“Consider it done, then,” McCracken said.
They pulled into the station and McCracken took Kretiz down to level 3, which was really the home of the detention center. Since most everyone was off at war currently, the cells were all but empty.
“This looks like a prison,” Kretiz said excitedly.
“Yes, it’s one of the ways we train recruits to handle interrogation. Don’t worry, though, we don’t use any torture methods.” McCracken opened one of the rooms and motioned Kretiz inside.
“Ooh, scary!”
“Nah, this is just a new recruit setup station. If you’ll lay down on that cot there, we’ll get started.”
The moment that Kretiz laid down, McCracken pressed a SynthNeedle™ into his arm. Kretiz started to say, “What was that?” but he didn’t have time.
“Idiot,” McCracken said to the limp body as he reached back and activated the life-support machine.
Suddenly, from under the bed, a slurry of wires, needles, and tubes popped out and jabbed themselves into Kretiz’s limp body.
“Instructions?” asked the machine.
“Keep him alive and maybe take a few pounds off of him. Also, give him some muscle mass, but not too much, just enough to make him think he’s taken a week or two in basic training.”
“Mental programming?”
“Standard issue basic training protocol,” McCracken said.
“Any specializations?”
“Yes,” McCracken grinned. “Porcine care.”
Hooray to Me
It had been a long, tough day for the crew of the GDA. Not only did the majority of them suffer through a morning bout of diarrhea, they’d spent the rest of the day toiling at the CTS in search of clues. Everyone was still a bit miffed at Trek regarding the “water” suggestion for avoiding hangovers, too. Not that it was his fault that the water system had been tainted, but they begrudged him for it anyway.
“I don’t suppose anyone wants to get a drink?” Trek asked as they arrived back at the main office.
They all just glared at him, except for Elf. “I don’t drink, but I’d love to chat about all of your books.”
Trek didn’t want to be stuck alone with Elf for an entire evening. He was a decent robot, but the thought of discussing the case, or all of his books, without break didn’t sound like much fun. Trek needed to let his mind rest a bit. He doubted that it would rest at all, but with Elf around that would be a certainty.
“On second thought,” he said, “maybe we should all get some rest, after all. We’ve had a long day, and who knows what’s going to happen tomorrow?”
After the the team dispersed, Trek began heading back to his condo and stopped short of opening the door. Herb was a good friend, but Trek needed an ear that wouldn’t be so judgmental right now. He pulled back and headed down the street a little ways until he saw a corner pub called The Hideout. It was a hole-in-the-wall, to be sure. Rustic, and a bit rusty as well. The sign wasn’t even neon, which was a nice change.
Trek opened the door and felt instantly at home. He was in his element. Dim lighting pointed out an old-style counter top made of the same wood that built up the rickety stools. Tables were as scarce as customers. Even the windows were tinted in such a way that patrons couldn’t see out any more than passers-by could seen in.
He walked up to the bar and pulled out a stool, smiling as he sat down to the expected rocking caused by one of the four legs being just a shade shorter than the rest.
“Whatcha want?” said the bartender, a grumpy looking little man with a round belly and sunken eyes.
“Kurbers.”
“Bottle or tap?”
“Bottle.”
The bartender snagged the brew, flipped the cap, and set the bottle down with a thunk.
“My first time here,” announced Trek, but the bartender didn’t seem to care. Trek pressed on anyway. “How long have you been in business?”
“What are you, some kind of detective?”
“Actually, yes. I’m Captain Trek Gibbons of the Gordo Galaxy Detective Agency.”
“No kidding?” the bartender said, standing at full height.
“No kidding.”
The man was squinting and studying Trek now. “You’re the Trek Gibbons?”
“The one and only.”
“Well, well, well. Can’t have you drinking a simple Kurbers now, can we?” At this, the bartender stuck a fresh glass on the table and snagged a bottle of something that looked powerful. He filled the glass and pushed it toward Trek.
Trek tipped back the drink and felt his eyeballs turn inside out.
“Whoa,” he said, hoarsely. “What was that?”
The bartender spun the bottle around. It read “Tweller’s Old Tyme Booze.” Trek’s eyes continued to water as his head suddenly cleared.
“Good stuff,” he croaked.
“Thanks. I brew it myself.”
“I take it your name is Tweller, then?”
“Wow, you really are a good detective,” said the man with wide eyes. “Explains why you were such a success. Hell of an author, too. Loved your books.”
“Right, right,” Trek said and then looked around to make sure nobody was within earshot. He had come in here to open up, after all. But there were some things that just couldn’t be said. At least not directly. After taking a deep breath, he whispered, “Have you ever known anybody who comes across as being really good at something, but it’s all a farce?”
“Sure, pal,” Tweller said. “I work at a bar. People come in here all the time spilling their guts about stuff like that. They’re not good enough for the job they’ve got. Their wife doesn’t know that they really despise the opera.”
“No, no, no,” Trek said, waving his hands. “I mean that everyone thinks they’re great at something, but in reality they’re just fantastic at taking credit for other people’s work.”
“Get that a lot, too,” Tweller replied.
