Family Matters

by S E Zbasnik

  Ferra tilted her head, "WEST, can you hear me?"

  "Squirrels! You're all covered in squirrels! With roast pudding and vegemite."

  "Sounds like I'll need to thump most of his processors back into this reality. It's gonna take all day," Ferra muttered, trying to remember where she left her really big hammer.

  "I have nothing better to do," Variel said. "Everyone else, um, hopefully we'll get power restored, but you might want to stay centralized to conserve heat or air in case..."

  "It all goes squirrel shaped?" Orn asked unhelpfully.

  The captain glared at him but nodded to her engineer, "Lead on." Fer grabbed some of the protein bars and stuffed them in her pockets. Food was scarce to come by in the bowels.

  Variel watched as most of her crew assembled by the tables. As she went to turn out the door, her PALM flashed a single text message. Opening it up, her past reared its multi-head. "Terrwyn Yates" glared up at her face. She closed her hand and didn't look back at the elf who sent it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Elation-Cru crew spent the first day watching the emergency lighting, praying a survivable form of power would return and promising the construction of a religious structure in any god's honor when it did. The following day everyone kept to themselves, mentally ticking off each sin that could send a law firm baring down upon their heads.

  Day three was when the doldrums of waiting for the executioner's tardy axe to fall broke. Life returned to a semblance of normalcy as their ship drifted across blank space. Variel tried three times to sneak a communication buoy out to anyone skirting around them, horns blaring at the frozen ship. Every jab of her soldering iron got a blast of electricity straight up her arm. Monde warned that if she tried a fourth time he wasn't going to revive her.

  Ferra was no better; she'd begged the Captain to let her sabotage the locks. Okay, so she'd have to decompress one of the engines, start the other from outside and probably lose two decks in the process, but they could move again. Variel talked her out of it each time, pointing out how much repair would be necessary after. The engineer pouted -- once WEST had minimal control of the ship, there wasn't anything left for her to do but replace those light bulbs she kept ignoring. It was a waste of her talents.

  Free of the confines of pretending to watch for comet hitchhikers, Orn set himself up in the dining room. It used to be a special offshoot of the galley for dignitaries and other high rolling space cruisers who never would have set foot on a barge as low class as the ancient Constellation Cruise. Variel cleaned it up, even repaired some of the tables before realizing no one was going to bother with the extra twenty steps to drag their food into the classy dining room. It'd been abandoned for almost five years, ever since haunted by the ghosts of lonely captains and their overeager first mates.

  Orn sat back in his throne, a pile of pillows making up the gap between short dwarf torso and table. His fresh pair of shoes kicked into a bowl filled with wrappers as his fingers twiddled with a piece of foil extended from an ancient screen. Images, fuzzy and almost incomprehensible, dashed across the white box. Only the sound was crisp, traveling on the ancient wavelength used when people thought beaming their every little thought into space was a brilliant idea and sure to get them noticed by friendly and sexy aliens.

  "And Kaltor's got the lead! I haven't seen a move like this since the ancient days of maritime war," the announcer cooed through both time and space.

  Variel stood leaning down upon her own chair, not wanting to sit for fear it could encourage the dwarf, but also not wanting to leave. A whole lot of nothing waited for her outside the room. Even Brena was happy to curl up in the corner, having built up a small blanket fort from the emergency supplies. It shimmered in the haunting glow of Orn's screen.

  The dwarf clenched his fist in celebration before subconsciously stopping himself, then he stared back to the screen, "Huh, forgot it wasn't a PALM broadcast. Why'd people move away from the good ol' box technology anyway?"

  "Says the man who wants an EyeScan," Variel opened up the old fight because it was better than anything else she had to not do.

  "You can direct the information with your eyes!" Orn had a weakness for both tradition and anything that had the words "latest" or "improved" in its tagline.

  "And they drill into your brain," Variel waggled her fingers as if she wanted to scoop out Orn's skull herself.

