by F. E. Arliss
Arc smiled at him, moved deeply by this sentiment. “I couldn’t agree more, General. Also, I know you haven’t met my dad, Commander Quirke, but somehow you remind me of him,” she added shyly, hoping that didn’t offend him in some way.
“Oh, thank you. I have met the Commander. Just not in person. Talked to him on the comms, you know, with halo-vid. Liked him immensely. So, don’t go worrying that you’ve said the wrong thing or some such nonsense,” he grinned at her and winked. Arc realized that many of his mannerisms were probably learned from Queen Altum Juls and her literally down-to-earth origins.
“Let’s get underway and shadow this miserable excuse for an Idolum. He even now is slinking back to his hidey hole. I hope we can get the next connection in this slaver ring and crush the traitorous little bastard in the process,” Monsav grated out, anger in his voice.
“Do you know this Idolum cruiser, Sir?” Arc asked, curiosity piqued by his reference to a ‘traitorous bastard’.
“I know him. Lousy mongrel and a group of his honor-bankrupt cronies tried to kill General Freux at a conclave about seven years ago. Most of those were killed at the battle of Geboren’s Revenge, when Queen Altum Juls squashed the lot of them that was facing off against us with General Shale. I’m not sure how this mangy cur managed to survive. Was probably hiding behind a moon somewhere cowering. We’ll have to hang well back so as not to spook him. But we sure as hell won’t lose the little worm.”
Ending his rather eloquently parochial speech on their prey’s lineage, he stomped to his chair, sat down and spat out a string of orders in the whirring tongue Arc was beginning to get used to. Waving her into a chair on a nearby observation dais, they set about following the limping Idolum cruiser.
The next few weeks were exceedingly interesting. Not because of the chase, which wasn’t really a chase. It was just a slow and cautious shadowing of the crippled ship. Several days into their surveillance, the cruiser completed repairs and was able to restore extra power. Then the game became a little more interesting. Though by that time, General Monsav’s crew had analyzed the cruiser’s energy signature and it still wasn’t much of a challenge to trail them.
Two weeks into it, the Idolum cruiser restored power to their fold-space drive, then it got even more interesting to the crew of the Centurion. It turned out that the ‘lousy little bastard’, as Monsav called the General of the cruiser - Arc had yet to learn his real name - had a tell. He always canted his cruiser slightly in the direction of the jump he was about to make, therefore giving away part of his planned destination.
The crew of the Centurion then worked up an estimation of how far the cruiser would be able to jump on any given fold-space run with the damage to the ship that remained.
Monsav, sure that the little rat was running as fast as he could back to his protector, simply followed to the farthest possible estimation. So far, he’d been absolutely correct.
What made the trip so enjoyable for Arc was her access to what General Monsav called ‘the helmet’. It was a device that reminded Arc of an ancient picture she’d seen in the historical vids about a thing called a seated hair-dryer. Something that had been popular three centuries ago and that women had set under in order to achieve the most ridiculous looking hair styles. Often horribly curled and with disastrous damage to what should have been perfectly normal hair.
She could sit under ‘the helmet’ and it would divulge all sorts of extremely interesting information about the Idolum empire and its history. Arc had asked to learn the Idolum language and by the end of the two weeks she was speaking as though she was a native. The ‘helmet’ did give her a bit of a headache, so after a morning’s session she often laid down on the strangely comfortable, spongy green, moss-like covered shelf-bed in her quarters and rose an hour later feeling like new.
The first time she awakened to find small vine-like tendrils coiling around her and invading her nasal and ear passages, she’d howled bloody murder. The General had burst into her quarters, taken one look and burst out laughing. His rollicking mirth had Arc shooting daggers at him as the small tendrils vanished quickly into the mossy covering of her bed.
“They’re just helping you with your headache, Arc, my girl!” he’d bellowed, still trying to stifle his laughter. “Those are part of the Centurion, as is everything aboard. They monitor your health, body temperature and what-not,” he added, gasping for breath.
“Does what-not include reading my mind?” Arc yelled at him.
Shock flitted across the General’s face. “Of course not. Don’t be daft. Those tendrils up your nose and in your ears were just cutting down on the strain you’d received from using the helmet,” he said quietly in an injured voice.
“I’m sorry. I apologize. It just startled me to find something up my nose and digging into my ear. It felt...invasive I guess,” Arc said, contrition lacing her voice.
“My nose and ear are the only places they go, right?” she asked, hesitantly. The idea of little vines wending their way into other orifices of her body started to send little prickles of horror through her system.
The General started laughing again. “Well, Arc, they can indeed go into every orifice you’ve got if need be. On the other hand, that hasn’t been needed as it was just a headache. Stay sharp though, girl. If you get wounded, those little wigglers will be anywhere you’ve got an opening, just to get to the best position to heal you up!” At the look of absolute horror on her face, he burst into uncontrollable laughter and went stomping off down the hall, bellowing with mirth.
After that Arc was of two minds about whether or not she should sleep on her bunk. After a few days of laying on the floor in the observation deck, she went back to her quarters and slid onto the soft mossy bed.
