They were, in no particular order: a casino, and a strip club.
Six months after Sunstation Kappa-One went online, its transfer request system crashed under the weight of demand. Despite its size, despite its relative lack of scientific equipment, No-nee from the other stations began applying for citizenship in the tens of thousands.
To cope with the demand, construction began on Sunstation Kappa-Two. Although much larger than the original station, the steady flow of funds from Kappa-One saw work completed in half the time.
Sunstation Kappa-Two was officially opened by Mayor Froongo Mips Jr, the son of the original Froongo Mips, who had tragically drowned in his hot-tub the year previously.
The new station boasted some of the most intricate and powerful scientific equipment that Noge had to offer, as well as six bowling alleys, eight massage parlors, and a nightclub called simply, ‘Mips.’
The rest, as they say, was history.
Life had been good for the residents of the twelve Kappa stations. Sure, they weren’t getting much work done, but they were having fun. And that, according to the motto emblazoned across the walls of all the stations in the Kappa Sunstation network, was what counted.
Life became less good a few decades later, when an invasion fleet from the planet Earth wiped out all life on Noge, took control of all the Sunstations, and ejected the inhabitants out into the empty void of space where the No-nee tried, with a zero percent success rate, to survive.
But they tried. And that, according to the other motto of the Kappa Sunstation network, was also what counted, albeit to a lesser extent than the having fun part.
With the No-nee gone, the people of Earth moved in. The Kappa stations, which had previously been exclusively No-nee only venues, were opened up to the rest of the galaxy. The rest of the galaxy soon came, bringing its money with it.
Sunstation Kappa-Seven, with its low alcohol prices, cheap food, and thriving brothel district, proved the most popular of all. And while, officially, it was still known by the same name as it had always been, those who’d been there came to call it by a different title entirely.
“The Sinstation,” said Cal, skim-reading the notes that had appeared on the screen alongside a live visual of the station. “Cute.”
“It ain’t cute, man,” Mech warned. “It’s far from fonking cute. This place is crazy dangerous.”
“Mech’s right,” said Loren. “I don’t like it.”
Cal smirked. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“I mean I don’t like the plan,” Loren replied. “It’s risky.”
“It’s also full of drunk EDI guys,” Cal reminded them. “And it’s the only Earth facility we can get into without drawing attention to ourselves.”
Loren still looked doubtful.
“I mean, I don’t like it either,” Cal told her. “All that booze and gambling? All those women? Nu-uh. Not my thing.”
Loren made a sound at the back of her throat that was almost the start of a laugh. Not a full chuckle, by any means—barely even a chu—but it lit Cal up inside.
“Someone has to do it, though, huh?” Loren asked.
“It’s my cross to bear, alright,” Cal said.
Loren eased forward on the throttle, and Kappa-Seven grew slowly on screen.
“Taking us down.”
Cal picked up a backpack he had hooked on the side of his chair and wrestled his arms into the straps. The heavy sphere tucked inside the bag toppled him backward, but Miz jammed a foot against the bottom of his spine, stopping him from falling.
“Thanks,” he said.
Miz didn’t break from studying her claws. “Whatever.”
“How’s—?”
“Still sleeping,” Miz said. “I’ll know when she wakes up.”
“Right. Cool,” said Cal. He looked out into the corridor, then back to Mizette. “You two got some kind of magic bond now, or…?”
Miz rolled her eyes and flicked up her pointed ears.
“Oh. Yeah. That makes way more sense,” Cal said.
“I thought you were going in disguise?” said Mech. “You know, on account of you being a famous war hero who everyone down there knows.”
Cal gave a little wince. “Yeah. I’d hoped Splurt might be able to help me out with that, but I don’t know if he’s up to it.”
Splurt sat on one of the guest chairs, sagging like half-set Jello. His eyes followed Cal as he approached.
“What do you say, buddy?” he asked. “You able to give me a hand on this one?”
Splurt shuddered.