  The silent djinn puffed from the side. Two bits of smoke escaped from the cracked sides of Gene. He wasn't exactly what one expected when finding a genie. For starters, he didn't live inside any device for shedding light. Djinn preferred to roam about the land in their natural fog-like forms, but for communicating with others they required suits; hulking masses nearly eight feet tall with black igneous skin cracked to reveal a fiery burning below. The muteness was a characteristic of only Gene, a fact he never bothered to explain.

  Orn glanced at the hulking mass taking up space for unknown reasons and asked, "What, does that mean it needs to go walkies?"

  Variel turned over her shoulder to what could legally be called her oldest friend and shook her head. Gene's eyes of fire burned a soft yellow. He'd grown accustomed to Orn the way a person does a bad rash; wait for time to heal it and don't pick at the wound. "Actually, he agrees with you," she admitted, getting a small puff of smoke from out of Gene's arm cracks.

  "Really?" Orn was surprised, no one ever agreed with him.

  "But I wouldn't push it," Variel added before the dwarf got any ideas.

  "It is said the djinn were the first of any species to attempt space flight. Due to the lack of mass, it was less difficult for them to break atmo," Brena's soft voice poked through her small oasis, as the others glanced in her direction. She'd been humming something under her breath for the past hour, and occasionally tossed out a "shambalam splat kapow!" After the fifth round, Orn began to sing along. Variel wasn't certain if she should be grateful or concerned that her pilot seemed to be getting along with the drippy dulcen all of a sudden.

  Gene lowered his massive head, the neck popping from the pressure. He acknowledged the Bard's words but didn't fully agree with them. Variel couldn't glean the entire works of the djinn equivalent of Franky Bacon from his few movements, but after all the years she'd learned to understand the subtleties of displaying a discord of emotions. She had no idea why he'd been placed under a vow of silence, despite what the others suspected, and a part of her feared the day she discover the answer. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

  Taliesin entered their small refuge from the galaxy, his hands pressed behind his back. He noted his sister swarmed by every pillow from the uninhabited rooms and leaned his body next to the roiling djinn. Another cheer erupted from Orn's makeshift transceiver set as the announcer hailed that Fuchlan was entering into the third round.

  "Told ya," Orn jibed to the silent djinn. "Never bet against Fuchlan."

  "You are watching the Galaxy Games of the Thirty Fifth divination, yes? From nearly fifty years past?" the assassin asked, memories flooding the room.

  The dwarf nodded, trying to unwrap another candy with one hand. "It's the only thing we can get out here. And since there's no ether buoy, no one can check the old missives page to see who won," he grinned at his ingenuity to turn anything into a gamble.

  "I see. Then I would not place such a wager upon Fuchlan making it into the final round of Water Joust."

  "No offense there Mr. Stabs-people-in-the-kidneys, but this isn't some elf sport. Your kind blanches at any hint of water that don't come from some glistening bidet. Water Joust is dominated by the Dwarven Clans and none can touch Fuchlan with a ten foot water pole."

  Taliesin didn't respond, his ears listening to the familiar cry of a crowd cheering for the heavily bet upon Fuchlans who made some less than savory transactions and started one female dwarf who got on the wrong side of the Red Blades.

  "How'd you know this was the Thirty-Fifth games, anyway?"

  The elf shifted his shoulders with a
moment of modesty, "I was there." He leaned over and snatched up one of Orn's candies from the pile, "Ensuring Fuchlan did not make it past round four." Switching away from the pilot, he said cooly to the captain, "WEST insisted you attend to it. It is 'unhappy' with something."

  "What now?" Variel asked, setting down her full cup.

  "It refused to say, then it warned me to beware the pox invasion of tumbling bees."

  She rose to her feet and bowed to the master of ceremonies who was too busy cursing at his beloved team shattering another shield in the pool. Brena either wasn't paying attention or didn't care as the captain inched out of the room. Her brother leaned against the wall, trying to not look out of place as Orn threw an exponential ball of wrappers at the vid set. It was the djinn who would not remove his burning eyes.

  For the first time in five years the kitchen was silent, soft lights puckering above the utilitarian chandelier. Variel could only hear a few scraps of whining from her crew as she leaned against the panel above the sink, "Okay WEST, what is it?"

