Excitement buzzed through Harry’s limbs. This was it! He’d made it! The message recalled to mind what the blue-eyed fellow had said in the video back on Cern: “The most revolutionary act is an act of participatory democracy.”
Piracy no doubt had its place in galactic affairs, or else Tone E Robbins wouldn’t have started a pirate organization. But it wasn’t enough to end the meaningless acts of violence amongst beings who had enough in common that they should be friends, not enemies.
Maybe this way would be more effective. He could only hope.
From the corner of his right eye, he saw the mean Federation lady’s shocked expression turn furious again, the color rapidly returning to her face. She jerked the pistol from her hip and started running with deadly intention … straight at him.
Uh oh. The realization that he was probably going to die hit him at roughly the same time as he heard the unmistakable flapping of wings.
Oh well, no matter. There was no Captain Cass around to save him this time.
#
...nothing happened.
Node sat there in his garbage can of a mobile unit and stared at the last breaker switch.
The closet door had still not opened. As far as he could tell, the lighting in the place hadn’t changed, and there’d been no blood-curdling wails of humans.
All very disappointing.
He released an exaggerated hiss of air from the exhaust valve, symbolizing the extent of his disappointment, all the while wishing for a better way to release all the anger heating up his internal wiring and circuit-boards.
He eyed the switch for the so-called death trap. It wouldn’t do much to help matters, but maybe he’d feel better if he flipped it back on.
“Try something else,” he muttered to himself. “There’s got to be another way out.” He put his treads in reverse and backed up, head swiveling around the room and finally settling on the ceiling. His lenses settled on the unmistakable piping that terminated in a sprinkler system. He imagined quirking his brows as the beginnings of a bad idea hit him.
There were plenty of flammable items in this closet. It wouldn’t take much to get a fire going. All he needed was a spark … and thanks to the furry engineer, incompetent as he may be, he’d been good enough to equip Node with tools enough to do that much.
Retracting his arms, Node extended a portable spark torch, ostensibly intended for a bench grinder. No matter. He’d just roll around and spark at junk in here until a flame caught. Now … where to start? His lenses went to the cobwebbed cleaning bots in the far corner, then reconsidered.
“Hmm,” he mused. There was a portable cleaning cart, loaded with chemical sprays and a bucket. “That’ll do.”
Node moseyed up to the cart and experimented with the torch. No luck. He’d have to get more arms-on with the chemicals, maybe mix up a transportable bomb. Back on the SS Bray, he began accessing his memory banks and pulled up his notes on improvised explosive devices.
“Oh. OOooOo, yes, I can make that work.”
The death trap could wait. Making bombs sounded much more entertaining.
38
Anasua
Anasua sprinted ahead of Space Cadet Barbie Rogers, pulling her pistol level with that damned pirate ass.
“Oh, potty mouth,” Barbie called out, trying to keep pace.
“Shut it, bitch!” Anasua huffed. “That’s right, I said it!”
The donkey’s ears twitched, its gaze flicking back and forth with alarm between the console at the kiosk and his approaching doom. Either that, or the sudden flapping of wings from somewhere above. Whatever that was, it could wait. She’d decided that—assuming she survived crossing the ashen threshold—she’d give the donkey one chance to move aside, or she’d blow his brains all over the terminal.
Barbie wasn’t content to keep quiet. “You’re going to let him live, after what he did to you back on that desert planet?”
Her feet crunched against the ash and she flinched despite herself.
“I’m not dead,” she whispered, then repeated louder. “I’m not dead, you flea-ridden scumbag!”
“My name is Harry,” he replied.
She pulled up short of his front hooves, remembering all too well what he could do with them. She tried to ignore the fact that they were now metal, and his shoulders loaded with two forward-facing laser guns. If he’d been planning to use them, surely he’d have shot her by now. That he hadn’t was the one reason she was going to give him a chance to live.
