by Tom Sadira
The thought of that evil cat turd being heralded as a hero reignited Charlie’s rage.
“So, we should just lie? Even though he sacrificed his own men for a goddamn trophy, we should all pretend it didn’t happen? Shit, man, I think we should call up the galactic newspaper, or whatever, and give them the scoop. Don’t you think the galaxy deserves the truth?”
Mother sighed again, this time with more of an edge. “Slow down, honey! I don’t think either of us are ready to discuss the truth just yet, are we?”
Charlie froze, a shoelace in each hand.
Goddamn, she’s on a roll!
Images flashed in his mind’s eye: Captain Major Tom’s Reptilian nature, the secret weapon, Charlie’s shameful deal with Nadia. Mother was right. He wasn’t ready to throw off the cloak of secrecy just yet.
“Besides,” she continued, “it’s a damn fool who thinks only good will come from blabberin’ on about what’s true and what’s not true. What those pregnant women need, what their children need in order to grow up big and strong and brave, are proud memories of those men.”
“Don’t you think I owe it to them to tell them what really happened?”
“Oh, you wanna give them a gift now? Is that it? How so very generous of you! Honest Captain Hong, wrappin’ up the truth and servin’ it cold! Do you have any idea how much anguish your gift would cause them?” Mother’s voice was loud and breathless. Charlie slunk into his chair, remembering the few times in his childhood he’d pissed off his grandmother. “Are you hearin’ a word I’m sayin’, boy? Or do you have more synaptic parasites swimmin’ around in that skull of yours?”
“Hey, come on. I just wanna—”
“You just wanna what? Listen, if you really wanna give them something, give them a story. Give them a story that they can carry with them through the dark times and pass on to their children. A story that will inspire them, that will give their people hope for the future. Beyond just a place to rest their head, or a ride to the next planet, a story is the greatest gift the captain of the Starseed can give.”
Charlie started to ask himself what Picard or Kirk would have done, how they would have handled the situation with boldness and certainty—but all at once, he stopped.
It didn’t matter what they’d do. Picard and Kirk weren’t real. They were fictional characters, polished and perfect, living in a black and white universe where they always made the right choice.
But the reality Charlie lived in was a whole lot grayer than the movies back on Earth had made it seem. Here, he had to set his own pace, write his own dialogue, plot his own story. With that power came the choice to decide whether he wanted to play the hero or the villain.
“Okay,” he relented. “Okay. You’re right, man. The truth would only hurt them. It’s best if I keep it to myself.”
“Good, honey,” Mother said, the gentle sweetness returning to her voice. “Now, the crew and a dozen or so Felonians have assembled in the banquet hall to celebrate the lives of their fallen comrades. Get on over there and show them how a real captain acts in a time of loss.”
With that, Charlie had left his quarters and spent the last hour or so avoiding the white aura of the ship’s guidance system. Despite deliberately going the wrong way at every turn, he suddenly found himself approaching the banquet hall.
Well, shit. Looks like the ship’s guidance system can work even if you don’t want it to...
He peeked around the edge of the open door. Specks of light danced whimsically in the air. Wooden mugs full of a foamy purple liquid sat beside plates stacked high with gnawed bones. At one end of the oblong table sat his crew, while the rest of the seats were occupied by blue-furred, bipedal felines. Besides a few solemn Felonian women, the mood seemed strangely upbeat for a memorial dinner.
Charlie ducked back into the corridor without being seen, but angled his head so he could follow the conversation.
“I still can’t believe it, yo!” Axolotl said.
“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” Zylvya said, her eyebrows arching up her forehead. “I’m telling you guys, the captain grabbed the moose by the neck—which wasn’t easy, you know, since he’s kind of short—and threw it off the cliff. It was intense! I wish I’d recorded it.”
“Uh, from what Mother said, Charlie claims it was an accident.” Del sounded annoyed. “He says the moose slipped and fell off the cliff.”
“Not that again!” Swarm rattled. “Look, the captain had been burned, starved, and had fallen off a smegging cliff! He’s not right in the head—although I’m not sure he ever was.”
