by Kelly Brewer
They looked at him as if waiting for the punch line. It never came in the growing silence. He reviewed his command in his mind. He had quoted all the relevant rules accurately. His voice had not wavered. He tried not to raise up on tippy toes but found himself bouncing nervously.
He looked into the disbelieving faces. There was no reaction. No one moved. He had not thought of this possibility. When he’d played it out in his mind, he’d assumed they would protest but gradually begin moving towards compliance with his order.
Sweat began to drip, and his underarms felt slick. This room seemed warmer than before. The smell of sweat complicated his vertigo, which would not abate.
Scandalously, Dock had had Angel’s craft classified as military grade also, so no personal declaration logs or daily blood work were required, even from non-military “support staff,” aka any individual aboard his craft. No exact count of illegal arms or substances was available. He had to assume they all carried a firearm.
They looked the sort.
Still no one moved. They stared at him with the darkening realization that he was not joking. After an interminable moment, the big man bristled and took a step towards him. Kyle stood and motioned for calm. The grizzly man stood breathing heavily, threatening. Moore was so drunk, he sat unaware, red-eyed and slack-jawed. Mac was frozen mid-scale, a B-flat note fading with the hope that this was a joke.
Kyle spoke with eerie calmness. “Inspector, you sure about this? I would have to see some official order before I determine if you are quoting and interpreting correctly. I will have my lawyer examine any documents as well. We have a right to protect ourselves. The public detectives determined no wrongdoing and have unofficially closed the matter. Everyone on that base could have been killed instantly. Many of your inspectors’ lives were spared as well.”
Bitros had predicted this and beamed. Mercy grew nervous because of his confidence. Her mind flashed into the future and she saw the plan this government weasel was setting in motion. Kyle could be jailed if this was an applicable law.
No tour! No wedding! No man!
She swallowed down anger and fear, but they came back up harshly. “You have no jurisdiction on this ship besides safety inspections! Band ships are considered special envoy. The travel orders were signed by your Under Secretary, among others. You are out of bounds and I will not allow you to interfere with our plans!”
She was so glad she had paid attention in her interstellar law class.
She grew louder with each word, arms and legs spreading in a defensive stance. Kyle admired her. She had no children but still behaved like a mama bear protecting her cubs. She would make a great vice-president and mother.
Bitros’s eyes narrowed, his face puckering in a superior look. “You have obviously not read Chapter 180, Subchapter W, Paragraph 67, Line 3 (l) of the Distant Public Servant Special Considerations Manual. It’s new. There it states…” and he let the gov-bot take over, “…If an unnatural death occurs on a vessel in a public supervisor’s region, beyond the thirty million mile orbital boundary from Earth, said supervisor can initiate protective measures if and when it is deemed necessary, or if directed by the Under Secretary. Such measures must protect the health and safety of a substantial number of affected persons or prevent further significant damage to life or property. A report shall be submitted within thirty solar Earth days to the director who will begin an official enquiry.”
The gray drone.bot stopped. It almost seemed to take a slight bow. It jolted slightly, burping out the answer to everyone’s next obvious question.
“Martian orbital distance from Earth is thirty-five million miles.” It wheezed to a stop.
Bitros let that sink in. Mars and Jupiter were in his jurisdiction, beyond the outer boundary.
He watched a ripple of realization go through them. If Kyle spent thirty days in the hole waiting for an official inquiry, that would effectively cancel the wedding and the tour.
Kyle never removed his calm gaze from him. What in the hell was happening right now? Last night had been the greatest moment of their professional career. Now cometh this prick!
Moore stood pointing that finger. “You ain’t taking my brother anywhere. He never expected to use his gun on this tour. But so far, everyone has been obviously relieved he did! Why would a government official dedicated to safety want to remove such a basic safety feature that saved hundreds of thousands of lives just a few hours ago? A gun is a tool for good in the hands of law-abiding citizens, a way of life where he comes from. Firearms were mandatory in the service. Self-defense is an inalienable right. And our group is obviously a target!”
