“Uh, yeah. Pretty sure there is,” Mech argued.
Cal placed a finger to his lips. “Shh, now. Let’s never talk about it again,” he said. “Except later, when we all discuss how awesome I was to think of it.”
“Going to warp speed,” Loren announced.
“Fonk. OK. Go!” Cal said, gritting his teeth and pushing himself back into his seat in anticipation.
“We’re being hailed, sir,” Kevin said.
“Loren, wait.” Cal relaxed a little. He glanced up. “Who by?”
“Someone angry, sir. Very shouty. I don’t much like the look of him, to be honest.”
“Ah, fonk him, then,” said Cal. “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all. That’s my motto.”
“What? You say nasty shizz about people all the time,” Mech pointed out.
“Yeah, so?” Cal blinked a couple of times. “Wait, is that what ‘motto’ means? You actually do the thing?”
“That is kind of the entire point, yeah,” Mech confirmed.
Cal pulled a surprised face. “Huh. You learn something new every day,” he said, then he braced himself again and nodded ahead. “Loren, punch it.”
Space stretched unpleasantly, turning the stars into thousands of parallel lines and Cal’s insides into three cups of warm butter. The stuff in front of them became the stuff behind them as the Currently Untitled leapt to several times the speed of light, and physics ceased to make very much in the way of sense.
Cal coughed his tongue out from the back of his throat, blinked his eyes back into position, and scooted forward and back in his chair until it was no longer giving him a wedgie. That all done, he unfastened his seatbelt and stood up.
It had taken him a while to get used to flying at greater than light speeds, as the fifteen-minute video Mech had made of him begging for death while vomiting into a wastepaper basket ably demonstrated.
Still, he wasn’t like that anymore. That sort of thing was all in the past.
It had to be… what? At least two weeks, he reckoned, since the video had been shot. Roughly that, anyway. It was hard to be sure, as the concept of ‘weeks’ didn’t really hold much water in deep space.
Much like that wastepaper basket hadn’t held vomit, in fact.
He took a moment to get his balance, hampered a little by the lack of one boot. Once he had, he looked up into the vents and pipework that covered much of the bridge’s ceiling. “Splurt? Buddy? You there? You and I need to have a little talk, mister,” he said. “Where were you? We needed you out there.”
“Didn’t you, like, tell him not to come?” said Miz.
“Yes, I told him not to come,” said Cal, with a tone that suggested this was a stupid question. “But since when has that ever stopped him? You know Splurt. He always comes. Even when I don’t want him to—especially when I don’t want him to—he just comes.”
He pointed in the direction of the corridor. “I tell him to stay, and then I go out and I know one thing for certain. Splurt’s coming. That’s what he does. Splurt never stays. Splurt comes,” Cal continued.
His voice trailed off as he heard the words coming out of his mouth.
“Shizz. That woman in the restaurant may have had a point,” he acknowledged, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “That does sound kind of sexual.”
He shuddered, then looked up again. “Splurt? Where the fonk are you?”
“Master Splurt is in his room, sir,” Kevin intoned.
“Oh, he is, is he?” said Cal. “Well, we’ll just see what… Wait. Splurt has a room?”
“Technically not, sir,” Kevin admitted. “But given that we have company present, I felt it sounded better than, ‘He’s in the kitchen cupboard.’”
“Good call,” Cal conceded. “But what the fonk is he doing in… Shizz. Wait.”
Company present.
With all the excitement of their escape, Cal had completely forgotten the reason for it. He turned to the guest chairs to find Tyrra rocking back and forth, her arms wrapped around herself, her razor-sharp teeth grinding together.
“Yeah, I know, kid. Loren’s flying has that effect on all of us,” he said.
“Wait, ain’t that Junta’s kid?” Mech asked.
“Tyrra,” Cal confirmed. The girl flinched a fraction at the sound of her name, but continued to rock and stare.
“She kicked the shizz out of you a while back, right?” asked Mech, smirking slightly.
“No, she did not! I mean, sure, she got in a few good punches and battering-rammed me in the balls a couple of times. But, ultimately, I kicked the shizz out of her,” Cal said.