“I don’t care what your name is, you ass, she snapped. “Step away from the kiosk and I’ll let you live.”
Harry’s ears twitched again and the flapping of wings grew louder, closer.
“Look out!” shouted Barbie. Too little, too late.
“I said, shut uh—”
Something crashed into the right side of Anasua’s face and she felt a lance of sharp pain in her eye socket. Her field-of-vision suddenly halved, and something talon-sharp was digging into her face.
“Owwwie-what-in-the-fuck!”
“Mister Burton!” Was that the donkey saying that?
Whatever or whoever it was on her face, it was a mean little bastard. She flailed about, losing her pistol in the process, and tried to pry it loose, then realized she was grasping at red and blue feathers.
More flapping. And screeching—a terrible, ear-shattering cacophony. Whatever it was, it was retreating now, but it had left her with a fistful of feathers. And blood. So much blood … my blood, she realized, looking at her hand.
“Oh dear,” commented Barbie. “I do believe I’m feeling a bit woozy.”
“Me too,” Anasua realized, a sickening sense of nausea warring with a sudden light-headedness. Gravity took hold and she found herself slamming sideways into the ground, right at the donkey’s hooves.
“Oh dear,” the donkey said, sounding perplexingly mournful. “That wasn’t nice, Mister Burton … I won’t be putting your name in.”
Would the ass stomp her head in? It’s what I would do, was her last thought before she lost consciousness.
39
Tone E Robbins
The fighting came to an abrupt pause when the entrances to the atrium, the courtyard, and the lounge were flooded by marines in golden armor. We’re trapped, Tone E realized all too suddenly. His lookouts had failed him, or Mr. Burton and the others had been overtaken. Either way, it wasn’t a good sign.
The Grand COG’s eyes lit up, as if a switch had been flipped, and he went from slouching and petulant to ebullient. “Hah!” he shouted. “Now we have you!”
Tone E still had his gun, but there was little chance he’d be able to get in a shot on all the newcomers at once. Even now, his instincts told him there were rifles trained on his back. He’d get one shot in at best, and it wasn’t as if this weapon were lethal. If the golden bozo had any imaginary friends, it wouldn’t matter in the final calculus. Tone E would be dead, and the Golden COG would be … friendless at best, embarrassed at worst.
His companions Sonia, Bonecrusher—and even Djerke—were still struggling to subdue a handful of the drunk Federation officers, unaware of the weapons trained on them by sober reinforcements.
It appeared Zuckberg had vanished again, however. I swear, that dog…
He reconsidered his options. The COG was only a few feet away. If I can only get my hands around his neck, it wouldn’t take much. It would be all too easy to play martyr, he realized. But then he’d be dead, and while Haven might be avenged, there wouldn’t be any pirates left to benefit from the momentary victory.
“Stand down,” Tone E called out, then looked around. “Pirates, this is Tone E Robbins, and I’m ordering you to stand down!”
His command was met with confused glances, and then a collective sense of horror as his people realized they were surrounded and literally under the gun. Sonia disengaged from a fistfight, protectively clutching her pregnant belly as if she hadn’t just been manhandling a bunch of people, then reached do
wn to pull Djerke off a confused pile of flailing limbs.
The hulking Dr. Bonecrusher had no less than three Feds cornered, and he looked like he might just snap some necks anyway, marines be damned.
Tone E tried again. “Doctor.” To his relief, his purple-skinned friend finally relented and slowly put his hands up in the air.
“You’ve made the right decision,” gloated the Grand COG. “I’ll be sure to let your people live long enough to see you die.”
“You won’t get away with this,” Tone E rumbled. “Somewhere, somehow, your day will come—sooner than you think.”
The golden bozo rolled his eyes and mimed someone talking with his hand. “Blah, blah, blah. You should have known when to quit, Antonio. Was it not enough to lose your precious Haven?”
Tone E paused and pondered the right response.