The boys rallied behind Mark’s clear conviction.
Ox said, “That’s the Mark Moore I know. This ain’t goin’ down without a fight, boy!”
Kyle was grateful for the distraction. Sucking in his first breath in the past five minutes, he glanced at Angel. He would lose his ability to fight for his clan if this shakedown became reality! He would be vulnerable unarmed, unprotected.
And pap’s gun… oh no, his future son’s gun might be gone forever. It was a key part of his heritage he was going to pass on.
Mercy and Mactron approached Bit, arguing incredulously with a red, puffy, sickly, sweating, unmovable Bistros C. Gully, Chief Safety Inspector for the Public Safety Enforcement Division and his dinner-cart side kick. Tamer was on the computer, checking Bitros’s citations. Kyle and Angel were talking quietly on the other side of the room.
Moore leapt at the man. Ox grabbed him in midair and set him back down on his feet. Holding the temperamental musician’s arm with a meat hook, Ox could not move, his mouth full of food half-chewed, following all the arguments in a haze of potentially shattered expectations. This was a showstopper, literally! Always something or someone trying to blow up! Every time!
He just needed the slightest doubt to arise and he would handle this pretentious, prodigious little bird man.
Mercy gleaned an undisclosed detail. Bitros was going to arrest Kyle and anyone who tried to stop him! Gov.bot drones swarmed clumsily, recording, adding a maniacal, mechanical frenzy to the air.
Angel called Dock and activated teleconference. The serene bicentenarian’s concerned, plastic face filled the synthetic screen where the red-eyed gas giant had previously stalked them. Mercy, pitch rising ever higher, argued her case against the sudden threat to their future. The girlfriends tried to calm her.
Shaking them off, she turned to the screen. “Mr. Dock, you have to fix this! Please! I don’t want to get my father involved in this.”
Dock ate while he listened, chewing thoughtfully, nodding innocently. He watched and recorded her animated face, listening patiently as sweet sugar begged for help.
He soothed, “I understand, yes, yes, I understand my dear. Calm down, listen, listen. My lawyers began working on this contingency immediately after the shooting. After careful study of all relevant law—he took a sip of red wine—they have just now, coincidently, agreed. In order to have these vessels designated military transports, they have to be carrying troops. Kyle and Angel re-upped as reservists. They’re both still active military.”
He winked at her. She wavered, her pretty body relaxing slightly. She turned to look at Mr. Gully.
Bit swallowed back vertigo vomit.
“Kyle has… (wine burp) fifteen days left active. All the dates will be played by then. As a reservist, he is allowed to own, carry, and operate weaponry at all times, as he could be called to duty at anytime, anyplace. Bitros is within his rights to demand compliance from civilians in this situation, but not active reservists like Kyle or Angel. It’s all there in the Centre military manual.” He remained expressionless, picking his purple teeth with a yellow toothpick.
Bitros blinked. Military manual? That was not part of his required reading! That would definitely override any Distant Public Service Articles… and h
is reason for being there!
Why did they keep it so damn hot in here? Angel must be used to that southern heat on Earth. He took a slight step back, remembering the red, alien eye swirling, glaring into his soul. Sweat drained from his temples.
The air changed subtly. Mercy turned on him, a relieved, irregular laugh escaping her as she stepped back into the clutch of tremulous, laughing women. They began distancing themselves from the wounded animal surrounded by a pack of pissed-off alpha males.
All but Ox began to smile and relax. The big man resumed chewing and swallowed, released a struggling guitarist, and walked towards Bit slowly.
Bitros stammered, “The damned director’s office contacted me to intervene! I have the paperwork!”
He waved it overhead. “A committee will have to rule…” He stopped.
The director’s now-questionable communique weakened his resolve. He frantically searched his mind, in vain, for a foothold in his crumbling code. Instead of fleeing, he partially paralyzed himself. The size of the man approaching him made his butthole pucker like his face had moments ago. Too late, he realized, as Ox snatched him up in one paw, dangling him from his official public safety inspector’s belt like a sack lunch.
