by C M Dancha
The Mentat headed for his quarters. He needed to meditate, practice thought reading and walk through every possible scenario which might happen during the upcoming communication with the Lead Trifect. But the most important thing he needed to do was contact Millard Miller, the Secretary-General of Earth’s Global Union Assembly. Everything he learned during the communication and afterward had to be passed on to this man. The fate of Earth and possibly the universe depended on timely and accurate intelligence passed on to Miller.
19
A couple hours after settling into the captain’s gyro chair on the bridge, the Earthling felt the first pains in his lower abdomen. He didn’t pay much attention and took for granted it was normal digestive gases. After all, he did some heavy-duty partying on Ziptowtheon the night before. God only knew what liquids and foods he put into his body during the festivities. The last thing he remembered before passing out was the free-for-all debauchery enjoyed by every party-goer. He was sure the parties he and his buddies held were every bit as wicked and fun as the ones Caligula sponsored in ancient Rome. Plus, staying intoxicated helped him forget Beth.
Over the next two hours, the pains increased and moved from his lower abdomen into his entire stomach and chest. Soon his back ached like hell. It felt as though he lifted heavy weights all day. So much sweat ran down his forehead he could hardly see. He found an old rag and wrapped it around his forehead to sop up the salty drippings.
He didn’t know whether to stagger to the bathroom or stay on the bridge and hope the pain subsided. Either way, he knew this illness wasn’t going to leave as quickly as it arrived. This wasn’t food poisoning or a minor upset stomach. He was down for the count. He would have described his symptoms to a doctor as a combination of pneumonia and the flu.
He thought about calling his co-conspirators on Ziptowtheon to see if they were sick. It was worth the risk even if Morg might wake up and come out to the bridge during the communication. As it turned out, he didn’t have to worry about that happening. The pain became so excruciating, doing anything other than moan and groan was impossible. He finally passed out after promising God to be a good person if He would only end the pain.
Something woke Morg from a dream filled with bizarre places and beings he never met. The only thing familiar about this dream was it involved another mission he was unable to complete satisfactorily. Ever since childhood, all his dreams had the same basic theme. He was involved in a mission or event which needed a hero. He volunteered or jumped at the challenge only to be thwarted by some minor inconvenience. He never saved the victim or himself. He was so close each time; within an inch or minute. Sadly, he never made the grade of hero. Frustration was the only thing he ever accomplished in each of his dreams.
There was a slight difference this time after awakening from his dream. He felt too crappy to be frustrated by the outcome. He had a tough time lifting himself to a sitting position in the gyro cot. He had a splitting headache and aches and pains radiated throughout his endoskeleton.
Yandans didn’t have sweat glands. Toxins discharged from their bodies through the same filter gills that removed noxious gases from the air they breathed. Morg forced himself to stand and walk over to a wash basin. It only took one look into the mirror to know he was damn sick. His normal facial colors comprised of different shades of grey and green had washed out to a pale beige. Tiny streamlets of a mustard yellow, pussy fluid ran out of each filter. He felt bad and looked bad. But, worst of all, he smelled bad.
The first clue to a Yandan’s health was his odor. If he was in decent shape, without any infections or broken limbs, he was odorless. Any disease or imperfection caused a Yandan's defense system to react internally and externally. While microorganisms within the body fought the infection, a noxious odor excreted from glands behind each knee and elbow. It was so disgusting it sent everyone running. If the patient died, the odor increased ten-fold and became unbearable. Only a Yanda could tolerate handling a Yandan corpse. Any other being had to wear a heavy-duty hazmat suit with fragrance infused breathing filters.
Morg braced himself on the wash basin and stared at the image in the mirror. If he didn’t know otherwise, he would have wondered who the being was staring back. His mind wandered, and he thought back to something he learned in the military academy as a Yandi. The reason Yandans gave off a hideous odor when hurt could be traced back to the beginning of their race. The legend was that hurt Yandans from ancient times stayed alive and recuperated faster when they ran off the enemy with a repugnant odor. What foe would come close enough to make the final kill if he had to smell that odor? An odor so vile it seeped into clothes and hung in nostrils for days.
