by C M Dancha
“Earthling, you’re so full of crap. Do you think I was born yesterday? I know you got tossed out of several foot fetish brothels and the Madams wanted you killed.”
“So, you were following….” That was as much as Morg heard. He ignored everything else the Earthling said and put the transport into a standard evasive weave pattern. He needed to buy time and figure out what to do.
Less than a minute later, the Feltte Six commander hailed the Yandan ship again. “Yandan transport E647. You are hereby commanded to disengage your shadow drive and stand-down. Any further attempt to flee will be met with a harsh military response. If you value your lives, ship, and cargo, you will stop at once.”
Well, there it was, the final ultimatum. Either stop and turn the Earthling over to the Feltte Six authorities or continue to run and hope their pilots were lousy gunners. There was no sense jumping to hyper-drive because the pursuers would do the same and follow Morg’s flight signature.
Morg checked the control panel and counted five Feltte Six ships in pursuit. They were in an inverted “V” pursuit pattern with three ships behind the Yandan transport and one on each side. Whatever the kid did on Feltte Six must have been quite grievous. He must have really pissed off someone to have five Interceptors tail them this far into space. They were now well outside the Feltte Six space boundary.
Morg was running out of time. He had to make a decision and hope it was right. He could tell that the Feltte Six interceptor commander was irritated. The tone of his “stop now" command was beyond harsh. Morg knew if he surrendered the Earthling there was little to no chance of seeing the kid again.
There was only one thing in Morg’s favor. Their transport was a disguised cargo hauler. The Trifect did everything possible to make the transport look unappealing to pirates and monitoring systems. It supposedly had an out-of-date shadow drive system, obsolete equipment, and no military hardware. It was old, slow, and ugly. Anyone encountering the transport in space would take it for a hauler on its last legs. In fact, most junk haulers were in better condition than the Yandan transport.
What no one other than Morg knew, was that the Trifect equipped the transport with the latest defensive battle armament. It was the best in the universe. The newest technology and a hundred percent automated. All Morg had to do was verbally instruct the defense system to annihilate the pursuing Interceptors and that would be the end of the chase.
The situation he now found himself in was ideal for getting rid of the kid, but what would be the consequences? The Trifect would consider him derelict in his mission. His offspring would be destroyed and his assets on Yanda confiscated. The penalties for failing to deliver the kid to Earth were extreme. But destroying five Interceptors belonging to a friendly alliance planet wouldn’t go over very well, either. More than likely, he would be considered a criminal with a bounty put on his head. Then it would be up to the Trifect to somehow protect him from Feltte Six prosecution. But, would they or would they allow him to be a sacrificial lamb?
As Morg debated with himself, red warning signals lit up the control panel. The Feltte Six Interceptors had primed their launch systems and were seconds away from firing thermal missiles.
He couldn’t wait any longer. “Defense system destroy pursuing Interceptors.”
There was a slight kick in the transport’s forward momentum as Thermax projectiles launched and vaporized the Interceptors, one by one. The Thermax projectiles were ten times more accurate and deadlier than the standard thermal missiles. They were completely stealth, undetectable, and couldn’t be deflected by defensive shields. In a way, Morg felt sorry for the Feltte Six crews. They never knew what hit them.
“Way to go, Morg. My man. That was so unbelievably badass. “
That was as much of the Earthling Morg wanted to hear. He turned off his translator and spoke in a commanding voice deserving of a war hero. “System, lock destination to Earth.”
Morg lay back in his gyro chair and sighed in relief. For the time being, they were safe and could resume their flight plan to Earth. He figured they had roughly one to two light years in travel time before Feltte Six authorities figured out what happened to their Interceptors. They would raise hell and submit an official protest to the Yandan High Council. Of course, the High Council would play along and act outraged. They would condemn the pilot of the transport who attacked and destroyed ships belonging to an alliance planet. But their biggest problem would be explaining how a run-down transport sported the most advanced weaponry in the universe. Morg was sure the Trifect hadn’t bothered to tell the High Council about arming the transport to the max. Why should they? The real power on Yanda rested with the Trifect. The High Council was nothing more than a figurehead of Yandan might and superiority. Between the Council and Trifect, they would have to come up with one hell of a cover story to appease the Feltte Six authorities.
