by Edward Zajac
“They’re here on Aluna,” Zagarat repeated. “Well, they were before we were…” His throat bulged as he swallowed down his fear. “Incarcerated.”
“That’s stellar,” said Fletcher. “And here I thought you had bungled this whole thing up.”
“I bungled this whole thing up?” said Zagarat, cultivating furious all the way from seed to irate plant in a matter of seconds. “If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be on Mayoo. And the only reason they caught me at all was because I was trying to be quick. Next time, they won’t be so lucky.”
Fletcher smirked. So, there was gonna be a next time. Maybe there was hope for this tech yet, especially if he was actually a…
Well, if he was actually more than what he seemed.
“Relax,” said Fletcher. “I was just teasing you. So, where are they?”
“They were,” said Zagarat, emphasizing the past tense, “in Slip 486-985-340.”
“Excellent.” Fletcher then grabbed Zagarat on either side of his face and kissed him full on the lips. “I love you.”
Zagarat sputtered and spat in disgust. “Would you stop kissing me all the time?” he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “It makes me uncomfortable.”
“Oh, stop being such a Lerandan,” said Fletcher. “It was just a token of affection.”
“Next time, keep your tokens to yourself,” said Zagarat. “I don’t want whatever diseases are thriving in that petri dish you call a mouth.”
“Relax,” said Fletcher. “I usually get a tingling sensation before one of those pops out.”
Zagarat froze. “I’m sorry. What now?”
“I was just joking,” said Fletcher. “Mostly.” He scanned the thoroughfare from one end to another. “Follow me. The slips are this way.”
“Are you sure about that?” said Zagarat, doubtfully.
“Absolutely,” said Fletcher, turning on his heels and walking away. “I know this station like the palm of my hand.”
Fletcher knew the palm of his hand much better than the back of his hand, mostly due to his adolescent years.
“Are you sure?” said Zagarat. “Because the sign says the slips are that way.”
“I knew that,” said Fletcher, turning fluidly, as if performing a single pirou-axel. He strolled back towards Zagarat. “I was just testing you. Congratulations, you passed.”
“Mm-hmm,” grumbled Zagarat, falling in step with Fletcher as he passed by. “So, are you always full of shleck or just occasionally full of shleck?”
Fletcher frowned as he considered the question. “I’d say about fifty-fifty.”
his section of Grey Sector was particularly dark and grimy. Lights flickered in and out of existence like techno strobes in a techno club, technolly speaking. A little farther down, the lights didn’t even glow, having faded into the flickerless abyss of nonexistence.
From the looks of it, mostly on account of a few laserblasts.
Zagarat furtively poked his head around a corner. The first thing that struck him as odd was that he didn’t find any of it odd. Even though there were aliens of various sizes and colors all around him, some horrific to his eyes and some absolutely resplendent, he thought nothing of them. In fact, they actually seemed rather fascinating.
Take the sents at the airlock, for instance. A week ago, Zagarat would have peed his pants at the mere sight of them. Now, he couldn’t take his eyes off of them.
Three sentients guarded a deusteel crate that was resting atop a magcart trolley. Two of the sents Zagarat recognized as Qalasi: short with grey, shriveled skin, and noses that could only be called proboscises. The sent pushing the cart was an enormous biped, with skin as ebon black as space. Zag would have checked the sent’s race on his PCD, if he could.
The dark skinned sentient had to actually stoop as he made his way through an airlock, and that was saying something because the opening was at least ten feet wide and twelve feet tall.
“What is he?” asked Zagarat surreptitiously, elbowing Fletcher in the side.
The enormous sentient evidently also had exceptional hearing because his head sprang up at the sound of Zag’s voice, even though he was practically thirty feet away.
“No,” said Fletcher, yanking Zagarat back. “We don’t see. If we see, we die.”
“What?” said Zagarat, blanching. “Die? What do you mean die?”
“This is grey sector. Everyone looks, but no one sees. Do you understand?”
“Of course I don’t understand,” said Zagarat through clenched teeth. “What the sunning shleck are you talking about?”