“Of course, you can,” Cal said soothingly. “Don’t you talk like that. Never before has the phrase, ‘You can be anything you set your mind to,’ been more literally accurate.”
Splurt rippled.
“No, it doesn’t have to be anything big. I’m not asking to go riding in there on a space dragon,” Cal said. He gestured to himself. “If you could just, you know, help me blend in a little better and stop anyone from recognizing me, that would be awesome.”
There was a moment of silence as Splurt considered this.
Then, with a slow, reluctant sort of squelch, the little green blob shifted shape until there, on the chair, was a stick-on handlebar mustache.
Sighing, Cal picked it up, turned it over a couple of times, then attached it below his nose. It wriggled into position on either side of his mouth, then adhered itself to his skin.
“What do you think?” he asked, turning to the others.
“Who the fonk are you?” Mech demanded. “What have you done with Cal?”
“Funny,” said Cal.
“Actually, whatever you’ve done with him, it’s fine,” Mech continued. “We don’t want him back.”
“Seriously, you should do one of those Netflix stand-up specials,” Cal told him. “I mean, would I watch it? God, no. But you should definitely do one.”
There was a fairly catastrophic-sounding clang and Cal was sent stumbling across the bridge. Miz’s foot caught him again. Her claws dug lightly but painfully into his flesh, holding him steady as the Untitled juddered and shook to a stop.
“We’re here,” Loren announced.
“Seriously? Already,” said Cal. He grimaced as Mizette’s claws withdrew from his back. “I don’t know about you guys, but I barely even noticed.”
Docking Administrator, Phil Bumbridge, was sick of this shizz. He had joined the Earth Defense Initiative to protect his home from extraterrestrial threats. He’d been promised excitement! Adventure! A big gun with a stabby bit on the end!
‘Aliens are going to probe your mom’s ANUS!’ the posters had warned. ‘Only you can stop them!’
As calls to action went, it had been a pretty compelling one, although that particular campaign hadn’t been Phil’s main reason for signing up. His mom’s anus, as far as he was concerned, was her own private business.
No, it was another poster that had convinced Phil to sign his life away to the EDI. It was a large, billboard-sized display that had been set up just down the street from his cramped studio apartment in one of Chicago’s less affluent suburbs, completely blocking his view of the sewage processing plant two blocks over.
The billboard ad was simple. It was mostly colors—pinks, purples, and blues—with a tiny, fly-sized speck in one corner which, if you got close enough, revealed itself to be a spaceship.
At the bottom of the poster were two lines of text in a simple, relaxed typeface.
‘The galaxy is waiting,’ it read. ‘So, why are you?’
And below that, slightly smaller, was the address of the EDI Recruitment website, where visitors were bombarded with images and videos of distant worlds, swirling nebulae, and happy looking recruits all having a thoroughly enjoyable time to themselves.
One application, six weeks of training, and a thirty-day space hike later, Phil had arrived at his posting on Sunstation Kappa-Seven.
That had been nine years ago. He was assured his transfer request was due t
o be looked at any day now.
“Next,” Phil sighed, beckoning to the man standing behind the white line.
“Hola, Amigo!” said Cal, in an astonishingly thick Latin American accent.
Shizz. Why had he done that? Why had he put on that voice? That hadn’t been part of the plan.
The man in the EDI immigration uniform eyed him suspiciously from the other side of his blasterproof screen. Cal smoothed down his mustache, then cleared his throat. “Uh, sorry. I thought you were Mexican. Are you Mexican?” Cal asked, going back to his regular voice.
Phil shook his head. “No.”
“Oh.”
“And, if I was, that would’ve been kinda racist,” Phil pointed out.
“No, you’re right. You’re absolutely right,” Cal agreed. “Sorry. I guess I’m just excited! It’s my first time here.”
Phil visibly didn’t care. A slot in the counter opened. “Papers.”
“Right, right,” said Cal, fishing in the pockets of his cargo pants. “I’ve got them here somewhere. Give me a sec.”