Morg turned ninety degrees in his gyro chair. He finally gathered enough interest to see what the Earthling was up to. After one look, he wished that he had set the controls to autopilot and gone to his quarters to relax. He needed rest and a cleansing. Not to mention ignoring the nut case who was dancing around the bridge in grand celebration.
The Earthling was still wearing a shoulder-length, red wig which looked as though it hadn’t been brushed in several years. His face was almost unrecognizable. Heavy red lipstick was painted in perfect proportion from corner to corner of his mouth. It drastically contrasted with the caked-on, dark ebony makeup and perfectly plucked and dyed black eyebrows.
Morg didn’t know whether to laugh or scream in anguish at the costume the Earthling wore. Besides the low-cut, off-the-shoulders blouse, the Earthling wore a very tight mid-thigh skirt. Fishnet stockings and elevated shoes completed the wardrobe. For some vague reason, Morg knew the shoes were called spiked high-heels. Every bit of the Earthling’s skin was dyed the same dark ebony shade as his face.
The Earthling was swaying this and that way. He moved his hips, head, and shoulders to the vibration Morg could feel resonating throughout the bridge. It was the same vibration Morg banned the Earthling from playing weeks before. It was that damn thing Earthlings called music. Somehow the kid had figured out how to repair the ship’s audio system.
He turned on his translator and got an ear full of blasting, base-pounding harmony. It reverberated throughout the bridge. The vibrations engulfed Morg. He folded over the membrane covering his ear cavities to avoid damage to his audio receptors.
The kid was in his own little world. He was so busy dancing and singing along with the recording that Morg thought he may have finally lost his mind. Between verses, he kicked each of his high-heel shoes into the air at Morg and laughed provocatively. If that wasn’t enough, his hand gesture for Morg to join him on the make-believe stage was over the top.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. That tune was R-E-S-P-E-C-T, written and sung by the famous Aretha Franklin a couple thousand years ago.” The Earthling flipped a few strands of red hair out of his face in perfect female fashion and continued his act. “This next tune is dedicated to my good friend from Yanda who just saved my ass from the Feltte Six authorities. Morg, old buddy, this one is for you.”
Morg had reached his limit. The lunacy had gone far enough. He now regretted not giving up the kid to the Feltte Six authorities. He got out of his gyro chair, walked over to the Earthling, and swiped the red wig off the kid’s head.
The Earthling winced in pain and felt the top of his head. He made sure his real hair was still there and he wasn’t bleeding. “Dammit Morg, that hurt. The damn wig was pinned to my hair.” The kid continued to swear as Morg dragged him over to the co-captain’s gyro chair and threw him in it.
“Stay there and don’t touch a thing. I’m going to the rest bay. If I come back here and find anything out of order, I swear I’ll lock you in the cargo bay for the rest of the trip.” Morg took two steps toward the rest bay and stopped. He turned and said, “By the way, when I get up, we’re going t
o have a long talk about what you did on Feltte Six. And, take off that outfit. You look like a damn fool.”
The Earthling’s eyes grew to the size of saucers. Morg had obviously hit a raw nerve. Even through the painted on makeup, Morg could see fear and apprehension spread across the kid’s face. He wondered how the kid would have reacted if he mentioned the three missing mercenaries. That subject was also on his list of discussion topics.
An hour later, Morg sat in a cleansing bath thinking about his mate, offspring, Jimmy Washington, and the time he spent on Feltte Six. He had to admit that he had fun in the Cannis blind pig with Jimmy. Too bad the fun times were overshadowed by the nonsense, stupidity, and probable crimes committed by the Earthling.