Almost immediately several tendrils slid up the side of her cheek and patted her gently, then withdrew. “Well, ok then,” Arc said aloud. “We’ve got an understanding. No going anywhere I don’t need. Ok?” Several tendrils simply slid caressingly up the side of her face, then gently withdrew into the moss. Turning onto her side, Arc was asleep in minutes.
Chapter Eighteen
Ugliness on Uzi
The trail of the Idolum cruiser eventually led the Centurion to Uzi. Officially known as planet UZ627, it had been shortened to Uzi by just about everyone.
Uzi had been the first planet discovered by Earth’s Orbit Guard in the early days of space exploration. It had an atmosphere similar to Earth’s and was, for all intents and purposes, the new Earth.
To Arc, this was a very sad discovery. She’d only been to Uzi once, on the first trip off Earth on the Clyde, when she’d been a green hand, new to absolutely everything. She’d been entranced with its blue and green glory then, and she still was.
The fact that the Idolum cruiser had run to Uzi and probably to his benefactor, filled Arc with horror. Someone was selling mammals. Were they selling humans from Uzi? If so, how was it not being discovered? It was all too awful to think about.
Several thousand astronomical units out from Uzi, before the long-range sensors of the planet could identify more than a simple energy signature, the Idolum cruiser began emitting a fake engine synthesis that mimicked a Soclaued mining ship.
The Soclaued, a sloth-like mammalian species that lived to mine ore, were given a wide berth due to their strong odor and slow, easy going personalities. They were easy to control and usually harmless. It was a brilliant way to sneak onto Uzi undetected.
The Centurion remained cloaked and well out of sensor range of Uzi’s military fortifications. General Monsav sent a multitude of messages and then sat and waited.
Two days later, three of the other Idolum cruisers from the first observation at the original slaver rendezvous they’d witnessed, also returned to Uzi. Since their signatures were already noted by the Centurion’s crew, it was easy to identify them. As with the wounded cruiser, these vessels also changed signatures, emitting Soclaued specifications on a decoy beacon.
After seve
ral hours and a furious barrage of messages flying back and forth, General Monsav met Arc’s curious eyes. “Looks like you’re up, Arc. Your father, General Apollo and Queen Altum Juls agree. As the only human, you’ll have to be the one to go planet side and track these slippery devils. Get yourself geared up. We’ve got a small human shuttle in the port side flight bay. We’ll send you down on a ‘supply run’. Use the maximum of caution. Don’t pursue any of them, just observe. Got it?” General Monsav asked, drilling her with his orange eyes to make sure she wasn’t going to try any heroics on her own.
“Got it, General Sir!” Arc said firmly. Then swung out of her seat and headed off to put another dozen or so weapons into her already heavily laden armor.
Three hours later she was setting down at a civilian docking port on Uzi. The source of the coordinates that were being emitted from the four fake Soclaued beacons were several miles above the planet. Just far enough out of range that the true shapes of the ships hovering there couldn’t be identified. Smart, Arc thought to herself. Very smart indeed.
On the other hand, the humans they were working with had to land somewhere, and this was the closest and most convenient docking facility on this side of Uzi. It was the darkest side of the planet and the least inhabited. Therefore, it was also the smartest place to move to and from illicit activities.
Arc found a comfortable cafe on a second floor overlooking the docking field and ordered a Gaiacan black tea. Then she sat and watched. It was actually quite enjoyable. A variety of species meandered about doing chores and repairs and the various designs of the vessels represented on the flight deck below were quite interesting.
A small alien climbed one of the signal arrays by using splayed-out gummy toes. He was blue and green. She’d have to ask about his race. Arc had never seen one of his, or her, species before. He looked like a giant toad.
So, immersed in this entertaining enterprise was Arc, that she almost missed the pivotal entrance. A slick-looking personal craft touched down on the small empty pad just below the cafe’s window.
The design of the craft was heart-stoppingly, familiar. Beads of sweat popped out all over Arc’s body. Oh, Holy Mother, would they see her?
Arc slumped in her chair and raised the teacup she was drinking from higher along her profile. As the private ramp was lowered by a sharply uniformed pilot, a gut-wrenchingly familiar figure stalked down to the docking bay floor. Arc felt like she might vomit.
It was her Uncle Ferrick. A terror reaction caused her human hand to shake holding the cup. Propping her elbows on the table, Arc used her prosthetic hand to cradle the cup and her shaking hand.
Squeezing her thumb and forefinger into the center of her palm until the shaking stopped, she watched as her uncle mounted a private hover-car, the door opened by another uniformed chauffeur. ‘Stop you idiot,’ Arc chided herself. ‘That ass hat can’t hurt you now or control anything you do. You’re a Quirke, a whole different species.’
Jerking herself into action, Arc scanned the portable and untraceable funding chip in the cuff of her armor over the pad that contained the bill for the tea and rushed out the door of the restaurant.