“Never mind, I don’t care,” said the COG, his voice dismissive. “Men, secure the pirates.”
Tone E felt hands reaching around for his wrists, trying to pull his hands back.
“Ah, ah, ah—not him,” the Grand COG said. “We’re going to execute this one right here, right now.”
“Drop your weapon,” someone whispered into Tone E’s ear.
He let go of his weapon. It wouldn’t do him much good now, but it had proved to be quite entertaining, turning its targets’ imaginary friends on them.
These Feds seemed to have an over-abundance of imaginary friends.
“Ah, Captain,” said the Grand COG, addressing the space just past Tone E’s shoulder. That must be who was behind him. “How good of you to join us, after you almost let the pirates kill us.”
The verbal jab was met with a noncommittal grunt.
“You can make it up to me by killing this man.”
“As you wish, Beloved Leader,” came the reply from behind Tone E.
“Well, I guess this is it,” Tone E remarked. “May you rot in a fiery afterlife, you smug bastard.”
The golden bozo cackled, his belly roll visibly jiggling beneath his flimsy golden robe. “Not any time soon, I trust! You’ve crashed my party, but now you get to be its centerpiece.”
The marines by the door startled and shifted their attention as some sort of klaxon began to sound from the courtyard outside.
“What are you waiting for?!” shouted the Golden COG, stabbing a finger in Tone E’s direction. “End him!”
Tone E counted the seconds, waiting for the world to go blank. But nothing happened. Well, scratch that … a lot happened, but none of it made much sense. The alarm continued to sound, and the marines lowered their weapons.
“What’s going on, what are you doing?!” The Grand COG appeared to be on the verge of a seizure.
Built-in speakers in the lounge buzzed to life, along with additional speakers out in the atrium: “Please hold for an important automated message from the Council of Concerned Citizens.”
Tone E could sense the marine captain behind him taking a step back, giving him space. Whatever was happening, it was taking priority over the Grand COG’s orders … and that was more than a bit unusual. What could be more important than following orders, for an honorable Federation officer?
“You fools!” shouted the COG.
“Shut up,” someone shouted back. “I’m trying to hear what they’re going to say!”
The Golden COG flushed crimson, spittle lining his mouth.
The speakers crackled back to life. “The Constitutional Articles have been invoked. One or more candidates for Galactic Supervisor have been successfully entered into the system, and will be given all due process, as laid out in Section 1, Article A, paragraphs three-through-fifty.”
“Candidates?” muttered more than one Fed present.
“Candidates!!” raged the COG. “Impossible!”
Tone E found himself grinning ear-to-ear. While he certainly agreed with the idiot’s assessment on principle, the news was clearly improbable at best. Were it impossible, it wouldn’t be happening. “Well, how about that?” he mused. “What are the odds you’re going to win a popular vote, I wonder?”
The Golden COG sputtered for a moment, but it seemed the whole notion of a popular vote was incomprehensible to him. He threw his goblet across the room, then dropped to the floor and began to tantrum like a five-year-old. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
“If only I could record this,” Tone E said to no one in particular.
The automated message continued in the background. “All galactic citizens should please note, as per the Constitution, a cessation of all hostilities is required during an election period. This includes all wars, invasions, disagreements, divorces, sibling rivalries…”
Tone E turned to locate the captain as the message droned on, looking for the tell-tale etched chips on the golden armor.
There.
“Are you going to release my people?” he asked, aiming to keep his gravelly voice pleasant.
The marine captain quirked an eyebrow and looked up from the tantrumming idiot. “Huh? Oh … yeah, sure. Marines, you heard the man. Let them go.”
“Waaaaaaaaa!” cried the Grand COG, slamming his flabby fists onto the floor as he rolled around. “I warned the Council … I told them we should have changed the Constitution! Damn, damn, damn, damn!”
Tone E eyed the captain, then nodded toward the bar. “Anyone fancy a drink?”