As far as he knew there wasn’t an enemy to run off the transport. Yet that didn’t stop his body from producing the same odor his ancestors used thousands of years before to run off invaders and assailants.
He filled the wash basin with a mildly acidic liquid formulated especially for Yandans. The filtrated water the Earthling used was too harsh on Yandan gills and scales. With the bowl filled, he put his entire face in the liquid. He could stay under the liquid for as long as he wanted. There were two breathing gills on either side of his neck which took over when his nose was blocked. He was hoping that submersion for an hour or so would clear his head and make him feel better. After ten minutes he gave up. The achy pain had migrated from the front of his body to the rear. Whatever invaded his body was settling in and making Morg miserable.
Morg was afraid to lay down again on the gyro cot. He feared that he would never get back up. He forced himself into the uniform he took off for sleeping and trudged into the hallway leading to the bridge. Halfway to the bridge, he doubled over. It was like someone hit him across the back with a carbon-metallic, enforcement baton. He gasped for air and thought for a moment he was going to hack up his last meal. Nothing came out of his mouth, but a wad of slithery phlegm shot from his nose. At first, he thought an insect or small animal had somehow crawled up his nose passage while sleeping and now decided to escape. He took a closer look at the discharge. It wasn’t a living creature, but it was the strangest thing Morg had ever seen come out of his or anyone’s body.
He moved at a slow pace through the hallway. He could come back later and clean up whatever organism ejected from his nose. Before he could see the bridge, he heard the Earthling. The sound coming from the Earthling was like hearing the mortally wounded on a battlefield shortly before dying. The groaning mixed with crying out in desperation for help. Morg wanted to run to the bridge but he couldn’t muster the energy. He would be lucky to get there by walking.
The Earthling was lying on the bridge floor behind the control panel. He was in a fetal position. Even from thirty-five feet, Morg could tell the kid was shivering as though he was in a Treptow arctic blizzard. The kid was going in and out of consciousness. When he wasn’t passed out, he was crying for help. A couple times he called for Morg. If it wasn’t Morg it was his god. He even pleaded for help from his father and mother a couple times.
There was no reason to question the kid or try to look for what ailed him. Morg didn’t have the energy and the kid wasn’t coherent. He needed to do something for the punk even though there was a part of him that wanted to leave the little jerk on the floor to writhe away in pain. He decided not to be vindictive. He reached down and grabbed the kid by the midsection and started to the sleeping quarters. The kid was usually light as a feather. This time he felt as hefty as a pregnant Slippteon bull moose. Whatever invaded Morg’s body had zapped his strength. He struggled to get the kid to the sleep bay without passing out.
He laid the kid into a gyro cot and covered him with an all-temp blanket. The kid was going back and forth between burning up with fever and freezing. The all-temp blanket was a medical wonder. It would keep the kid’s body temperature at a constant ninety-two degrees. It wouldn’t cure him, but at least, he would be more comfortable.
He considered giving the kid an all-purpose injection made t
o fight non-life-threatening ailments. It worked wonders combating the common cold, flu, sore throats, and a host of viral and bacterial infections. Unfortunately, it couldn’t ward-off serious infections. When given to a being with a serious affliction the results were usually disastrous. Whatever was in the serum made these illnesses worse and, in some cases, resulted in death. There was a large warning label on the syringe which read, “FOR USE IN FIGHTING MINOR ILLNESS. DO NOT USE ON PATIENTS HAVING SERIOUS INFECTIONS AND DISEASES. CONSULT QUALIFIED PHYSICIANS FOR THESE AILMENTS.” The warning label was enough to convince Morg the kid was better off without the injection. Before leaving sleep bay, Morg gave the kid a general anesthesia which would make him sleep for at least four hours.