  "Owner 23, this will not stand!" the neurotic computer whined through its avatar. It placed a heavy surgical mask above its adopted face but failed to cover the wire mouth. They had to go through about five different WEST personalities, each fractured and uncontrollable, until finding one that could operate enough of the ship. The Med VI 2.5 was like a hypochondriac had a baby with WebMD.

  "Your dwarven pilot -- suffering from elevated blood sugar, limb atrophy, and sagging glutical stimulation -- has infested my buttons with a heavy load of bacteria."

  "He did what, exactly?" Variel wouldn't put it past Orn to taunt the computer to kill time.

  "He touched them!" WEST shrieked as if it saw a mouse.

  "Wait, Orn always wears gloves."

  "But he never sanitizes them!" the computer wailed, the mask quivering as if it were about to burst into tears.

  "I'll keep Orn from touching any of your buttons until we can get the rest of your brain back together," Variel reassured her computer before adding, "Gods, I never thought I'd have to say that again."

  "Excellent, right, jolly good. Oh, and could you wipe down my screen panel with the sanitizer, flip on the UV switch, and ask the medical background of the ship keeping pace with us?"

  "There is no UV...what ship?!"

  "It has been dangling like an errant bogey for nearly an hour. Thrice it asked for clearance to dock, but I refused until it displayed their sexual disease workup."

  "For frocking sake!" Variel raised her voice to the horde curled around Orn's table. A small round of boos escaped as the Fuchlans failed again. "Hey, everyone, apparently there's a ship outside waiting for over an hour to dock, but our welcoming engine refused to do its damn job."

  Taliesin poked his head out, as did Brena. Orn shoved around the two of them and glared up at the squawk box behind Variel. "You mean I could have found the score to this fixed game an hour ago?"

  "Your bacteria laden kind is unworthy of computer intervention," WEST taunted.

  "Oh, is that so?" Orn scooted Variel out of the way and jumped on top of the lower drawer, inching his filthy glove closer and closer to WEST's panel.

  The computer screamed, the mask face bouncing around the screen as if made from rubber. Variel didn't stop her pilot, secretly cheering him on, but she said to the others, "I'm off to find Ferra. She can break the shuttle bay doors open and we can get this thing settled. No reason for the rest of you to come, shouldn't be very exciting at all, so I'll see you when it's over."

  A hand fell into Variel's panel; she nudged it away like an errant fly and one of the light elves apologized. She couldn't tell who it was in the backlit room crammed full of crew. "When I suggested that it be best everyone remain in the galley what I meant was everyone stay in the gods cursed galley."

  No one was about to sit back and wait to find out what lawyer's curse hung above one of them. Monde took up residence at the picked carcass of the shuttle management station. The bay remained empty because no one onboard could afford the payments on a functioning shuttle, never mind the insurance, and Ferra always found a new use for old wiring. Orn secured a spot just above the viewing panel, his nose poking above the safety instructions & game console, which also housed a still sterilizing himself WEST. The dulcens flitted about from one side to the other as both Ferra and Variel pushed past, trying to unjam what both the damn lawyer outside and computer refused to open.

  Twice, Ferra threatened to yank out all its sub-processors and replace them with cheese doodles. WEST responded by shutting the lights off. "Okay, if all goes right, this should open the doors."

  "How do we communicate to the law ship they can land?"

  Ferra pushed past the assassin as she smashed her elbow through a glass panel and yanked on a hidden eject lever, "We could fill a bunch of balloons with 'The Party's Inside' written upon them."

  Orn's voice cut across their technobabble as he waved his hand above the console, "Does this bug you, I'm not touching you..."

  "Or we load my husband into a cannon and shoot him at the ship," Ferra added.

  "Inside a space suit, you mean?" Variel asked, already knowing the answer.

  Ferra blinked slowly, "I guess, if you want to waste the time. Opening hatch now!"

  As the door broke, WEST calmed down immensely. The bandage was ripped free -- there was nothing it could do now to protect the crew from alien viruses sent to transform them into gelatinous cubes with grapes floating inside. They were on their own.