When the guards began pushing the deusteel crate down the hallway, Fletcher whipped Zagarat around, making a point to look anywhere but at the approaching guards. Zag tried to do the same thing, but found it exceedingly difficult. He really wanted to see what they were doing. Even the angel on his shoulder wanted to look. It wasn’t until the deusteel crate began to moan and groan on the magcart that the devil slapped some sense into them both.
A soft gasp escaped Zagarat’s lips when the ebon giant’s warm and fetid breath caressed the back of his neck, ironically sending a cold shiver down his spine. Even after their footfalls and the magcart became faint dins in the distance, Zagarat found himself unable to move.
“You can relax now,” said Fletcher, glancing over his shoulder. “They’re gone.”
Zagarat exhaled, his legs nearly buckling beneath him. “That was close.”
“Don’t I know it. Rule number one in grey sector: you look, but you never see.”
“You keep saying that, but it still doesn’t make any sense.”
“All right, let me explain,” said Fletcher, turning to face Zag. “You see how I’m staring directly at you?” Zagarat nodded. “Well, I’m not. I’m actually checking out the Somnian at the end of the corridor.” Zag turned to look but Fletcher grabbed his arm, preempting him. “No, you never look directly at them because if they see you looking, they might think you saw something you shouldn’t have seen. And that doesn’t end well for you. Do you understand?”
“Yeah,” said Zagarat, feeling his hands shake. “Sorry. This is all just so new to me.”
“I know,” said Fletcher. “But don’t worry. You’re doing great. You just need a little practice, that’s all. And there’s no better time than the present. Go to the corner, bend down to refasten your boot, and tell me what you see without actually looking.”
Swallowing his fear, and a little bit of phlegm, Zag did just that. Or tried to, at least. Sadly, his curiosity got the better of him. As he bent down to tie his shoe, Zag turned his head out of sheer instinct, which was funny enough the title of Fermen Fetz’s opus on Lerandan adolescence.
“No,” said Fletcher softly from behind. “Corner of the eye. Corner of the eye.”
“Sorry,” whispered Zagarat, correcting himself. “Sorry.”
He tried again. He stared straight ahead, all the while trying to look out of the corner of his eye without actually seeing out of the corner of his eye. Or was it see, but not look…
Oh, it was just so confusing.
“You see the guards?” said Fletcher.
Zagarat saw two guards, but he didn’t know if they were the guards Fletcher was talking about. One was tall and muscular, dark green locks cascading all way down to his thigh. The other was short and stocky, his auburn hair shorn nearly down to his pallid scalp. Both had their hands inside their trench coats, about where Fletcher usually kept his sidearm.
Which he claimed he didn’t have.
Zagarat stepped back. “I see two guards outside of an airlock.”
“That’s them,” said Fletcher.
“So, what’s the plan?” asked Zagarat.
“The plan is simple,” said Fletcher. “Get aboard their ship.”
“And how are you gonna do that?”
As if on cue, a pair of beautiful Bylarian women appeared at the end of the hallway, both absolutely stunning in diaphanous Cheffon dresses that left very little
to the imagination.
“With a little help from them,” said Fletcher.
“Who are they?” asked Zagarat, unable to keep himself from looking and seeing.
“They, my friend, are masters of the sexual arts. The things Se-Se-Se can do with her tongue are absolutely amazing.”
“You mean, they’re…” Zag leaned in and whispered, “Prostitutes.”
“Not just any prostitutes,” said Fletcher. “They’re Anibal’s very best.”
While Zag didn’t know whether or not they were actually Anibal’s very best, he could immediately tell they were very good at their jobs. It was like watching a masterclass in seduction taught by Elowyn herself. Elowyn was the Quilar Goddess of Love, Passion, and Upset Stomachs. It was the Quilar belief if true believers did have Love or Passion in their lives, they would surely have the third.
The women started off coy at first, smiling and giggling as they cast the guards sheepish, sidelong glances. Then the women worked their magic. But not in an overt way. Oh, no. They didn’t walk right up to the guards or anything like that. What they did was far more cunning and much more devious. They waited for the guard to say something to them.