Phil sighed disdainfully and cast his eyes across the line forming behind the white marker. His was just one of two-hundred immigration counters running on this level, and this was just one of seventeen different docking levels. At certain parts of the year—usually around the opening of a new casino, or the Red Light District’s bi-annual ‘BreastFest’ event—the wait to be processed took days.
Today was a slow day, with an average waiting time of less than three hours. Still, they were short-handed at the moment, following the recent suicide epidemic, so it wouldn’t do to let things get too backed up.
“Can you hurry it up, sir?” Phil asked.
“Aha. Here you go!” said Cal, producing a clumsily folded and extensively crumpled sheet of paper from a pocket. It had taken forty minutes of folding and unfolding plus a quick run through the washing machine before the ID paperwork didn’t look as if it had been newly printed off that day. Which, of course, it had.
Still, Mech was convinced it should stand up to scrutiny. Anyway, even if it didn’t, he reasoned, the worst that would happen is that Cal would immediately be shot in the head, so it was pretty much a no-lose situation.
Phil took the sheet from the tray, flared his nostrils in disgust at it, then carefully unfolded it with his fingertips.
His eyes skimmed across the text, then flicked to Cal.
Cal smiled.
Phil regarded the paperwork again. He sucked air in through his teeth, then raised his eyes to Cal again.
Cal waggled his eyebrows and nodded encouragingly.
“Nob Muntch?”
Cal groaned inwardly. Outwardly, he kept smiling. “That’s me! That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.”
“Your parents must’ve hated you,” Phil told him.
“Someone certainly does!” Cal replied, laughing falsely. He shook a fist. “That fonk.”
Deep in his ear, Cal heard Mech snigger.
Grudgingly, as if it was the most Herculean task in all the universe, Phil passed the sheet above a scanner.
Bzzt.
A light on the side of the cubicle turned red.
Cal’s eyes darted to it. Beneath his shirt, his jacket, and the pack he carried, a bead of sweat ran down his back.
Phil tutted, one-finger-typed something into a keypad, then set the paperwork down beside him. “What’s in the bag?” he asked.
“Bag?” said Cal. “Oh! Yeah, this bag. It’s, uh, it’s my bowling ball.”
Phil held his gaze.
“You know, for bowling,” said Cal. He did a little bowling mime. “It’s my lucky ball.”
Phil may have paused to consider this, or may just have been staring blankly ahead, it was hard to be sure.
Finally, he stuffed the ID paperwork back into the slot and prodded a couple of keys. The light on the cubicle went from red to green.
“Welcome to Kappa-Seven,” Phil said, beckoning him through. “Enjoy your visit.”
“Seriously? Ha!” said Cal. “No way. You’re letting me through? I mean… I’m in?”
“Move along, Mr Muntch,” Phil urged. He was beckoning for the next person to step forward, Cal already a rapidly fading memory.
Cal bowed gratefully as he scooped up his ID and crammed it into one of his pockets. He backed away just as a tall orange humanoid who was mostly legs stalked up to take his place. And then, Cal was swept up by the crowds who came filtering through the rows of immigration counters and swarmed as one toward just six sets of doors leading through to three elevators. One of which, it transpired, was broken.
A few minutes later, Cal stood wedged against an elevator wall, trying to keep a tight rein on his stomach as the car rocketed up through the station’s various levels.
A solid mass of people—some weird and wonderful, others presumably human—filled all the available floor space. And, in some instances, the ceiling space, too.
The elevator car’s walls were covered in colorful adverts, all offering a range of discounts and special offers.
‘VooVoo Juice – Doubles 1 Credit!’
‘Glorian Sex Droids! Multi-Attachment! Very Lightly Used!’
‘Try Heroin! It’s Great!’
None of the ads contained any further details beyond a little barcode down in the bottom right corner. Cal leaned back as far as he could as a large, muscular arm stretched past him, scanned the Glorian Sex Droid barcode with something that looked like a cell phone, then retreated.