She saw a row of hover-cabs at the exit to the landing field. Snagging the end cab, she asked him to follow the now exiting hover-car. As always, her family had to ride in only the best. Following her uncle’s vehicle was easy. Though it was unmarked, it was also pristinely clean and in immaculate repair. It stuck out like a sore thumb.
Reminding the cabbie to stay well back, but not to lose sight of the hovercraft ahead of him for about the third time, Arc had to force herself to stop. The cabbie, a young man of indeterminate heritage, smiled at her and said, “Don’t worry ma’am. I know where that blokes goin’,” his heavy Australian accent giving away his ancestry.
“That is Ferrick the Ferret, as he’s known around here. Thinks he’s mightier than god and meaner’n a prehistoric wolverine. Always stiffin’ his wait staff and berating anyone who gets in his way,” he added with a sniff. “Why’d ya wanna know where that asshole’s going, ma’am?” he asked curiously.
Arc laughed harshly. “What is your name?” she asked in avoidance of the question.
“I’m Alfie Woodard, ma’am,” he said with a grin. “Finest hover-cabbie on this forlorn outpost,” he added for good measure.
Taking a gamble, Arc said, “I’m following that guy because I think he’s up to no good.”
Alfie snorted, “Well that’s for sure. That whole family is as crooked as a dog’s hind leg, ma’am. Everyone knows it. That’s why they’re out here on the back of Uzi. Easier to get up to no good and not get caught.”
“So, you know where he’s going?” Arc asked cautiously.
“Oh, yeah, ma’am. I know where he’s going alright. You wanna go there, but not get seen like?” Alfie asked with a smirk.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I want to do,” Arc agreed slowly. “Why? Do you know how to do that?” she asked, hoping to hell she wasn’t making a terrible mistake.
“Don’t I just, Miss!” Alfie exclaimed with glee. “Got a shortcut that’ll get us there before them, too, if you want to see how they get into their mighty fortress,” he added with a snort.
“Do it, please, Alfie,” was all Arc said. Then sat back tensely as Alfie turned the hover-cab in a neat reverse maneuver and zoomed off behind a series of low hills that soon turned into mountains.
“We cabbies have learned how to keep out of range of the radar from the observation towers. Some of the towers are Intergalactic Guard and some belong to Evelson Corp. Either way, we know how to avoid them,” he added with a wolfish grin.
Ten minutes later, Alfie had situated the hover-cab in a dense stand of stunted trees in a shallow ravine across from an enormous fortified, mountain garrison.
It looked like something out of a fairy-tale, Arc thought to herself. Only she had first-hand knowledge that anything this family was up to was nothing like a fairy-tale, unless they were portrayed as the villains.
The sleekly immaculate hover-car slid into view a few minutes after they arrived. Arc had doubted Alfie’s word that he could get them here before the car, but clearly, he knew what he was doing.
“Now, watch this, ma’am,” Alfie said with glee. “It’s purely amazing the amount of folderol these folks have gone to keep people out of their lair!”
Sure enough, what Arc had simply assumed was a heat shimmer off the valley floor, suddenly disappeared. It was a force shield. As the hover-car slid past, the shimmer reappeared seconds later.
“Wow!’ Arc exclaimed
“You haven’t seen nothin’ yet, ma’am! Watch this!” Alfie enthused.
The hover-car, instead of heading towards what looked to be the main gate, swung sideways and moved slowly through a fissure in the wall of the mountainside below the fortress.
“Gate is only for visitors. It’s not the real entrance,” Alfie said. “There’s a couple of other entrances, too. When we were kids we’d all try to figure out how to get in. ‘Course that was before Jessup figured a way in, but then never came back out. Now we know better,” Alfie said sadly. “I reckon they killed him or forced him into slavery.”
Clearing her shaky voice, Arc asked, “What makes you say that, Alfie?”
“There’s a skinny little entrance in the back where we’ve seen them unload people that were chained together. Not them new lightweight wonders like the Guard uses. Old chains, heavy. Like the people that were slaves from back in those ancient history vids. It’s gotta be forced labor, I reckon,” Alfie said miserably. “I suspect Jessup is cleaning latrines in there somewhere, or fed to the dogs,” he ended gloomily, then lapsed into morose silence.
“Let’s get out of here,” Arc whispered to him. “And, please, Alfie, don’t let us be seen.”
“No way, ma’am. These folks are dangerous and rotten to the core. Would never do anything to catch their attention,” he replied grimly.
“Why did you follow them f
or me, if you’re so aware of how dangerous they are?” Arc asked, meeting Alfie’s eyes in the rear viewer.
“Those folks are purely bad, ma’am. Anyone who wants to follow them and not be seen, well they’re no friends of the Evelsons are they? Anyone who isn’t a friend of the Evelsons is a friend of mine, so to speak,” Alfie said with a shrug. “Mostly, ma’am, I just had a good feelin’ about you,” he added with a wink in the viewer.
Arc grinned back. “I’m no friend of the Evelsons. You were so right about that,” she replied grimly. Neither said another word until they reached the docking station. Arc waved her cuff over Alfie’s fare chip and thanked him profusely, adding a huge tip.