It was tempting to lay down in the adjacent gyro cot and go to sleep, but someone had to be on the bridge. The transport could be set to auto-pilot, but the ship’s computers couldn’t make logical decisions when confronted with unusual circumstances like a fragment-storm or contact with another ship. Maybe he could get comfortable enough in the captain’s gyro chair to take a nap. All he would do is set the auto-pilot to alarm mode. If the transport encountered any unusual obstructions or contacts, an ear-piercing alarm would wake him.
Morg made it back to the bridge and fell into the captain’s chair. He was getting sicker but tried to convince himself it was his imagination. The safety of the voyage depended upon his attentive leadership. He couldn’t afford to be sick. Two minutes later he was sound asleep. For the first time in many years, he didn’t dream. His body was so busy fighting off the illness it couldn’t spare any energy or brain cells to create dreams.
Four hours later, the auto-pilot alarm brought Morg out of a deep sleep. How long it blared was anyone’s guess. Morg shook his head back and forth trying to clear the cobwebs from his brain. He thought about another acidic head-dunking, but it would take too long to get to the wash basin. Besides, he didn’t have the energy to make it there and back.
When his eyes cleared, he shut off the alarm and looked at the sub-space-sonar on the control panel. Sitting about ten quadrants away was a ship. Its shadow drive system was disengaged but its life-support systems were still working. The slight movement the ship made was known as space-drift. It resulted from flying into or landing in a sub-vacuum pocket. These were large areas throughout space which had less than zero atmosphere. They were like black holes but on a much smaller scale.
The ship was in the direct path of the transport’s route. If it was off-set either way by a couple quadrants the transport could have flown past it without an alarm going off. But this was more bad luck. Besides being sick, Morg now had to screw around with a marooned vessel in deep space. He thought of bypassing the ship but decided to investigate. There was no reason not to investigate. The transport had already slowed down to a crawl to avoid a crash. If he was creeping up on the marooned vessel he might as well see if he could help whoever was in it.
Morg guided the transport within a quadrant and hailed the stranded vessel. He kept a close eye on their missile defense system in case this was a staged trap. There was no response from the vessel. He continued to hail the ship but got nothing in return. Finally, he scanned the interior of the vessel and picked up five life forms. Four were dead. Their bodies still gave off energy even though they died hours before. The fifth being had a life force signal but it was very weak. Morg pulled within boarding distance of the marooned vessel and attached a harness beam. He grabbed his assault rife in case this was an elaborate ruse.
He cautiously scoured the marooned vessel for survivors. As his transport scanners indicated there was only one. Morg recognized the being as a Trikian. They were short, squatty beings, completely void of body hair. Their heads were huge compared to their bodies. Morg always wondered how their slim, twig-like necks could support such large craniums. They were known throughout the universe as weaklings who hired other beings to do all their physical labor.
Trikians had two traits which separated them from every other race in the universe. First, they were true intellectuals. The speed at which they processed data and came up with correct answers and viable solutions was remarkable. Their brains worked at super-computer speeds. In fact, they were often pitted against supercomputers in contests to see which was faster. The Trikian usually won.
The other fascinating thing about Trikians was their ability to find precious metals and gems. It didn’t make a lot a sense that such weak creatures could go anywhere in the universe and find something of value hidden below tons of rock and dirt. Yet, that was the skill all Trikians were good at. And, it made them very rich.
Their mining operations were wildly profitable. They would land on a planet, find rich veins, and then lease or buy the rights to that piece of land. How they found the rich deposits was a mystery. Some thought they could smell the valuable minerals. Others thought they could see valuable gems below the planet’s crust. No one knew for sure and the Trikians wouldn’t give up the answer. There were many legends about Trikians who were tortured to death without giving up the secret to their mining success.