The marine shrugged his golden shoulders. “Considering you’re all now participants in democracy and no longer hostiles … sure.”
The pirates, sailors, and marines alike gathered around the bar as Tone E played bartender, filling up shot glasses with the more traditional liquors. The ones without the imaginary-friend-injecting-nanos.
A few minutes later, everyone save the Golden COG himself had a glass in hand.
Sonia handed her beverage to Djerke. “Drink up, loove moofin’, we be celebratin’ tonight.”
Djerke winced, favoring an angry purple bruise on his jawline.
Maybe, Tone E realized with a laugh, the administration of justice for this one-time traitor was already being doled out. Sonia seemed to demand a lot from her lover.
But enough of that for now, he thought as he exchanged grins with Bonecrusher. Now is a time to celebrate being alive! “A toast,” shouted Tone E, “to those brave souls, whoever they may be, who managed to activate the kiosk and officially register as a candidate—or candidates—for the position of Galactic Supervisor. It’s a thankless job, I’d know! I’m just glad it’s not me running for office … hah! Anyway, here’s to, ‘anything’s better than that loser right there!’” He gestured toward the still-infantile COG, balled into a puddle of tears and sweat in the middle of the floor.
The people in the room raised their glasses in cheer.
Tone E lifted his own glass, then did a double-take as he realized Zuckberg had re-appeared again and was now licking up the golden idiot’s bodily fluid. “What the? What are you doing?”
If the dog heard, he didn’t pay much mind. He looked happy enough, though.
Oh well, thought Tone E. It was definitely disgusting, but what was the worst that could happen?
40
Harry
Well that wasn’t so difficult, Harry thought. He’d nearly panicked when the kiosk had asked for dates-of-birth for the candidate names he’d entered, but then it had asked if he’d like to use the Galactic Register to look them up. It had taken a few minutes, but thankfully nobody had bothered him after the mean lady’s failed attack.
More than one onlooker had taken in the sight of her bloodied, unmoving form on the ground, then gawked over at Harry with his guns and metallic hooves and thought better of interrupting whatever he was doing.
Now Harry could rest. Well, sort of. It was pretty loud with that alarm filling the courtyard. Slowly, pockets of combatants ceased their messy assaults, exchanging confused glances and then tending to their fallen companions.
McGee.
Harry looked around, feeling sud
denly sick despite his success. He finally spotted the man through the courtyard’s open doorway that led into the atrium. He was still prone on the floor, Hawke kneeling beside him, but he wasn’t rolling around anymore. Was that because he was feeling better … or was he dead?
Harry hurried over in his direction. But half-way down the path to Zuckberg’s injured former care-taker, he was intercepted by Kitt.
“What have you done?” she asked, eyeing him with an unfamiliar expression. While she waited for an answer, she lifted a bloodied forearm to her mouth and started to lick it clean.
“Uh, done?” Harry fumbled for an answer. Where to even begin? “Well, I almost died, and then shot a man in the dark, and then I—”
Kitt paused mid-lick and lifted her head. Her voice wasn’t unkind, even as her pupils narrowed. “I meant at the kiosk, you idiot.”
“Oh. I put some names in.”
Captain Cass and Redbeard meandered over, each dripping pools of sweat, but otherwise looking none the worse for wear despite the recent intense fighting.
“Wha’s goin’ on?” Redbeard asked.
The captain stopped next to Kitt and folded her arms across her chest.
Reluctantly, Kitt put her arm down. “Harry was just about to explain how he managed to access a kiosk that’s been a death trap for the past two centuries.”
“Wait, a death trap?!” Harry exclaimed, looking back down the path toward the golden structure.
“The ashen piles of bodies didn’t give it away?” Kitt replied.
“Ohhh.”
“Blimey.” Redbeard blew on his lips, producing small bubbles as he followed Harry’s gaze. “Wait, is tha who I be thinkin’ it is? Laid out on tha ground?”
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