  Slowly, gears repaired after the last fight with Sovann ground down, opening up the only ship sized exit hole on the ship. WEST chirped up, "Owner 23, you are attempting to violate the docking regulations by failing to extinguish all oxygen from the cavern first."

  "Damn right, I am."

  "Would you like assistance?"

  Variel shrugged; it didn't matter if she agreed or not, WEST would do whatever it wanted to a very limited capacity. It managed to pump a small portion of the air out, but only had access to a quarter of the bay. And of course it babbled the entire time it tried to help, "Owner 23, at your age and demographics you require a regular cancer screening of the following parts of your anatomy: pancreas, left eye, ovum, jejunum, dorsal bladder, pituitary, and carburetor."

  "WEST, shut it."

  "Due to your regular activity in harsh environments, there is a 55% probability your lungs are filled with manticore backwash."

  "Stop talking you pile of 2's and 3's," Variel cursed at the never ending barrage. The law ship must have been monitoring their silent ship, as the pen shaped destruction of joy rotated around to prepare to dock.

  "Having an accumulation of over thirty various stab wounds across a lifetime enflames the possibility of internal bleeding, increasing ten fold with each passing year. I recommend injecting sponges into your organs."

  "Gods, WEST, shut your gob before I shut it for you."

  The computer paused in its litany of various ailments before answering, "There are few sexually transmitted diseases between humans and elves, but one must be wary of the pubic gnat that can burst from infected wounds up..." Variel slammed her fist hard on the mute button. None of the others reacted to WEST's blather, having gotten their own half crazed diagnoses over the past few days, but she still felt the obvious not-glare of Taliesin.

  After the Elation shifted with the addition of a new weight, the shuttle bay doors closed as air re-filtered into the room. Every member of the crew watched the two large lights on the console, the red still glaring. Nary a breath passed lips as the oxygen levels slowly rose outside their sealed off room. The red light flickered as green usurped its position and a mad scramble of limbs pushed through the narrow door of the control room, each person fighting to be the first down to the new ship. Orn managed to dodge through legs first. He yanked down upon his creeping vest, trying to appear presentable, as the others landed beside him before the pen spaceship.

  A sliver of a door cracked upon the sleek law sh
ip, designed to -- at best -- house two people as it traveled the galaxy dispensing bad news. It should have a deathly pallor, with the sharp curve of the nose and engine wings a soul shrinking silver, but the entire thing was a jolly sky blue. The Hydra, Hydra, and Brown symbol graced its vanishing door.

  A gangplank plummeted out, causing the curious crew to jump back from its sudden descent as a pair of boots edged out of the ship. Shinier than Cinderella's mirror slippers, they reflected back the rising face of their coming overlord; the blank, unresponsive face.

  It moved as if the limbs were cinched too tight, the joint's screws partially stripped. A black suit crisscrossed the body so tightly it appeared to be painted on. The face existed -- it had a nose, mouth, holes for eyes -- but they were all static; like a false head for storing wigs or replacement body parts. As the visitor stopped at the end of the plank, its fingers shot straight out and thin needles dispensed from the tips. All the Elation crew jumped back another inch, but the thing only shoved its needle tips into the case it carried. Cranking its arm to the right, a loud thunk emanated from the case and a face appeared over the blank slate.

  It looked a lot like the Mr. Hydra they'd met previously, a bit more worn around the eyes perhaps, more jowls overtaking a jaw, but otherwise a carbon copy. The projected face jumped as the mechanoid mouthed along with its words, failing to fully keep up with the transmission. "Is there a Variel Tuffman in residence here?"

  "I am."

  "Alias Terrwyn Yates, alias..." the mech froze as the human flipped data streams through his screen, "there appear to be no other aliases. Aliai? Alioose?"

  Variel didn't need to check to know her crew were boring glares into the back of her skull. She also didn't need to check that a few of the more competent ones were shifting weapons into a position. Three of them versus a mech droid, this wasn't even worth bringing out the medium sized guns. Maybe they'd luck out and it'd have the release codes inside its head.