The lone Trikian survivor was passed out on the bridge. His breathing was shallow, and he exhibited many of the same symptoms the kid and Morg had. Before leaving their ship, Morg double-checked the other four Trikians to make sure they were dead. He also did a download of their past month’s flight log. He would play it when he got back to the transport. He wanted to know where this ship had been. The log might provide some clues about the four dead Trikians and why their ship was drifting in deep space. It didn’t make any sense. If anything, the ship should be locked onto a destination and moving toward it on auto-pilot.
Morg picked the surviving Trikian off the floor and slung him over his shoulder. Five minutes later he was back on the Yandan transport. He took the Trikian to an empty sleep bay and administered the same help he gave the Earthling. Again, he opted not to give the Trikian the general infection-killing serum. His symptoms were so like the Earthling’s the fear of killing him with the serum made his decision easy.
Morg stumbled back to the bridge and loaded the Trikian disc into the control panel. The recorded playback was undamaged but portions of it were intentionally erased. Most of the recording was nothing more than the five Trikians going about their normal business on their ship. Morg put the recording into hyper-search and looked for keywords, phrases, and activities. To his surprise, the hyper-search produced some interesting results.
Of major interest was that the recording contained over four hundred minor segments where the Trikians talked about precious jewels, gems, and minerals. Even for beings who spent their entire lives looking for treasures, this seemed like an unusually high number. What was more interesting was that every one of these segments had been scrubbed. They were still on the recording, but only authorized beings could watch and listen to them. There was no sense trying to access these segments. It would take a lifetime to figure out the access code to these scrubbed segments.
The other thing which caught Morg’s attention was that the Trikian ship had been to Feltte Six two weeks before. Morg wondered what a Trikian ship was doing on a planet that catered to criminals. As far as he knew, Trikians were very straight-laced. They didn’t drink liquor, smoke, or do drugs. In fact, he couldn’t ever remember hearing about a Trikian who took part in any type of vice. They were too busy scouring the universe looking for treasure and getting rich.
After three hours of watching and listening to the recording, Morg gave up. He couldn’t access the scrubbed segments and the stop-over at Feltte Six was interesting, but he didn’t know what to make of it. Watching five beings get sick and dying one after another wasn’t Morg’s idea of good entertainment. It was especially difficult to watch because it looked exactly like what the kid and he were suffering from. He wondered if he had just watched a trailer of their soon-to-be deaths?
Morg sat back in the gyro chair and tried to get comfortable. Now that he didn’t have anything to occupy
his attention the pain radiating throughout his body was more intense. He needed to shift his mind to another subject. It was an old trick he used in combat. When he got hurt, he immediately started to think about anything other than the wound. His mate was one of his favorite subjects. Thinking about her made him impervious to the pain. At times it worked so well he forgot the wound and rejoined the battle.
It didn’t take long for him to find a subject to take his mind off the illness. He wondered who erased segments of the recording and what was erased. He came up with all kinds of possible explanations. He tore each theory apart and assigned it a numerical probability score. The higher the score the more likely the theory made sense and explained what was erased. The lower the score the less likely the theory explained the erasures. These mental gymnastics were like a game. All he had to do to win the prize was to figure out what was erased.
After hours of playing the game, he was left with one explanation which stood apart from all others. The Trikian who did the erasures was still alive and in the transport’s rest bay trying to stay alive. Knowing his mates had died, and he might be close to the same fate, he decided to erase all references to their latest treasure find. It was a reasonable thing to do for a being whose entire life revolved around finding treasure. By deleting all references to their treasure find, he guaranteed it would remain a secret until another Trikian stumbled upon it. There was no reason to give the location of this treasure bonanza to a non-Trikian. Especially a Yandan who stumbled upon their dead ship and bodies in deep space.
The pain, nausea, and fever came rushing back after he quit playing the who-and-what game. It was evident that everyone on the transport needed medical attention. No one was getting better. Morg had to get them to a medical station soon or another ship would be drifting in deep space with corpses on it.