Even as the words came out of his mouth, he suspected they didn’t paint him in quite the light he hoped they would. He doubled down, though, and added a, “So, there,” for good measure.
“You know she’s a child, right,” said Mech.
“She’s an alien shark child,” Cal corrected.
“Still a child,” Mech insisted.
“No. I disagree. It’s not the same,” Cal countered, although he was floundering a little. “The nasty little bedge tried to break my neck. She totally had it coming.”
He remembered for the second time in as many minutes that Tyrra was right there in the room. He flashed her one of his most winning smiles as he squatted next to her and patted her on the knee. “Hey, you!” he said. “Uh, just go right ahead and ignore that stuff I just said, OK? Will you do that for me?”
Tyrra rocked back and forth, her eyes staring blankly through him.
“I’m going to go ahead and take that as a yes,” Cal said.
Miz turned in her chair. “What’s wrong with her?” she wondered.
Cal snapped his fingers in front of Tyrra’s face a couple of times. Her eyes darted around as if searching for the source of the sound, but never quite finding it.
“I have absolutely no clue,” Cal admitted. “Kevin? You got any ideas?”
“Oh! Yes! I do as it happens. I’m very glad you asked, sir,” the AI replied, excitement coloring his voice. “So… You know wigwams…?”
“Specifically about this current situation,” said Cal, cutting him off before he could go any further.
Kevin’s voice flattened out. “Ah. I see,” he said. “Then no, sir. No ideas about this, I’m afraid.”
Loren appeared at Cal’s side. Tyrra flinched when Loren placed a hand on her forehead. “She’s burning up.”
“She’s sick?” Cal asked. “I mean, obviously she’s sick, but… What is it?”
Loren shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Cal beckoned to Mech. “Hey, big guy, how about you use that thing and find out?”
Mech frowned. “What thing?”
“You know. The thing,” said Cal, waving some imaginary device around in front of the Symmorium girl. “The woo-woo thing.”
Mech glanced around at Miz and Loren in turn. “Either of you two got any idea what the fonk he’s talking about?”
“The thing. The box. The space medicine box,” said Cal. He made another woo-woo noise and gave Mech a look that suggested everything should now be crystal clear. Mech’s own expression, however, said otherwise.
“The thing. The box,” Cal repeated. “The… You know. The fonking thing!”
“What fonking thing?”
Cal sighed. “Jesus. OK. So, just shut up and listen, OK?”
He mimed holding something around the size of a brick. “It’s a box. It’s a little box that goes woo-woo and tells you what’s wrong with someone. Yes? Sound familiar? You point it, and it’s like, woo-woo. Bing! AIDS,” he explained. He frowned momentarily. “I mean, I don’t know why I jumped straight to AIDS and not, like, flu there, but that’s not the point.”
“Oh, you mean like a medical scanner?” Mech asked.
“Yes! Exactly,” said Cal, clapping his hands together and pointing up at the cyborg. “A medical scanner.”
“We ain’t got one.”
Cal threw his arms up. “We
ll, why the fonk not?” he demanded.
Mech shrugged. “Didn’t think we really needed one.”
“Oh, and did we need space bagpipes, Mech? Was that high on our list of must-haves?” Cal asked.
“It’s called a Blufflebag. And, if you must know, I wanted one for a long time,” said Mech, folding his arms across his chest defensively.
“Also, what the fonk are you talking about, ‘I didn’t think we needed one’?” Cal continued. “We always need one.”
He pointed to Miz. “She was dead for a week, we’re all literally getting shot, beaten, or blown up on a weekly basis, and you recently poured my insides back into me using a mop bucket. You ask me, we should probably have one each.”
“Where’s her dad?” asked Miz, showing uncharacteristic amounts of interest in the situation. This wasn’t really saying much, as showing any interest whatsoever was out of character for Mizette, but it did not go unnoticed by Cal and the others.
“I don’t know,” Cal admitted.
Mech clanked a little closer. “He wasn’t on the station?”
