unlike anything I’ve seen since arriving in the future. It’s sleek, like the ship is built for speed—despite the fact that aerodynamics have no impact on maneuvering through the vacuum of space. Its paint job is shades of orange, from almost yellow to almost red. Whoever owns it wants to be noticed. The name stenciled on the nose—ZORAK—stands out because, like the ship’s design, it shows a kind of unique flourish that is unheard of in the Union.
It’s a custom job.
And there is only one kind of person in the future who might consider something so garish and awesome.
An Exo-Hunter.
“Who am I looking at?” I ask Burnett.
“No idea, sir. The ship’s design isn’t in the database, and aside from the name, there aren’t any ID markers. I’m getting a transponder ping, but it’s encrypted. The ship is a ghost.”
“A ghost…” Carter whispers.
I shoot her a ‘keep quiet’ look and wave Drago from my chair. He relents with a huff, moving to his station. I sit down and wince. “Ugh, my chair feels hot and moist.”
Drago shrugs. “I was excited. Thought they would attack, but they just sit there.”
“They’re trying to figure out who we are.” Elbows on knees, I try to glean more details from the ship. In addition to appearing sleek, it’s also built for battle. There are guns on the undersides of its wings, and rocket pods on the top.
Why would an Exo-Hunter advertise their presence with such a loud ship and then arm it with enough firepower to scream, ‘Stay the fuck back?’ Kind of a mixed message, but not unheard of in nature. Poisonous tree frogs—also extinct—used the same strategy. If you’re impossible to miss and clearly a threat, predators just steer clear.
Is that what they’re expecting? For us to turn tail and run?
Are they trying to poach this planet from us through intimidation?
If so, they’re going to regret it.
Bitch’n might look like an impacted shit, but it’s been customized by two Marines and one very sinister Spetnaz operator. If they want a fight, I’m with Drago: Bring it on.
But I can’t just kick their ass.
I mean, I could. There’s no law out here. No one would ever find the remains. Communication back to Union Command—without rotating there—would take longer than my lifetime. And Exo-Hunters go missing without a trace all the time. One of the job perks.
Morton and Porter hustle into the bridge and take their seats.
“Now that we’re all here,” I say, “how about we say hello?”
“Sounds good, sir,” Morton says.
I wait.
Ten seconds.
“That means I’d like you to activate ship-to-ship comms.”
“Oh!” Morton says. “Right.”
“With voice modification,” I say, preferring to remain unknown.
He pushes the button, turns a dial, and gives me a thumbs up—a gesture he learned from Drago, who smiles at me and gives two thumbs up. He knows the gesture irks me. I flip him off and say, “Hello—” I choke at the sound of my voice, high-pitched and unnatural, like Alvin or one of the other Chipmunks. Have to roll with it now.
“This is…” Shit. Who am I? What’s a common Union name? “…Captain Burnett…”
The real Burnett swivels around in his chair, mouth agape and somehow smiling at the same time. He mouths, “We have the same name?!”
Burnett doesn’t know my real name. Only Chuy does. And Carter, I assume.
I do my best to ignore the hysterical expression on his face, and I finish my sentence, “…of Exo-Hunter vessel A-154-B7. Please identify yourself and state your business.”
“What’s an Exo-Hunter doing in a salvage vessel?” is the response. The voice is deep enough that I’m certain he’s using a voice mod, too.
“Your vessel identification number, please,” I say. A Union stooge would never proceed without all parties being at least partially identified, which is why I gave Bitch’n actual ID—which was designated long before I got my hands on her and made some improvements.
“Transmitting,” the voice says.
Not sure why he’s sending the number. Speaking would have worked fine. I lean to the side, looking at the screen in front of Burnett. The numbers blink on the screen, one at a time.
28008-S-FU
“That’s an odd ID code,” Burnett says, already searching for database results.
“Comms,” I say, silencing the system. “It’s a bullshit code.”
“How can you tell?” Morton asks.
Drago chuckles. Then bursts out laughing. He’s seen it, too. “Is funny!”
“It says ‘two boobs, fuck you.’”
“They’re screwing with us,” Chuy says. She’s got her game face on. Ready for a fight.
“Comms,” I say, transmitting again. “I’m sorry we can’t seem to find your identification number in the system.”
Silence.
“Comms.” To Porter. “The Slew Drive firmware update…”
“What about it?” he asks. “Did it not work to your satisfaction?”
“Worked perfectly,” I say. “Can you give Bitch’n’s firmware the same update?”
“In theory, but—”
“Do it,” I say. “Now.”
He nods and goes to work, tapping on keys and buttons.
We’re in the future, in space, but most new science has been devoted to colonization, reproduction, and food production. War hasn’t been a priority in a long time, and conflict in the stars is unheard of. As a result, there are no Star Trek red flags. No raised shields. No weapons systems coming online. The only way to predict an attack existed in the 1980s A.D. and B.C.: intuition. And I’m feeling a tsunami of bad vibes radiating from this spacefaring version of masculine overcompensation.