Morg started to relax and was close to sleep when an alarming thought raced through his head. The Feltte Six authorities knew the transport’s identifier code and most likely its flight signature. They hailed the transport by its identifier code, E647. There was no reason to believe they hadn’t communicated the transport’s flight signature to their command headquarters.
Morg started talking to himself. It was a bad habit but one he couldn’t break when he was under stress. “Shit. I'm sure Feltte Six has sent a Look-For bulletin to every planet and monitoring station within four light years. Dammit, we either have to get rid of the transport, hide or….”
A loud, thunderous burst coming from the bridge ended his discussion with himself.
“Son-of-a-bitch. Now what? I swear I’m going to….”
5
Morg sprinted to the bridge wearing only a towel around his midsection. Before he rounded the last corner, he smelled the pungent odor of arcing electricity and heard a strange hissing noise. The blue-grey smoke billowing from the bridge area was thick and seemed to be intensifying. He couldn’t see a thing. If the Earthling was still in the area, he must be passed out from smoke inhalation and on his way to death by suffocation.
“Earthling. Earthling, can you hear me?”
Morg waited but heard nothing other than the continuous hissing. The sound reminded him of relief valves on Yandan invasion ships. It was one of the sounds associated with landing and stabilizing the ship so military cargo could unload.
The two filter gills on either side of his neck worked perfectly. Toxic fumes and smoke were scrubbed by the gills, leaving only the correct combination of clean gases to enter his body. He wished his eyes were as proficient, so he could see through the smoke and haze.
There was nothing Morg could do other than wander through the smoke hoping to stumble over the Earthling.
“Earthling. Say or do something if you can hear me.”
The Earthling let Morg search hopelessly for a few minutes before he removed the tiny ventilators from each nostril and put them in his bra. He prayed they wouldn’t fall out when Morg carried him to safety. He started tapping on the floor knowing the Yandan’s acute hearing would pick up the sound immediately. He smiled to himself and started to moan and groan and threw in a couple weak coughs. He considered calling out to the Yandan but didn’t want to push his luck. Morg wasn’t very bright most of the time but he would probably pick up on theatrical overacting.
He was having great fun playing the role of a despondent victim buried beneath an avalanche of toxic fumes. This was almost as fun as what he did on Feltte Six.
As he calculated, Morg found him in less than ten seconds. Through the smog, the Yandan’s scaly and gnarled feet, with eight toes each, appeared. All he had to do was hold his breath another twenty seconds to prevent any more toxic gases from entering his lungs.
Morg bent over and picked up the limp Earthling with one hand. He carried him to the rest area and put him in a gyro cot. He needed to get back to the bridge and deal with the fire before any more damage occurred. He checked for a pulse by placing a hand appendage on the Earthling’s carotid artery located in his neck. The kid was still breathing. His pulse was weak but still throbbing at regular intervals. There was a part of Morg hoping not to find a pulse. Morg took one last look at the Earthling before heading to the bridge. He found it strange that the kid’s complexion appeared to be normal. He didn’t know a lot about the humanoid anatomy, but this didn’t seem logical. Suffocation should cause some type of change to the skin color. A humanoid with fair skin and lack of pigmentation, like the kid, should show a bluish or salmon-pink color when starved of oxygen.
The Earthling cracked open one of his eyes and watched the Yandan hurry from the rest area. He was tempted to get up and get a drink but thought it too risky. The Yandan may return unexpectedly. He rolled on his side and decided to get some well-deserved sleep. Creating chaos and mayhem was hard work even if it was fun and exciting.
Morg checked the ship’s emergency control panel before going back to the bridge. The Kalon fire suppressant system was still discharging at ten percent efficiency. That explained the hissing sound Morg heard. But, why hadn’t the smoke and Kalon gas dissipated? A quick check of the ventilation system provided the answer. For some unexplained reason, the venting system was jammed. With the vents open the microorganisms could devour the toxic waste and return pure oxygen, hydrogen, and nitrogen to the ship’s interior. But closed vents prevented the pollutants from getting to the cleansing microorganisms.