“No,” said Cal. “I mean… I don’t think so.” He shot Loren a sideways glance and saw the same expression of dawning concern on her face. “I mean, I guess he might have been.”
“You didn’t check?” Mech asked.
Miz tutted. “So we, like, just kidnapped a kid,” she said. “Is that what’s happening now?”
“What? No! We didn’t kidnap her,” Cal objected. He patted Tyrra’s leg and smiled reassuringly. “We didn’t kidnap you. OK, honey? It’s important you say that, if anyone asks.”
Tyrra’s chair squeaked as she rocked. A dribble of drool hung like transparent string from her lower jaw.
“Atta girl,” Cal told her.
He straightened and put his hands on his hips. “So, first things first. We find Junta.”
“Found him, sir,” said Kevin.
Cal looked up. “Well, that was easier than I thought. Where is he?”
“He’s dead, sir.”
Cal hesitated, then leaned forward and placed his hands over the sides of Tyrra’s head, roughly where he guessed her ears would be. “He’s dead?” he whispered. “How can he be dead?”
“Well, by dying, sir,” Kevin explained. “He was alive, then he stopped being alive, and now—”
“Jesus, Kevin. I get that part,” Cal said. Despite his hands clamping her around the head, Tyrra hadn’t stopped rocking, forcing Cal to rock with her. “How did he die?”
“The same way most of the Symmorium died, sir,” said Kevin. “At the hands of Zertex and the Earth Defense Initiative organization that you inadvertently created when—”
Cal clamped his hands more firmly over Tyrra’s ears and sang, “Lalalalalala!” until Kevin shut the fonk up. “OK, we don’t have to go into all that right now. And, so we’re all clear, the key word there was ‘inadvertently.’”
He shot Loren a look. “That means ‘not on purpose,’ right?”
Loren nodded to confirm.
“Right. Exactly. Inadvertently,” said Cal. He gave a nod of his own. “Agreed.”
“What about her mom?” asked Mizette.
“Yes! Her mom. Good thinking, Miz,” said Cal.
“One moment,” said Kevin.
A moment passed.
“Also dead.”
“Damn it,” Cal muttered. “Any aunts? Uncles? Kindly neighbors?”
“Actually, I have been able to trace one aunt on her father’s side, sir,” Kevin confirmed. “Haruunta. Records indicate she’s Tyrra’s Shoalmother. Sort of the equivalent of a Godparent where you come from. Technically, she would be classed as Tyrra’s next-of-kin.”
“Well alright!” said Cal, brightening.
“Were she not also dead.”
“Shizz. Seriously?” Loren groaned.
Miz shifted in her chair. “Poor kid,” she said, then she realized that this might come across as some sort of expression of interest, so shrugged and added, “Or whatever,” just to be on the safe side.
“They can’t all be dead, can they?” Cal demanded, adopting a tone that suggested this was some sort of personal affront to him. “How can they all be dead?”
“Technically, I can’t say with absolute certainty that they’re definitely dead, sir,” Kevin admitted.
“Aha!”
“Just that they were all vaporized by advanced military weaponry.”
“Oh.”
“And then set on fire.”
Cal sighed. “I mean, I guess that’s pretty definitive.”
“So, how many Symmorium are left, exactly?” asked Mech, his neck whirring as he looked up.
“Exactly, sir? That’s hard to say,” Kevin replied.
“What about death certificates?” asked Cal.
Everyone looked at him, but only Loren voiced what they were all thinking. “Huh?”
“You know? Death certificates. The certificate you get when you die,” Cal explained.
“You people give out certificates just for dying?” asked Mech. “Why the fonk would you do that? Ain’t like it’s an achievement.”
“Is it one of those, like, everyone gets a medal things?” asked Miz. “You know, for people too lame to actually win anything?”
“It’s not that kind of certificate,” Cal said. “They don’t put you on a fonking podium and present you with it. It’s just a way of keeping record of who has died.”
“I’m afraid the Symmorium didn’t much go in for that sort of thing, sir,” Kevin said. “What records I am able to access are mostly incomplete. I could give you an estimate of how many remain alive, if that’s any use?”
“Go for it,” Mech instructed.