There was just something about pouring out your sins to a bartender that made you whole again, even if the story you were telling wasn’t your own. It was a lot cheaper than talking to a psychiatrist and you got the added benefit of getting drunk.
“This fella I know,” Trek started, “he made a lot of money building, uh… space trucks.”
“Space trucks?”
“New market in southern Gordo,” Trek replied. “Anyway, they’re making a killing, but it turns out that he didn’t really make the trucks. Some other guy did, and that guy was great at it. Amazing, in fact.” Trek took a swig of his drink. “But that guy died and this guy has been going around taking the credit. Not because he’s a bad person… or maybe he is, I don’t know.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Tweller said when Trek had finished. “It’s a little disappointing when people do that, sure, but it’s who the guy is, yeah? You just have to look at things from a different angle. Like in your books, right?”
“That’s the problem,” Trek admitted. “This guy doesn’t know how to look at things from different angles like other people do. He’s too busy looking out for number one to notice the details, you know?”
“Hmmm, I guess.”
“You seem to have a good handle on knowing who you are, Tweller,” Trek said, his head starting to swim a little bit. “What would you do if you were that guy?”
“The one with the space trucks?”
“Yeah.”
“Be myself,” he replied with a shrug. “We are who we are, Trek. So that guy bullshits a lot. Some of the most successful people I’ve ever seen were professional bullshitters. Nothing wrong with it as long as you’re good at it.”
Easy for him to say, thought Trek as he nodded and looked into the half-empty glass. Trek had already spent his life being who he wasn’t. Turning that around to be who he really was wouldn’t likely happen in an instant. Besides, people would be after his blood if he came clean to the masses… assuming that anyone even cared anymore.
Then again, maybe
being the guy who took the easy road all the time was exactly his thing.
“So wait,” Trek said, feeling more and more woozy as the minutes rolled on, “you’re saying that he should just keep doing what he’s doing and quit feeling bad about it?”
“Yep.”
“Huh,” Trek said as he reached for a wafer of Soothe. “I am good at getting others to work.”
Tweller pointed at him and winked. “That’s your thing, yes, but what about the space trucks guy?”
“Huh? Oh, right. Yeah, I’ll let him know what you said for sure. Great advice.”
The Soothe was quick to counter the affects of alcohol, but the stuff that Tweller had put in front of him was offering up quite a fight.
“I think you’re one of the smartest bartenders I’ve ever met, Tweller.”
“I get that all the time,” said Tweller, wiping down the counter.
“I think I’ve just found my new pub,” Trek nodded and then smiled and slapped the counter top. “Yep, I think I may just have at that.”
Another Try
“You’ve already attacked the communications system twice,” said Joolahk as McCracken had her up on the datapad.
“Well, once, really. The second time was just a mistake and it was a blip.”
“Then you hit the water supply.”
“Correct,” he said as he looked out the window into the depths of space. “But things aren’t progressing as quickly as I’d hoped, so I’m going to hit transportation.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier for us just to come back and take things over now?”
“Joolahk,” McCracken said with a shake of his head, “you are my most competent commander. You have been decorated many times due to your prowess in battle. But there are some things that still elude you. The primary thing is to properly prepare your prey for attack. If we hit The Committee now, they will garner sympathy from the Gordo Galaxy members and it will be an all-out war.”
“We’ll win the war without much of a problem,” Joolahk stated.
“Not the point,” McCracken replied. “We want the member planets on our side, Joolahk. We don’t want to be in a situation where we are constantly looking over our shoulders. That’s the entire reason why I’m instrumenting all of these sabotages in the first place.”
“So we can make The Committee look bad,” Joolahk stated as if repeating the company line.
“Exactly. If we paint them out to be the bad guys, attacking their own headquarters in an attempt to sell this GOD character to the masses, that will paint them in an awful light. Wouldn’t you say?”
“They’ve already sent out papers about their GOD,” she said, holding up a pamphlet.
“So I heard.” He scoffed and cracked his knuckles. “I can’t believe they got them to our military ships, though.”
“Supply transport.”
“I’m aware of how they got them there,” he spat. “I’m just amazed that it was allowed through. I have to remember to have a talk with our requisitions commander.” McCracken tapped a quick note into his datapad. “Anyway, like I said, next up is the transportation system. I’m going to use a sleeper to get the job done.”
Joolahk’s eyes creased slightly. “I didn’t know we had sleepers on Quarn.”
“There are a number of things that you don’t know, Commander,” replied McCracken with a hint of malice. “I’m sure you don’t completely divulge all of your information to your subordinates either.” There was no response. If she did tell her direct reports everything, McCracken thought, she was a fool. “I have to get this underway. Keep things at the ready, Commander. We may just need the fleet at a moment’s notice.”
“Yep,” she said as McCracken disconnected.
He started the secret files application and typed in his password, pressed his thumb on the datapad, offered up his eye for scanning and said, “Authorize Supreme Commander Monty McCracken,” so that the system could verify his voice. The file system opened and he found the Attack Delivery Nanotech Agent folder. There was only one agent on Quarn.
McCracken placed a headset on that was fitted with an ocular intercept unit. After syncing it to his datapad, he pressed the button to activate the agent.