“Swarm’s right, Del. After I picked him up, Charlie cried the whole way back to the Starseed, rambling about how he and the chocolate moose smoked a few blunts and became best buds. He was obviously traumatized by the stress, and his mind hallucinated all that stuff to help him cope.”
“Uh, okay. Whatever. I’m just the screen jockey who always gets left behind, right? What do I know?” whined Del.
“You’re a hero, dude!” Axo said cheerfully. “You saved the captain of the Starseed! If you hadn’t toked a million tons of salt inside those rain clouds, he’d be a pile of slug shit by now!”
“I gotta give it to you, Del. That was a brilliant move.” Swarm chuckled. “How in Andromeda did you come up with an idea like that?”
“Well, uh… I just searched for ‘slugs’ on the, uh, Outernet. Right there on the first result I learned that salt kills them pretty effectively. Then I remembered that only organic material is negatively affected by toking through unstable ionospheres. A simple mineral like sodium chloride would be fine. Duh, right? Next, I used the comm array to calculate the coordinates from the—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We got it, nerd,” Zylvya said sweetly. “You saved the day. And it’s not the first time, either. We’ll keep reminding you of this until it sinks in: you’re an indispensable part of this crew. We couldn’t do what we do out there without you doing what you do up here.”
Seconds passed where all Charlie could hear was the murmur of the Felonians chatting. Finally, Axo raised his voice, “Where’s Charlie? If he doesn’t get here soon, he’ll miss dessert.”
“Alright, everyone.” Mother’s voice quietly interrupted the conversations. “Thank you all for comin’ to this intimate memorial banquet in honor of our fallen Felonian brothers: Fyz, Nipzi, Shmek, Rhys, and, of course, Helwyr, last Kini of Felonia, father to so many refugees and warriors. We honor their sacrifice, their courage, and their legacy.”
Charlie’s stomach churned with fiery acid at the suggestion that Helwyr was anything more than an evil cat turd. He sighed, shook off the anger, and peeked into the room. Everyone grabbed a wooden mug and took a generous chug.
After the last mug had been slammed down, and the Felonians finished their ritual belches and growls, Mother continued, “Despite his awful ordeal on Vos Praeda, Captain Hong is finally feelin’ up to joining us. Captain, why don’t you come in and say a few words about Helwyr?”
Charlie threw himself back against the wall, his head darting up and down the corridor, trying to decide which way to run. He wasn’t sure whether the floor beneath him slid toward the open doorway, or if the open doorway crept along the wall to where he stood. All he knew was that he suddenly felt no wall behind him.
Charlie turned slowly, trying not to look too shocked, too sad, or too happy. After sweeping his gaze across the room, he took slow steps toward the empty chair at the head of the table.
Goddamnit, this isn’t fair.
Kirk and Picard had a room full of writers to script their speeches, but I’m expected to pull something profound out of my ass with zero notice.
“Hey, Seeders. Sorry that I’m, uh, late. I just flew in from Vos Praeda, and boy are my arms...” he trailed off, ashamed that he’d almost told a joke—a hacky joke, nonetheless—to a bunch of new widows.
He straightened up. “So, I didn’t know Helwyr a week ago. Actually, a week
ago I didn’t know any of you. I didn’t even know aliens existed, man. Anyway, I got to know him pretty well down there. You could say he really showed me who he was. So, who was he?”
Charlie paused and scanned the Felonians that clung to him with an expectant stare. He couldn’t help but notice that a few of the most tear-stricken had big, blue bellies.
“He was a master hunter and a resourceful survivalist. He faced death so that I wouldn’t have to. I’ll never forget him or the lessons he taught me about being a leader.” Noticing that the mugs had refilled on their own while he’d been speaking, he grabbed one and held it high. “To Helwyr.”
While everyone else threw back their heads to chug, he quickly tossed his purple beverage over his shoulder, slammed the mug down loudly, and wiped his mouth with his hand.