“Very good, sir.”
Kevin took a moment to run some calculations. If they listened carefully, they could hear him whispering as he worked it out.
Finally, he made the announcement. “Right. So. Roughly—and I stress, these are only rough figures, sir. Roughly…”
He double-checked his math.
“None, sir.”
Everyone on the bridge, with the exception of Tyrra, looked up.
“None?” Cal spluttered.
“Wait. No. I tell a lie. It’s not that bad,” Kevin said. “Sorry. I miscalculated. I forgot to carry a one.”
There was a collective sigh of relief.
“One, sir,” Kevin announced. “There is one Symmorium left.”
All eyes crept slowly to Tyrra.
“And, if I may be so bold, sir,” Kevin continued. “She does not look in very good shape.”
Six
Cal’s history with the Symmorium was a short but complex one. Other than the crew and the then space president, the Symmorium was the first alien race he’d ever encountered. Commander Junta’s had been the very first face he’d seen on the screen of their original ship, the Shatner. It had not been a nice face, but then Junta hadn’t been a particularly nice guy.
On that first encounter, way out in deep space, Cal and Junta had been enemies. By the second encounter, though…
Well, technically they’d been enemies that time, too.
And, on the third encounter, Junta had encouraged his daughter to headbutt Cal in the testicles.
But the fourth encounter. By the fourth encounter, when Cal helped save the Symmorium god from being blown to bits, Junta had afforded Cal a sort of grudging admiration.
Sure, he hid it well. So well, in fact, that no one—not even those closest to him, or even Junta himself—knew it was there, but Cal was sure of it.
Then, later, when Space Team had saved Junta, Tyrra, and the rest of their ship’s crew from a Zertex attack, that grudging admiration had become something not unlike friendship.
It wasn’t exactly like friendship, either, Cal would admit. He didn’t, for example, know when Junta’s birthday was, or even if he had a second name. Junta also appeared to regard him with complete disdain. But the point was that their relationship wasn’t enti
rely unlike friendship. It had passing similarities to friendship and that, for Cal, was close enough.
Yes, Junta had been an alright guy. The Symmorium, in general, were a decent bunch, once you got past the gruff demeanor and terrifying outward appearance. He’d liked them.
And now they were dead.
And, although he was going to great pains to gloss over this part entirely, it was probably his fault.
Cal, Mech, and Loren had retreated to the kitchen to discuss the situation. Miz, to everyone’s surprise, had volunteered to stay behind and keep an eye on Tyrra. Sure, she’d phrased it as, “Ugh, do I have to come?” but they’d all figured out what she really meant.
Loren and Mech stood on one side of the table, watching Cal who sat on the bench across from them.
“What?” he asked, his voice muffled by the volume of food in his mouth. He stabbed a toffee-coated banana with his space fork, smeared it into a blob of cream, then crammed it in alongside the rest. “I eat when I’m stressed.”
“That is a lot of food,” Mech pointed out.
Cal scowled. “It’s a very stressful situation.”
His mouth chomped, slowly masticating its contents. From the pained expression on his face and the way his breathing came in erratic whistles through his nose, it appeared to be quite hard work.
“Anyway, it’s only, like, half a pie,” he managed to add.
“Half a large pie,” Loren said.
“That’s just semantics,” Cal argued, waving his fork dismissively.
He swallowed too soon, spent a few seconds going, “Hrng!” and hitting himself in the chest, then went back to work on the giant half-pie.
“Can we at least talk while you eat?” sighed Mech. “Or do we have to stand here waiting for you to finish?”
“I’m never going to finish,” Cal told him. “I’ve got, like, six of these queued up in the machine. Shoot. What are we looking at?”
Loren watched him shovel another clump of Banoffee Pie into his mouth. “Diabetes?” she hazarded.
Cal paused, mid-chew, glanced down at himself, then sucked in his gut and swallowed. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, set his fork down, and pushed the plate away.
“I would have burned that right off,” he offered as some sort of defense, then he ran his tongue over his teeth, burped gently, and leaned back in his chair, temporarily forgetting he was sitting on a bench.
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