“Sometimes you got to take out the trash, it gets to stinkin’,” Ox growled.
Before anyone could or wanted to stop him, he opened the lift, flung the flailing public employee in, waved the door shut, and punched a button to anywhere but here.
Relief and swear words swept through the room under the enlarged, plastic, magnanimous features of DockInHaus, still on-screen. The old drones no longer sensed Bitros’s presence in the room and fled quickly into the access tubes made for them near the lift. The .gov service bot tried to turn but crashed into Ox and fell whirring in electrical smoke, spouting jumbled .gov jargon. Ox lifted then brought down a heavy metal table on it, crushing it completely.
Mac sat down and spun around in his chair, laughing out loud. “What the hellll! Thank God! Could this get any crazier?!”
Ox growled and started breaking more shit. He needed something to strangle.
“It seems the gull has flown the coup… the pee-gull has landed… as it were… heh heh.” Dock dabbed the corner of his smirk with a napkin. An android off-screen laughed.
Kyle turned to face their manager. “Thank you, sir. We owe you one.”
Dock nodded then parented, “This is not the end of this, my friends.
He or someone like him will return with backup soon. There will be a swarm of inspectors who will be real keen to watch over all you intergalactic brotherhood now. It will get worse before it gets better. If any of the rest of you have a firearm, I suggest you give it to Angel. None of you have done anything wrong! That’s why it’s so delicious! Also now would be a good time to remove any and all… paraphernalia.”
Angel stated plainly to the screen, “No sir, excuse me, but there is nothing illegal on my ships.”
“Or Dock’s.” Kyle also addressed the screen.
Dock understood and summarized hopefully, “Kyle and Angel are the only ones licensed to carry at this point. Let them find weapons only with them, OK? And look! Y’all’s in the dumpster mobile now?”
He scanned the interior of the small, shattered conference room, sarcastically perplexed.
“They will surely want to revoke Angel’s ship’s military exempt status. I spared no expense getting you outfitted in the swankiest ride available! My money not good enough for you now? Hmmm?”
“Switching was to keep the enemy guessing,” Kyle offered. “We’ll switch back and forth between them, umm… launch both ships at each jump, a bait and switch.”
Dock considered it and said, “Seriously, it’s a great strategy! It’s one reason you guys are here, and not someone else. I’ve watched all of you demonstrate a keen situational awareness. Players with gut instinct, and confidence to act. You are formidable opponents. I mean, you have become formidable opponents… to someone else!”
He started over. “One-time events like this tour attract crazies like moths to a flame! It’s not your fault. And you’re all still alive, thanks to Kyle. I think we’ll be fine from here on out.” He paused, looking to his left.
“I will be there shortly for the next pre-show. Love!” he trilled quickly and signed off.
“That was weird,” Kyle whispered seriously, hugging Mercy closely.
“Baby, you were great!” he said, ruffling her pretty hair and burying his nose in it.
“Mark was great,” she admitted. “I see why you like him.”
CHAPTER 33
Mercy CARES
Jupiter Jam, T-minus 18 hours
Kyle calmed himself first, closed his eyes, went inward, aware of his breathing. The rise and fall of his chest, diaphragm relaxed, a deep sigh. He began to think about the next moves. The chatter around him calmed somewhat.
He opened his eyes slowly.
“It’s OK.”
Mercy’s warm hand was on his, softly caressing, sliding deliciously up his arm, tingling over his shoulder, to the back of the knot in his neck where the tension was. Ahhhhhhh. She just knew.
She hugged him gently, running ladyfingers through his hair. Such a woman!
“I thought I was going to lose you,” she breathed, sweet and close, hugging him from behind where he sat, kissing his ear and neck.
“I’m proud of you,” she said.
Her breath on his neck intoxicated. If she was close to him, it meant he was high on her… her warmth, her voice, her smells. She was like a drug. Different parts of her smelled like different parts of a well-kept garden. She smelled like good food. He wanted to eat her up!
