A Swift Kick in the Asteroids

by Edward Zajac

  “Yes,” said Zagarat, nowhere near as cheerful. In fact, Zag couldn’t even see cheerful from his morose vantage point. “I love being close to my huggy buggy.”

  “Aaaw,” cooed the Weiylan, clutching his hands to his chest. “That so sweet.” He reached over and grabbed a twelve-foot bar from the wall. “But Rama still have to kill sents.”

  Zagarat puckered his lips, as well as something farther south. “I’m sorry. What now?”

  “It not personal,” said the Weiylan, raising the bar high over his head. “Just business.”

  The bar seemed to move in slow motion, growing in length and width as it swung down towards Zag’s head. And yet, Zagarat couldn’t move. All he could do was stare as he fumbled for the right word, the right sentiment that would encapsulate the moment. His emotion. His state of mind. Then it came to him. “Oh, shleck.”

  Luckily, Fletcher did the moving for him. He shoved Zag hard in the side, sending him tumbling off the side of the biobed and into a deusteel crate. A very hard deusteel crate.

  The bar struck the biobed, buckling it in half.

  Zag sat up, blinking the ship into focus. What the suns just happened? Then he saw the Weiylan advancing on him, clutching the deusteel bar like a bat.

  Oh, that’s right. I’m going to die.

  He continued blinking, searching for another vid station. Maybe one with a romcom or dramacom of some kind. Anything other than this Weiylan deathcom before him. But every blink brought him to the same fatalistic channel.

  This time, the Weiylan did not move in slow motion. In fact, time seemed to accelerate as the Weiylan swung directly at Zag’s head. And then over his head as Fletcher lithely grabbed Zagarat by the ankles and yanked him away.

  Zag’s head hit the ground with a thud, a kaleidoscope of colors blurring his vision as he slid across the burnished linolacrete floor and into a deusteel crate on the other side of the room.

  “Ugh,” he moaned, clutching his aching head.

  “You all right?” asked Fletcher, scrambling to his side.

  “Yeah,” said Zagarat, bracing himself on the crate as he stood. “But I thought you said Weiylans were the gentlest creatures in the known universe.”

  “They normally are,” said Fletcher. “There must be something wrong with this one.”

  “Nothing wrong with Rama,” said the Weiylan, pressing his foot against the deusteel crate and yanking the bar free. “Rama just havta do what Rama havta do.”

  “But what about Kahpuani?” asked Fletcher.

  The Weiylan’s eyes glistened with tears. “Rama know. Rama not like, but Rama no let sents ruin…” He breathed in, sniffling slightly. “Sor-ree, but Rama havta.”

  Rama tossed the massive bar into the air, caught it, readjusting his grip, and then heaved it like a javelin directly at Zagarat.

  Drop, a loud voice yelled in his head.

  Zag flung himself to the ground, the deusteel bar rustling his hair as it soared over his head, imbedding itself halfway into the crate behind him.

  He stared dumbly, unable to take his eyes off of the deusteel missile.

  Just imagine, said the devil on his shoulder. If he can do that to a deusteel crate, what could he do to a Lerandan skull?

  That was the problem. Zagarat could not stop imagining that.

  Do you mind? interceded the angel. Our friend here doesn’t need your comments right now. Besides, it’s pretty obvious he’d crush it with ease.

  Zagarat shivered. There were times he really wished he didn’t have such a vivid imagination. This was one of those times.

  Rama pushed aside a biobed, continuing his advance on Zag.

  Fletcher stepped in between Zagarat and the great blue Zagarat slayer. “Rama, please don’t make me stop you,” he said. “Because I will.”

  Rama shook his head, sniffling again, but continued without breaking stride.

  With a melancholy sigh, Fletcher retrieved a pulsepistol from the recesses of his coat. He swung his arm around, but before he could fire, the blue beast swatted the pistol away, sending it flying across the room. Rama then intertwined his fingers, lifting his arms high above his head.

  “Rama really sor-ree about dis,” he said, swinging down with all his might.

  For a minute, Zagarat thought he was a goner. And so was Fletcher. But the privateer slid deftly in between Rama’s legs, rolling just as deftly back to his feet in the blink of an eye.

  “Get clear!” Fletcher shouted as he leapt onto the giant’s back.

  Seeing the wisdom in Fletcher’s statement, Zagarat scrambled back towards the door, his body trembling with one part terror, one part fear, and three parts Oh Gods Oh Gods Oh Gods.

  Fletcher clawed and clambered his way up Rama Mountain, but when he reached the blue summit, a massive hand was already there, waiting for him.

  A moment later, the privateer soared through the air with the greatest of ease, clearing five biobeds before hitting the far wall with a gut-wrenching splat. He hovered there for the briefest moment, his legs and arms splayed out to either side of him like a bird that had challenged a magcar to a game of coward and lost, then flopped back down to the ground.

  Fletcher staggered to his feet. “Is that all you got?” he said, gesturing wildly with his fists.

  “Uh, Fletcher,” said Zag. “That’s not Rama. That’s a medscanner.”