And then they giggled.
Oh, it was mellifluous. It was the kind of giggle that said, “I find you attractive, but I’m too shy to say so myself. If only a big, strong man would come along and save me from myself. Especially, a tech who could help me with my OS upgrade.”
Well, that was the way it sounded to Zagarat.
Both women then began caressing the guard’s chest, marveling at the man’s muscles. When the green haired guard flexed his muscles, Anibal’s best gasped in astonishment.
Zagarat shook his head. Were all sentient males just prurient idiots?
A slideshow of Zagarat’s misadventures in love and passion suddenly flashed before his eyes and he decided yes, all sentient males were prurient idiots.
The other guard however seemed immune to their mesmeric charms. He even pushed a hand away when one of Anibal’s finest turned her attention on him.
The masterclass ended with the green haired guard, grinning smugly the entire time, wrapping an arm around each of Anibal’s best and escorting them away,.
“Hmm,” said Fletcher. “I would have guessed the other way around. But no worries. Time for Plan B.”
Fletcher disappeared around the corner. He returned a few minutes later, looking rather pleased with himself.
Of course, he always looked like that.
“What did you do?” asked Zagarat.
“Just playing a hunch.”
Fletcher’s hunch manifested itself fifteen minutes later in the form of a Thelusian male.
Zagarat shook his head at the sight. It wasn’t fair that men like that existed. It just wasn’t fair. The Thelusian had the face of an Aeron God and a body to match. He was a mass of muscles, thick and dense. Worse still, he didn’t look thick or dense. He actually looked intelligent, which flew in the face of Poola Mah’s Theory of Universal Symmetry.
The theory posited that every sentient in the known universe had within itself the potential to be beautiful, brilliant, or funny. But never all three. A Bylarian woman may be absolutely brilliant and stunningly beautiful, but must have the personality of wet paint. A Lerandan male may be handsome and comical, but must have no more than five beads in his mental abacus. And a Lerandan don’t-judge-me-because-I-don’t fall-within-your-generic-gender-classifications may have a wry wit and keen mind, but must possess the kind of face only a mother could love.
A blind mother that is.
But this Thelusian seemed the exception to that rule.
“Hey, Fletcher,” said the Thelusian, slapping Fletcher’s butt as he walked by.
“Hey, Gimlet,” said Fletcher. “You know what to do?”
The Thelusian smiled and Zagarat, who was normally not into that sort of thing, felt himself blush. “Of course I do,” he said. “That’s why I get paid the big credits.”
Gimlet winked at Zagarat then made his way towards the guard. Zagarat poked his head out to watch the proceedings, but Fletcher pulled him back. “Let him do his thing.”
The wait was excruciating, each second seeming to last the length of a fiscal year. But Zag held firm as Fletcher counted down from one hundred to zero. Well, he didn’t actually hold his firm… To be honest, it wasn’t even that firm. There must have just been a gust of wind when Gimlet winked at him. Yeah, that was it. A gust of wind.
Besides, it was normally that size. Really.
Unfortunately for Zagarat, Fletcher took his sweet old time counting down to zero. Zag had counted down to zero five times before Fletcher even reached fifty. Finally, after an agonizing wait, Fletcher said, “Now.”
Zagarat immediately bent down to check his boots, all the while seeing everything that was happening in his periphery. But what he saw was entirely disappointing.
Gimlet and the guard were walking hand in hand in the opposite direction, swinging their arms back and forth as if playing jump rope with pandimensional creatures.
“Told you he was good,” said Fletcher. “And he also has the gentlest hands.” Zagarat grimaced. “Oh, would you stop being so Lerandan all the time?”
“Sorry,” said Zagarat, dropping his head in abashment.
“All right,” said Fletcher. “They’re gone. Let’s go.”
“Go?” queried Zagarat. “Go where?”
“On the ship,” said Fletcher, nudging Zagarat in the back.
“The ship?” said Zagarat, as Fletcher hustled him forward. “What about all the cameras?”
“The cameras here never work,” said Fletcher. “It’s a sort of arrangement we have. Aluna Command puts them up and we knock them out. It’s very convenient.”