The elevator jolted to a stop. Cal had no idea what this floor was, but he didn’t care. It would do. The plan didn’t specifically call for any particular area of the station. It didn’t call for anything all that particular, in fact. It was quite unparticular, as plans went. Despite some misgivings from the others, he’d insisted that was for the best.
“Sorry. Excuse me. Coming through,” he said, squeezing through the throngs. Only a handful of people seemed to be getting off on this floor, and those waiting outside had already started to push their way in.
“Doctor on call! Out of the way!” Cal barked. “Emergency. Clear the way, people. Someone’s dying, for fonk’s sake!”
The crowd inched aside a fraction. A few of those piling in from outside hung back, making room for him to stagger out.
“Good. Thank you,” he said, adjusting his jacket. He turned back to the elevator and raised a hand in thanks. “Good job, everyone. You’ve all helped save a life today, and I think you should all—”
The elevator doors closed.
“Or not,” Cal concluded, lowering his hand.
He gave his mustache a reassuring stroke, pulled his bag higher on his back, then turned and took in his surroundings.
Compared to what he’d seen of the station so far, this level was practically a ghost town. Hundreds of glass-fronted buildings lined a long, wide street ahead of him, their windows all steamed up. The smell of springtime hung in the air, tainted just at the edges by something harsher and more chemical.
“I think I’m on the laundry level,” he said.
“I’ll be honest,” Loren said in his ear. “That’s not where I expected you to head.”
“Doesn’t matter, it’ll do,” said Cal. “This is all we need.”
So far, so good. The plan was working.
Not that there was a lot of scope for it to go wrong. He’d deliberately made it as straightforward as possible to limit the risk. He’d called it ‘elegant in its simplicity.’ The others had called it other, less complimentary, names. But what did they know?
“Step one, infiltrate an EDI facility, accomplished,” Cal whispered. “Step two, find an EDI agent,” he continued, narrowing his eyes and cracking his knuckles. “And beat the living shizz out of him.”
Twenty
“Officer, officer! Thank God I found you,” Cal wheezed, stumbling to a stop before a disinterested man in an EDI Security uniform.
The guard flinched visibly at Cal’s panicked outburst, but l
istened with a palpable sense of resignation as Cal babbled out an explanation.
“I just saw someone fighting,” Cal said. “In that alleyway.”
The EDI man shrugged. “So?”
“So… shouldn’t you stop them?”
“Why?” asked the guard, appearing genuinely confused. He was short and a little weedy—both qualities Cal had specifically looked for when choosing his victim. The weak chin and skinny wrists were just a bonus.
“Well, uh, just because… it’s your job? You know, to stop people fighting?”
“Stop people fighting?” asked the guard. He gave a little snort. “Listen, son, if we spent all our time stopping people from fighting, we’d get nothing else done.”
Cal felt the ‘son,’ thing was misjudged. The guard couldn’t have been older than twenty and, unlike Cal, he wasn’t rocking an oversized handlebar mustache.
“But, you weren’t doing anything,” Cal pointed out. “You were literally doing nothing else.”
The guard looked briefly alarmed, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t, but then gave a dismissive wave of a gloved hand. “It’ll sort itself out. It always does. Have a good day, son.”
Cal glanced around them. They were standing in a well-lit side street off the main laundry thoroughfare. This street seemed to be mostly ironing outlets, with a few of the stores down at the far end offering, ‘XXX While U Wait.’ Cal assumed the ‘XXX’ on offers wasn’t the 2002 action movie of the same name starring Vin Diesel, or any of its lackluster sequels, but he hadn’t gone inside to inquire.
There were a few dozen people milling around, meaning this wasn’t the ideal location in which to carry out Step Two of his plan.
He jabbed a thumb back at the alley again. “What if I said one of the people fighting is an elderly gentleman?”
The guard shrugged.
“In a wheelchair. He’s extremely physically handicapped,” Cal continued. “It’s horrible. For him, I mean! Not horrible to look at,” he added quickly. “He’s fine to look at. Although, how long that’ll last if you don’t do something to help him, I don’t know.”
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