  “I knew that,” said Fletcher, straightening himself up. He turned to face Rama. Or stomach him in this instance as he was eye-level with Rama’s six pack of muscle. Actually, it was more like a full case of muscle, with two kegs for pecs. He looked up. “You give up now?”

  Rama seemed to consider it for a moment and then said, “Nope. Sor-ree.”

  The great blue beast swung his massive paw-like hand, the spindly hairs on his arm bristling in the breeze. But once again, the privateer surprised the stars out of Zag. Fletcher lithely deflected the blow, striking the beast in the sternum.

  The Weiylan stumbled back, his eyes wide in amazement.

  “How about now?” said Fletcher, a glint in his eye.

  There was a guttural growl from the Weiylan, his face darkening and tightening into a frightening rictus of rage.

  “Uh-oh,” said Zagarat. “I think you made the mountain mad.”

  The Weiylan stormed forward like a wild burog, his nostrils flaring as hatred and death gleamed in his eyes. He cocked his arm back, his muscles actually creaking as he balled his hand into a fist the size of Fletcher’s head.

  But the privateer seemed entirely unfazed by this. In fact, he actually smiled.

  That sunning bastard is up to something, thought Zagarat. Mostly up to his neck in dreck, but he is definitely up to something.

  Rama lurched forward and swung with all his might, throwing most of his body and thus his weight into the strike. And that was when Fletcher pounced. He dropped to the ground and spun, catching Rama’s foot and sweeping the beast’s leg out from under him.

  The Weiylan’s eyes grew wide as the floor that was supposed to be there suddenly wasn’t. He pirouetted on one foot, throwing his arms into the air like the opera diva Keilana in Owen Owitz’s romantic opera, Regal Is My Love. Her swoon in that performance became legendary, as did her sexvid, which caused many a viewer to swoon as well.

  Fletcher leapt to his feet with unnatural ease, smiling smugly to himself. That is until he saw Rama teeter back on the heels of his feet.

  And then teeter back towards him.

  “Eh, crap,” sighed Fletcher, the realization cascading down his face like a waterfall of misery, sweeping away happiness and leaving behind only the sediment of despair.

  Rama fell like a felled tree, slamming Fletcher up against a biobed.

  If there had been any Sorren popchips nearby, Zagarat would have been devouring them by the handfuls. He knew he should have been terrified. And a part of him was. But the rest of him was absolutely fascinated by all this. It was like watching his very own actionvid, THE FLETCHER AND ZAG IMPERA
TIVE. The only exception being in this vid, if the main character died, there wasn’t going to be a sequel, no matter how effusive the popular demand.

  Zagarat scoffed. As if there’d be any popular demand. Suns, he wasn’t even the main character in this vid. He really was the lovable sidekick, wasn’t he? Well, sidekick anyway.

  Rama reached back with his bole-like arms, pawing at Fletcher’s face. But before Rama could free Fletcher’s head from the shackles of bodydom, the privateer wrenched his arms free and pressed hard against the base of Rama’s neck, every muscle in his face straining at the effort.

  The great blue beast’s reaction was instantaneous. He convulsed apoplectically, his eyes growing twice their normal size. They must have been three inches in diameter, the whites as white as pearls and his irises a swirl of orange. He flailed and trembled for some time until finally falling limp, his purpure tongue lolling out of the corner of his mouth.

  Zagarat stood transfixed, absolutely mesmerized by the sight. Fletcher had just beat a Weiylan in a fight. He repeated the words to himself. Fletcher had just beat a Weiylan in a fight.

  It didn’t seem any more plausible the second time around. In fact, this seemed more absurd than the action sequence in the Errin Zee action vid Night Night, Night Knight where the heroine jumped from a speeding magcar onto a speeding hovcopter, all the while shooting twelve Somnian pirates and professing her love for Menon, when everyone knew Zuer was so much better for her. Yes, Zuer was boring, but he was stable and anyone who read the books knew that Errin really needed some stability in her life.

  “A little help,” yelped Fletcher, waking Zagarat from his mental book club meeting.

  “Oh, sorry,” said Zagarat, scrambling forward. With some effort, some grunts, and a whole bunch of expletives, muscled Fletcher away from Rama Mountain.

  “Thanks,” said Fletcher, dusting himself off as he stood.

  Zagarat looked down at Rama. “How did you do that?” he asked, utterly amazed.

  Fletcher merely shrugged. “What can I say? I’m me. Now, we don’t have a lot of time. See if you can get that door open while I rifle through our friend’s pockets for anything useful.”

  “Um,” said Zagarat, looking over at the door. “Okay.”

  He pushed aside a small cart and inspected the numpad. It looked like a standard A7 device. If it was anything like the A7 Magi lock he had played with at home, then all he had to do was….

  The door swished open.

  “That was quick,” said Fletcher absently, pulling a keycard from Rama’s pocket.