Feeling balance return, he gazed into her smiling face.
Sweet Mercy on my soul, this woman-child was really all he ever needed to survive. He sighed again and stood up, hugging her firmly, receiving strength from her gentleness.
The men began to leave. There was work to do. Kyle followed them to the door. They agreed on a quick battle plan and left. Kyle came back into the room full of women and sat down on a taco-shaped sofa, silent.
It was Mercy’s turn to take over. She saw clearly that the fun-and-games mindset was no longer an option. Kyle had been sweet to indulge her childish wonder, but she sensed the plot against them and it was time to fight for her home. She quickly hit another gear. A small reception had been arranged for the group by her parents, Franco and Sylvia, thirty minutes from now on their home ship. That had to be cancelled.
Dock would arrive soon and the group was in disarray, not mentally ready for a show in this rattled condition. Bit was sure to return with a vengeance—and backup. Mercy had to assume the unsuccessful attack on the lives of those she loved meant another attempt was probable.
She looked around at the group of older women now surrounding her, waiting for her lead. She took a deep breath, and her mind cleared. She suddenly knew what to do.
In front of Kyle she said, “First and foremost, take care of your men. You know what to do. Be supportive, encourage them to finish well.
Let’s get a ‘just us’ girl comm channel going, ok? Anyone have a problem with making it… say… 999? Ok? Good. That will also be our code word or text if we’re in trouble and need assistance. Let me know what you need, and I will make sure you have it. It’s time we become a team.”
They closed in on her, touching and reassuring each other.
“We need each other. Hope for the best, but assume the worst.
Keep your eyes open and, for God’s sake, keep any drama private and to a minimum. Let’s be part of the solution, ladies, not the problem.”
They all agreed, robo-girls following the living girls lead of hugging and setting up channel 999 on internal comm devices. Robo-girls were not preprogrammed to be proactive, so the real women instructed them to clean up the mess
left from Ox’s rampage and feed while they began preparing for the pre-show gala aboard the Augusta, the home of Mercy’s family.
The 100-year-old ship was the center of the entire Jupiter mining operation. It was the largest ship of any planetary armada in orbit, and housed all critical managerial functions. It was her home. She was born there. Mercy began thinking of what she needed to do to ensure the safety of it. She’d always been taken care of. Now it was time to become a caretaker.
She sat down on the taco next to Kyle. It even smelled like a taco. Crinkling her pretty nose and thinking about how to help him, she wondered what Sylvia, her mom was doing. Taking care of business, no doubt.
Kyle leaned over and laid his head in her lap, eyes closed. He needed her a minute. They had been trying to talk since leaving Earth but there were so many unnerving interruptions. She gently stroked his long hair.
Kyle knew what she was thinking and reached for her hand. “Can we have dinner later? We could have some quiet and talk about the million things.”
She said, “Of course. I would love that. But don’t worry. Even though I feel like I should be freaking out, I’m not. Everything has gotten so serious lately, but I don’t feel nervous. I do miss you, though. But right now we should go. Mother’s waiting. I’ll call for a transport.”
Before they left, Kyle suggested to the rest of the band they blow off some steam, but lay low. “Y’all are welcome to come with me and Mercy. Plenty of room for you swells. If not, meet back here in four hours. Please check in with Tamer when you are back so we all know where we are. Show T-minus twelve hours. Hang in there, guys, we’re gonna be all right. Moore, buddy, thanks for sticking up for me. That was awesome. Please stay off the dope.”
Mac, Ox, and Moore grumbled affirmatives and disappeared. There was plenty of trouble for the Cosmics to get into around these parts. Tamer had his hands full.
Mercy and Kyle auto-shuttled over to the Augusta, making out wildly during the few minutes alone.
“It turns me on, watching you think,” he said as they approached the ship. “I thought you were a badass the way you stepped up to that guy in front of everyone, citing code and stuff.” He almost put his hand down between her thighs and only the sound of air pressure equalizing with the mother ship stopped him. They sat up just as her parents entered the transport.