“But won’t they be back soon?” said Zagarat, hoping they’d be back so he wouldn’t have to do whatever it was Fletcher wanted him to do.
“That’s why we have to move fast,” said Fletcher, sidling up to the airlock. He glanced over his left and right shoulders then placed a small metal disc on the airlock door. “I couldn’t afford anything more than fifteen minutes. Anibal’s escorts are sexy, but expensive as hell.”
There was a soft clicking sound and the door slid open.
“Wait, wait, wait,” said Zagarat. “Maybe you should do this bit alone.”
“You wanted to help,” said Fletcher. “Well, this is the way to help.” He shoved Zag hard in the back. He stumbled inside the open airlock. “Let’s go.”
he cargo hold looked like one large medlab. Or at least the storage closet for one large medlab. Medical equipment of all shapes and sizes littered the area, some no bigger than a PCD while others took up nearly half of the hold.
Zagarat’s eyes were immediately drawn to the twenty or so biobeds in the center of the hold, each twenty feet long and ten feet wide. The opaque plastiglass covers made it impossible to see inside, but nearly half of the biobeds had active bio indicators, which more than likely meant that some of them were more than likely occupied.
“Are there actually Weiylans inside some of these?” asked Zagarat, running his hand along the bio computer.
“Possibly,” said Fletcher. He slapped Zagarat’s hand. “And stop touching things.”
“Sorry,” said Zagarat, pulling his hand away. His aching hand, thank you very much, Fletcher. He looked around the hold. “So, where do we start?”
“The cockpit,” said Fletcher, juking his way through the equipment maze. “We need to find their flight manifest and learn where they’re going.”
Zagarat froze. “But what about these Weiylans? We can’t just leave them here.”
“We have no choice,” said Fletcher, pushing aside a medscanner, which he was evidently allowed to touch. “If we free them, we ruin our chances of finding that ship.”
“But… but,” Zagarat stammered. “They’re gonna… they’re gonna…”
“Die?” said Fletcher. “Possibly. But there’s not
hing we can do about that. Come on.”
Zagarat’s mouth drooped open. He had never heard someone talk about death with so little emotion. It was almost as if Fletcher didn’t care.
“But how can you say that?” he asked. “They’re gonna die if we don’t help them.”
“Again, possibly,” said Fletcher. “Now, come on. We don’t have a lot of time.”
Zagarat did not budge. “How can you be so cold?” he said. “How can you look at all this and feel nothing at all?”
Zagarat didn’t even remember seeing Fletcher move. One moment the privateer was standing in the middle of the hold and a nanosecond later he was standing an inch away from Zag’s face, his nostrils flaring as pure enmity radiated off of him like solar wind.
“I feel more than you can possibly imagine,” said Fletcher, his voice low and deep, as if trying to restrain his true anger. “Never think otherwise.”
Zagarat gulped as he stared into those resplendent blue eyes. But this time, they weren’t blue. They were dark and menacing, white swirls like distant galaxies coruscating in his irises.
It was frightening and mesmeric all at once.
“Do we understand each other?” asked Fletcher, a fatalistic tone to his voice, as if Zagarat’s life might depend on his response.
“Yeah,” said Zagarat, swallowing hard. “Yeah. I understand.”
Then, in the blink of an eye, Fletcher was his old, cheerful self once more. “Great. Let’s go find the cockpit.”
When the privateer smiled, all of Zagarat’s anxieties dwindled away. He didn’t know why, but they did. It was as if Fletcher’s state of mind somehow influenced his own. When Fletcher was ireful, the blood in Zag’s veins ran cold. And when Fletcher smiled and spoke in that cheerful way of his, everything was right with the universe.
Fletcher paused at the deusteel staircase. “You coming?”
“Yeah,” said Zagarat, shaking the bewilderment from his mind. He crept forward, tip-toeing on the very tips of his tippy toes. “Do you even know where the cockpit is?”
“Of course I do,” said Fletcher. “This is a Deus frigate. The cockpit is on the top floor.”