A moment later McCracken’s world jolted and his visual cortex was taken over by the remote sleeper.
“Who is this?” said the agent in a calm voice.
“This is Supreme Commander Monty McCracken,” he replied.
“Hello, Commander.”
“Hello, Natasha.”
Through her eyes, McCracken watched as she got up, walked to the closet, moved her clothes out of the way, and pressed a few buttons on the back wall. A panel slid open, revealing a pitch-black suit, which she quickly jumped into.
“What are your commands, sir?” she asked.
“I need you to head over to the Internal Security department.”
“Mission parameters?”
“Disable the transportation system.”
“Sir,” Natasha said, pausing at the door, “would it not be better to head to the transportation hub on floor zero to accomplish this mission?”
“No, Natasha, it would not.” McCracken smiled to himself. “I want the head of I.S. framed for the crime.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Then let’s get to it,” he commanded as Natasha headed out into the night.
She crossed through town in a matter of minutes since most of the traffic had slowed during the evening hours. McCracken wondered why she hadn’t just taken the emergency lanes, but he assumed that it would have drawn unwanted attention. Natasha was supposed to be a sleeper agent, after all.
The I.S. building ran on double staff at night since the majority of crimes seemed to happen during the evening hours.
Natasha sauntered through the main entrance and headed up the stairs to the right side of the building as if she owned the place. Nobody even gave her a second look.
“It’s the last door on your right,” McCracken said.
“Got it,” Natasha responded and then ducked into the coffee room as an officer, who was busily studying a stack of papers, turned the corner.
She peeked around and slipped back into the main hallway. When she got to the door, she looked at the nameplate. It read “Captain Broog”.
Natasha gingerly stepped inside only to find that Broog was still at his desk. The room was dark, which was odd.
“Oh yeah,” Broog was saying to his terminal screen. “That is one hot Worge female.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” McCracken said in disgust.
Natasha moved slowly to the other side of the room, lifted her arm, and fired a NanoBlammoDart™ at Broog’s neck. The Worge immediately fell forward with a thud.
The agent pushed Broog’s head out of the way and moved the Worge Pornographic Network (WPN) channel aside. Then she opened a terminal and followed McCracken’s instructions until the system red-lighted.
“Excellent,” said McCracken, feeling very pleased with himself. “That should shut down the transit system first thing in the morning, but I want you back in your normal state of mind within the hour. Return everything to the way you found it and get to your apartment. No detours. Once you get back, you are to go to sleep and forget this ever happened. Normal protocol will resume in exactly one hour.”
“Yes, sir,” Natasha said.
“McCracken out.”
Traffic Jam
Trek Gibbons arrived at the GDA headquarters early. He wanted to get a jump on the day and make sure that he had any news or information on hand in the event that McCracken called.
“Good morning, sir,” Lelly said.
“Good morning, Smelly.”
“Lelly, sir.”
“Right!” Trek shook his head and grimaced. “Sorry, Lelly.”
“Is there a reason that you keep calling me that, sir?” asked Lelly as a wad of gel dropped onto the desk.
“Other than my being a jerk, you mean?” Trek said.
“I’m just very sensitive to smells, I suppose, and I sometimes don’t have much in the way of a verbal filter.”
“I understand, sir,” Lelly said slowly. “I’ve tried all sorts of lotions, scented candles, soaps, and perfumes, but the smell never seems to be pleasant for non-Yaxians.”
“I’m sure we humans smell pretty bad to you, too.”
“Not really.”
“Oh? Well, anyway, just forget I said anything. You can’t help being smelly.” Trek frowned at himself. “I mean, you can’t help the way you smell.”
“I think I will do a little more research on the topic, just in case, sir.”
Trek sighed. “Well, if you feel you must.”
“I shall at least try.”
“All a person can ask for, really.” Trek decided to change the topic. While it was unlikely that Lelly would post a report with the governmental Human Resources department, one never knew. It would be best to return their focus to work. “Anything new happen this morning? Messages, maybe? Reports?”
“No, sir.”
Trek grunted. “Well, keep me informed if you hear anything.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“You’re a good worker, Lelly,” said Trek, finding that he actually meant it.
“Thank you, sir!” A clump of gel flew from Lelly’s mouth and attached itself to Trek’s neck. “Sorry, sir.”
“Don’t even think about it,” said Trek before heading back to his office.
He dropped into his chair, wiped away the gel with a napkin, and tapped up the holovid system to see what the news had to offer.
…this just in, said news anchor Kady DerGrady, the transit system is in a state of chaos. Vehicles over the entirety of the Quarn station are deadlocked. Nobody is getting anywhere. There will be a full report at 10am, but for now, let’s go to Ert in the traffic center. How are the lanes out there, Ert?
The camera turned toward Ert, who was just gazing back at the camera with a “how dumb are you?” look on his face.
Apparently Ert is having technical difficulties, DerGrady said. Internal feeds show that there are accidents happening all across the transit system. At this rate, offices on Quarn will be empty for most of the day. Hopefully Ert will be back soon so we can get some details.
The Rebellion Hyperbole Page 9