“Dark Horse,” Carter whispers.
“What?” I ask, annoyed and trying to think. We’ve been silent long enough for them to know that we know something is screwy. We’ve got seconds at best.
“The question you need to be asking is why?”
“In case you missed it, they’re not answering questions,” Chuy says.
“You can answer the question yourself,” Carter says to me, ignoring Chuy. “Why would someone come to this planet?”
“To Exo-Hunt,” I say.
“Does the Union usually send more than one vessel to the same planet? Seems kind of redundant and inefficient for people desperate for new habitable worlds.”
She’s right.
If they’re Exo-Hunters, they’re not here for the planet. They’re here for something else. But what other reason could—
Carter raises her eyebrows, somehow transmitting the message, ‘The answer is standing right in front of you, penis-breath.’
“They’re here for you…” I throw my hands up. “You could have just said that!” I take hold of twin joysticks attached to the armrests on either side of the captain’s chair. I don’t normally bother with the ship’s day-to-day operations, maneuvers, or maintenance, but I can control the flight, weapons, and Slew systems from my chair. With the push of a button, I hijack the ship from the others.
“Porter?”
“Almost there,” he says.
“Uhh,” Drago says.
“What!?”
He points at the Zorak. “Rocket pods opening.”
“Comms,” I say. “You might want to think twice about that.”
Silence.
“Have it your way,” I say. “Comms. Porter!”
As Porter’s triumphant shout transforms into a squeal, a dozen rockets launch from the Zorak. Bitch’n would survive the hits—I think—and our return fire would erase the enemy, but I’d rather not take the risk, or pay for the damages.
With just a second to spare, my Los Angeles-class submarine of a spaceship rotates out of the third dimension, into the fourth and then back out again, emerging behind the enemy. Just as I’m about to give them a peek at the sexy secrets hidden beneath our skirt, the fired rockets twist around and race toward us again.
I sigh. “Damnit.”
11
“Let’s give them a little taste,” I say to myself. In the good old days, a vessel like this, sporting multiple weapons systems and navigation controls, would be operated by a team of people; tanks, submarines, battleships—even fictional spacecraft. And that holds true in the future, but this kind of intergalactic dogfight requires reactions at the speed of thought. Giving commands slows things down. As does the various reaction times of the people receiving the orders.
My command chair connection on Bitch’n allows me to react almost at the speed of thought, plus a few seconds for one-liners. “Operation Pufferfish is a go!”
Two chain guns built to my specifications emerge from the Bitch’n’s hull and swivel toward the oncoming rockets. The computer handles the rest, identifying the rockets and opening fire. The guns are a recreation of the Phalanx CIWS (close-in weapon system) used to protect U.S. Navy vessels from airborne threats. It fires five thousand rounds per minute at a velocity of about a mile per second. But it doesn’t need to throw that much tungsten. Because it doesn’t miss. The guns acquire targets, fart out a dozen rounds, and then move on to the next threat. The only big difference between our Phalanx system and the real deal is that our rounds are explosive, not to make them more lethal, but to prevent them from zipping off into space where they could eventually strike an unprepared vessel—human or otherwise. If the bullets miss their target, they detonate, turning the round into super fast-moving dust. It’s not a perfect solution, but the infinite void is full of high-speed particles. A few more won’t change anything. Bitch’n is a responsible war machine. Mostly.
From inside the bridge, it’s a little anti-climactic. There is a slight rumble from the gunfire, and a streak of light from the tracer rounds flying out to meet the rockets. Then a burst of fire as the rockets explode. Even the explosions are lackluster.
Damage done by things that go boom is usually delivered by three things—fire, shrapnel, and pressure waves, or as I like to call it—the violent wind. Fire and shards of metal thrown out faster than the speed of sound can really ruin a guy’s day if he’s close. But it’s the violent wind that reaches out and touches large numbers of people, compressing organs and brains.
In space, pressure waves don’t exist outside a target. But when you score a hit… Then the pressure wave can move through a ship’s interior—briefly. The moment a hole opens up, the atmosphere being pushed inward is suddenly sucked back out. The explosion might throw you back, but you could be slurped out into space before ever hitting the wall.
Spaceballs got it wrong. Things don’t switch from suck to blow in space, only blow to suck.
I file that insightful gem away in case I ever need to explain why explosions in space are a yawn-fest compared to twentieth century sci-fi.
The incoming rockets pop one by one. A flash of light and a moment later, a shhhh sound, as the tiny bits of debris rain against the hull. The Phalanx does its job, but two of the rockets find our blind spot at Bitch’n’s bow.
Before striking the hull, the rockets adjust course, heading straight for the bridge.
They’re not automated hunter-killer rockets, I realize, they’re remote controlled.
Someone is piloting them. And they’re going for the kill.
Which, for some reason, catches Carter off guard. “What the hell are they doing?”
Too bad for the Zorak, we’ve got Slew Drive 2.0.
We rotate away, and then back again, appearing in front of our enemy once more. I smile to myself, picturing the Zorak’s crew letting out a communal “Huh?!”