My days drinking alien liquor are over.
His eyes drifted to the piles of bones in front of all the guests. Here and there he noticed a skull, about the size of a large dog’s, picked clean and grinning a fanged smile.
Canipedes.
They ate the goddamn canipedes.
He shut his eyes to keep his stomach from somersaulting. When the thunking of mugs ended, he heard a sharp tapping coming from under his chair.
He opened his eyes, pushed it aside, and immediately had to clench his throat to stop from puking. Martha, the red hen that seemed to enjoy following him around the ship, was pecking at a platter that overflowed with plump pitgrubs.
Sweating, Charlie raised his eyes back to the table just in time to see the last plate sink into its surface and vanish.
“Is everyone ready for dessert?” Mother asked as a massive bulge pushed its way up through the table. Charlie swallowed hard.
It can’t be.
“Our new captain braved one of the most dangerous planets in the galaxy with a dream—”
Absolutely no way.
“—to claim for himself, and for all of us here today, a delicacy so rare that this could very well be the last time anyone will ever taste it. I give you—”
Charlie balled his fists and held his breath.
“—Captain Hong’s very own trihorn chocolate moose!” The bulge popped just as Mother finished, revealing the old white moose. It was on its back, all four legs in the air, with its eyes closed and its brown tongue dangling lifelessly from of its slack jaw.
A collective gasp sucked the air from the room. Everyone’s eyes lit up. They licked their lips and snatched their sporks.
Charlie burst into tears, sobbed an unintelligible apology, and ran out of the banquet hall as fast as he could.
25
“We’re here, sir,” the driver repeated, as he stood holding the limo door open.
Ben sighed inwardly and sharpened his phony smile.
“Your meeting is at three o’clock, sir. It’s ten minutes till, sir.”
Ben had done the math after getting the meeting invite, and he knew it shouldn’t take more than six minutes and fifteen seconds to get from the curb to the executive suite. He had time for one more.
“Would you like me to phone upstairs for you, tell them you need a couple more minutes?”
Ignoring the driver, he swiped at his phone. The photo that appeared was one of his absolute, all-time favorites. Number two, to be exact.
The three of them. Together, sleepy-eyed and smiling. Dawn’s light seeping into their tent. Even though it was still early November, the dirt under their dusty tent had already frozen solid. The nighttime temps would drop below freezing, sure, but they’d agreed it was worth it for a light-pollution-free glimpse of the Taurid meteor shower.
The night before the photo was taken had been quite a cold one, but they’d barely noticed. The trio had spent much of the night huddled around the telescope. Every few minutes they’d gasp, as yet another glorious fireball hurled itself through Earth’s atmosphere. Finally, when every last stellar object had been tracked down and identified, when they’d run out of packets of instant hot cocoa, when yawns became as frequent as laughs, they’d abandoned the telescope and dived into their family-sized sleeping bag. They’d clung to one another’s warmth, the boy tucked between them, and made up stories about their adventures through outer space.
Together—like it should be.
Like it was.
“Sir? Are you okay?”
The photo illuminated Ben’s face in the dim limousine. That sparkle in her eyes—hell, the sparkle in his own eyes—seemed a million light years away. The boy’s nappy hair, identical to his mother’s, was all smooshed up to one side. He’d inherited his mother’s goofy, half-cocked smile as well. And her whimsical spirit. And her bottomless heart. And her damn indomitable stubbornness.
Had the boy inherited anything from me?
Glaring at the office building that loomed overhead, he hoped not.
How could he have been so goddamn careless? How could he have let them slip away?
Without warning, and for the millionth time, the truth punched him in the stomach. He hadn’t let them slip away. It wasn’t some accident. He’d pushed them away. He’d hidden from them, right out in the open, for years. And when they couldn’t stand it any longer, they’d vanished. First one, then the other. Gone.
Enough.
His eyes climbed the 52 floors until they found the roof.
No more haunted dreams. No more hoping the boy’ll turn up.
Time to move on, once and for all. After this meeting, I’m heading to the roof.