Morg did a manual bypass reset and stood motionless waiting to hear if the venting system started to operate. Within ten seconds, he heard the vents open and the fans start to rotate. It would take less than five minutes before most of the smoke and gases dissipated and the bridge was ready for inspection.
Morg stood outside the bridge and watched the hazy clouds of smoke slowly clear. He wondered if there was a gasnometer stored someplace on the ship. With this piece of equipment, he could measure the toxicity throughout the bridge. He was particularly interested to know what the reading was at floor level. How long could the Earthling have lain on the floor breathing toxic fumes before passing out and dying? Unfortunately, it was too late to start looking for this piece of equipment.
Rather than go directly to the scene of the fire, Morg made concentric circles around the bridge starting on the outer walls and then working in toward the control panel. This was another tactic he learned during his years as a Yandan Invasion trooper. At any investigative scene, Yandan officers were taught to start on the perimeter looking for clues. Then they worked inward toward the crime scene or body.
Nothing stood out or looked out of place. The Earthling’s high-heel shoes were against the far wall and his red wig was on the floor about fifteen feet behind the control panel. Otherwise, there was nothing that caught Morg’s attention. If anything, the area looked too normal, almost staged.
All suffocation and strangling crimes Morg investigated had one thing in common. The victims always left behind some type of evidence showing they struggled to find the air needed to survive. They flopped around like a fish out of water knocking over furniture and fixtures. They spilled drinks or left behind some other type of evidence. But that wasn’t the case on the bridge. Nothing was knocked off the control panel and there wasn't a thing left behind from the Earthling’s cross-dressing outfit. Morg thought how odd it was that the Earthling hadn’t ripped off his necklace or some other piece of jewelry as he struggled to breathe.
Another thing which bothered Morg was why hadn’t the Earthling escaped from the bridge when the Kalon system went off? He must have had enough time to run out of the area to safety. Why did he stay on the bridge to be overwhelmed by the fumes?
With these questions still swirling in his head, Morg wandered over to the captain’s gyro chair and sat down. He was lost in thought for the next couple minutes, mulling over possible explanations for the kid’s reaction to the fire. When he finally looked at the control panel, the first thing he noticed was that the communications sub-panel was in terrible condition. The entire control panel was in bad shape, but the sub-panel was fried. The housing was deformed due to intense heat and the interior components which made the syst
em work were a giant lump of worthless silica.
Since leaving Yanda, the ship was in a communications quarantine, so no one could determine their destination, cargo, or mission. Now, the transport was incapable of communicating with any other ship, outpost, or planet. If they had an emergency like the shadow drive system failed, no one would come to their rescue. They would drift alone in the cold depths of deep space until another ship or sweeper stumbled upon them. And, when the other ship’s crew boarded the Yandan transport all they would find was two shriveled-up bodies.
Morg tried to think of a way to establish some type of communications with the outside world. At minimum, a simple SOS transponder would work. He considered bastardizing components from other systems within the ship. But, not one combination he could think of solved the problem. He finally gave up and headed to the rest bay to question the Earthling. There were a lot of unanswered questions which needed explaining and the kid was the only one who knew the answers.
“Earthling, wake up.” Morg shook the kid repeatedly until he thought a dousing with water was needed. The kid was awake but pretended to be asleep. At times, he enjoyed irritating the Yandan.
The Earthling rolled on his back and opened his eyes. “Morg. My buddy. What’s going on?”
“You and I need to have a talk.”
“Sure, dude. I’m at your disposal. What do you want to know?”
“How did that fire start on the bridge?”
“You know, I’ve been asking myself the same question.” The Earthling paused for a few seconds to prop himself up in the gyro cot. He acted as though he was in deep thought trying to figure out what started the fire.
“Morg, I was just sitting there, daydreaming about some birds I’ve known, when flames erupted from the control panel. Within seconds, the fire was out of control and the room filled with smoke. That’s the last thing I remember until you woke me up.