Phalanx targets the fully exposed rockets as they bank around toward us again, destroying them with ease.
We’ve made an impression. Of that, I’m sure. But I’m not done yet. Not by a longshot. With a push of a button, eight railgun cannons emerge from Bitch’n’s hull. Two on each side, two on top, two on the bottom, aimed front and back. I can pull off a death blossom without all the vomit inducing spinning. If that wasn’t enough, I’ve got rockets, too. And a few missiles for long-range bitch slaps. I’ve never had to use any of this before, and I’ve often wondered if it was overkill, but here we are, facing down an aggressor with short man syndrome.
“And this is the moment where the enemy realizes they’re outclassed, throw up their hands, and surrender,” I say to Carter.
“Why…exactly?”
“I just aimed eight railguns at them. They fire tungsten rods at sixteen thousand feet per second. There’s no dodging that. Their hull will be Swiss-cheesed before they realize we’re firing.”
“Are railguns common in this time?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “We have the only…ooooh.”
The Zorak’s crew has no way to know what a railgun will do to their ships or future life goals.
“Comms,” I say. Carter gasps beside me, like she’s just realized something. I try to ignore her. “Crew of the Zorak, we’ve just aimed—”
Carter squeezes my arm. I’m about to chew her out when I see the expression on her face. “Hold on a second. Comms.” To Carter, “This had better be good.”
“Zorak,” she says.
“Yes, Zorak. The spaceship trying to blow us up.”
“I know what it means. The name.”
I squint at her. “How could you know anything about anything in this time period? You’ve been living on Monster Planet—”
“Because,” she says, almost growling, “Zorak is from our time.”
I freeze. “Seriously?”
“Zorak is the arch nemesis of Space Ghost.”
“Space…Ghost.”
“Spy lady has spent too much time by herself,” Drago says, twirling an index finger around his ear.
“Yeah, man,” Chuy says. “She’s loco.”
“Space Ghost is a Hanna-Barbera cartoon,” she says. “And he flies a damn spaceship that is yellow and orange.” She stabs a finger at the Zorak. “Yellow and orange!”
“A kid’s cartoon,” Chuy says. “Great. That’s just great.”
“I have…I had a nephew,” Carter says. “We watched together.”
“Why would anyone in 2994 know about Space Ghost?” I ask.
Morton spins around in his chair. “They wouldn’t. I’ve never heard of it, and only one of you four has.” His breath catches. “Unless…”
“They’re not from 2994.” I stare at Carter. “And they were here for you… Comms. Zorak, please identify yourself.” Shit. My squeaky voice isn’t going to make an impact. “Voice Mod, off. This is Captain Dark Horse of the U.S. Marine Corps. Identify yourself. Now.”
I wasn’t intending to use my actual name, rank, and the fact that I’m a Marine from a long since forgotten past. It slipped out, but maybe it will help if they know we’re not from now, too.
More silence.
I pull the weapon systems back inside the Bitch’n. They were the aggressors here. I have yet to hit back. But I’ve revealed we’re a bigger threat than they can handle. Maybe signaling we’re not going to hold a grudge will help ease tensions.
Still nothing.
Carter clears her throat.
“Comms,” I say, silencing the connection. “What?”
“You detected my radio signal from orbit, right?” She motions toward the Zorak. “I’m assuming it works on spacesh—”
“Burnett!”
“On it!” he says.
Static fills the bridge as he activates the radio scanner. It’s followed by a high-pitched squeal.
“Santo cielo,” Chuy whispers.
“Comms,” I say. “Brick? Is that you? Benny?”
And then it comes to me. The only member of the team fond of cartoons.
“Whip!”
Silence.
“C’mon, man. I know it’s you. Please…tell me it’s you.” The desperation in my voice is a little pitiful, but it’s impossible to hide.
And then…the Zorak twists and folds into a line of brilliant white, slipping into the fourth dimension and rotating back out somewhere else.
Anywhere else.
Fuck.
“Can we track them?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“In theory, but not in real time,” Burnett says. “Transponders transmit celestial coordinates only when they’re in range of Union receivers. Whatever data exists on the Zorak might not include their most recent rotations…unless they’ve been back to inhabited space. And then, the only way to access the information is from Union Command.”
“Do you really think it was Whip?” Chuy asks, as disappointed by the outcome as I am.
I give her a look that says I do, but I can’t say it out loud. What’s he doing out here? Why didn’t he respond? Does he not remember us? Has he been hiding from me all this time?
Too many questions without answers, and if I keep focusing on unknowns, I’m going to get paranoid.
Porter raises his hand.
For the love of all that is holy… “Yes. Porter. Speak.”
“What is a pufferfish?”
I clench my fists, about to pop.
“Earth fish,” Drago says. “Cute and innocent, until you try to eat. Then, spikes! Venom! Death!”
Porter is confused for a moment, then his eyes go wide. “Ohh, we’re the pufferfish. I see. Clever, sir. But aren’t pufferfish—”
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