“Sir, you really should be going now.”
Ben sighed, thumbed the display to sleep, and slid the phone into his jacket pocket. That was that. He snatched his suitcase from the seat next to him, tipped the driver, and started toward the corporate headquarters for his very last executive meeting.
The journey through the building was automatic. He visited a few times a year, for various corporate events or the occasional executive presentation, so he knew it by heart. But he’d never received an invitation from the CEO’s office, nor a one-on-one meeting with the big guy himself.
As he made his way up, he started running through a list of reasons why he would be summoned on such short notice. After a few seconds, he abruptly dropped the speculation. Praise or reproach, promotion or pink-slip—it didn’t really matter. He had a post-meeting lunch date with terminal velocity.
“He’ll see you now,” said the purse-lipped secretary whose name always slipped his mind. She glanced toward the two gigantic doors guarding the CEO’s office, and in a hushed voice added, “If he seems a little crankier than normal, don’t worry. It’s been a very busy morning and he hasn’t had his lunch yet.”
Ben smiled warmly and nodded. She winked at him over her glasses. After a customary knock on the door, he pushed it open.
“Ben!” the big guy boomed as Ben trekked across the enormous room.
“Mr. Vernon! As usual, it’s a pleasure.” Ben extended his hand and a humorless grin. He really had no idea why he was there, but he didn’t want to overdo his reaction in case things were about to get uncomfortable.
The big guy stood, shook his hand firmly, and motioned for Ben to sit. He was a sturdy old white man, as wide as he was tall, and despite the baldness and the sagging, liver-spotted skin, he still managed to produce the air of a battle-hardened general. He settled back into his throne-like leather seat and idly tapped his fingers on one of the two red folders laid out before him.
“Ben.” He smiled. His tone was light, almost playful. Perhaps the big guy had downed a few sips of bourbon to stave off his hunger pains. “Ben, Ben, Ben. Thank you for coming by on such short notice. Do you have any idea why I needed to see you so urgently?”
Ben cleared his throat. “No, sir, not exactly. But I suspect it has something to do with the InSight lander. If I may, I’d like to make it clear that my team’s calculations were absolutely flawless. If anyone’s to blame for what happened on Mars, it’s me. I personally designed the subsystems that led to—”
&n
bsp; The big guy stopped Ben with an explosive burst of laughter. “Mars? No, no, that’s all fine now. NASA’s chief, Jim Bridestine—or as the boys and I called him back home, ‘Mr. Shit-Eating Grin’— has done a fine job of covering up the whole anomaly. He and I had dinner recently, and trust me, he appreciates each and every project this company works on. You and your team did a fine job, as usual.”
“Thank you, sir.” Ben nodded and brightened his smile a notch.
He tried not to squirm as the big guy sat quietly studying him. There was a strange twinkle in the old man’s eyes that made his skin crawl. Maybe he’d had more than a couple sips of bourbon.
Finally, he stopped tapping the folder and broke the silence.
“You’ve been with the company for how long now? Nearly two decades? And year after year you’ve produced priceless scientific innovations. Technologies that have changed the world, to say the least. This company—and hell, the whole planet—owes you a great deal.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m honored to serve as CTO under you and the board. I look forward to many more years of progress,” Ben lied. He pictured his toes hanging over the lip, the exhilaration of the jump, the wind rushing up past him as he plummeted to the busy street below.
Seventeen point two seconds from roof to pavement. Maybe half a second longer if I keep my jacket on. Maybe a second more if a sidewind slows me down. Eighteen seconds, max.
“CTO?” The big guy leaned forward and slammed a stump-like fist onto the desk. “You deserve better than CTO! For instance, your latest gadget, the quantum laser grid thing—”
“The Quantum Megamaser.”
“Yes, that thing! Do you realize how valuable that technology is? Hell, Ben, for all we know, you may have single-handedly saved humanity! The ability for mankind to contain and control an extraterrestrial projectile—to prevent it from smashing into this planet and killing us all—is…is...”