  Zagarat was about to say that it wasn’t him when another sent entered the storage room. A sent unlike any Zag had ever seen before. She had pale periwinkle skin, crimson hair, and eyes like carbuncles. Her body was a study in curves, from the soft feminine curves that seemed like pillows for his, uh, for a sentient’s weary head to the turgid muscles that flexed as she moved. She was tall, which Zagarat had always loved and she was absolutely beautiful, which Zag loved even more.

  The door shut just as she brandished her weapon, which Zag didn’t love. “Who are you?” she asked, levelling her aim on Fletcher. “And what did you do to Rama?”

  “Okay,” said Fletcher, holding up his hands. “I know this looks bad, but I can explain.”

  “If he’s dead, then so are you.”

  “He’s not,” said Fletcher. “He’s just… taking a nap.”

  Zagarat stood absolutely still, as if the guard’s sight was somehow based on movement. Luckily, she had yet to notice him standing there. But how long was that going to last? Zag had no idea. Suns, he had no idea about anything at all at this point. He had no idea what to do, what to say. He didn’t even know his own name anymore.

  They never mentioned this part in Errin Zee novels. The panic, the terror, the slideshow of life passing before your eyes. No, in those books, the hero just acted like, well, a hero.

  And Zagarat definitely wasn’t a hero.

  He was just Zag and Zag never…

  He paused, catching a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye.

  Don’t do it, said the devil. You don’t even know how to use one of those things.

  Don’t listen to him, said the angel, piously. Your friend is in danger.

  Him? said the devil. He’s not your friend. He’s just Fletcher.

  But he still needs your help.

  Zagarat shook his head, wiping the Captious Couple from his mental cache. Then, in a moment that amazed even Zag, he retrieved the pistol from the ground, stormed forward, and pointed it at the guard’s head. “Drop the gun,” he said. “Now.”

  This was more like it. The righteous hero coming to the rescue, treading on fear and straddling a horse called despair, taming it into submission. Now, he felt like Errin Zee.

  Or did until the guard swiped the pistol from Zagarat’s grasp.

  “Give me that,” she said, indignantly.

  Zag stared down at his empty hand. Well, that only seemed appropriate.

  “Get over there,” she said, gesturing with her gun.

  “Okay, okay,” said Zagarat, raising his hands. “Please don’t shoot.” He followed her tacit instructions, joining Fletcher beside a Deus Medscanner.

  The privateer leaned in close. “Nice one.”

  “Shut up,” said Zagarat.

  “No, I mean it,” said Fletcher. “It was nice of you to try.” He paused. “It would have been even nicer if you had actually succeeded, but…”

  “Quiet!” said the woman. She walked over to Rama, keeping her level gaze on Fletcher the entire time, and kicked the Weiylan lightly in the leg.

  Nothing happened. She kicked him again. Still nothing. She kicked him once more, only this time much harder. Rama’s body jerked as his eyes popped open. “Oh, hi, Dahly.”

  She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “What did we say about names and strangers?”

  The question went through the meat grinder of Rama’s mind. “Oh, sor-ree.” He turned. “Rama wrong. Dahly name not Dahlia Imzi.”

  Dahlia shut her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Thank you, Rama. Now, what happened here? Not you,” she said when Fletcher began to speak. “Rama.”

  The great blue beast quickly averted his eyes, looking around at anything but Dahlia. He grumbled something under his voice.

  “What was that?” asked Dahlia.

  He grumbled a little bit louder. But not loud enough.

  “Rama, I’ll ask one more time. What happened here?”

  “Rama try to stop sent, but sent beat Rama instead,” the blue beast muttered dejectedly.

  “What do you mean he beat you?” said Dahlia. “You mean he shot you with a neutrogun of some kind?” Rama shook his head. “Did he trick you somehow?

  Again, Rama shook his head. Zag nearly felt a soupcon of pity for the great blue beast until he realized that the great blue beast was probably going to kill him fairly soon.

  “Sent beat Rama fair,” said Rama, dejectedly. “No cheat.”

  Dahlia’s ireful expression turned more pensive, bordering on awful. Well, not awful, but full of awe. Her expression was actually pretty wonderful, at least to Zag.

  “That’s not possible,” she said to no one in particular.

  Fletcher shrugged. “What can I say? I’m me.”

  “Fletcher,” said Zagarat. “I really don’t think this is the time for you to be, well, you.”

  Rama’s head immediately jerked up. He leapt to his feet, pointing his massive finger at Fletcher. “What sent name?” he asked, or rather demanded.

  Fletcher stiffened. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Rama…” said Dahlia, reaching her hand out towards him.

  Rama swatted it aside. “What sent name?” he repeated.

  “My name’s Fletcher. Why do you ask?”

  “It him, Dahly,” said Rama, hopping up and down with joy. “It him, it him, it him.”

  “Stop it!” said Dahlia, head butting him in the sho
ulder. “It’s not him.”

  “But Dahly. Those eyes. It him. It him. It Fletcher. It Fletcher Giffin.”

  “Well, it’s actually Griffin,” said Fletcher. “But Giffin’s close enough.”

  “It him, Dahly,” said Rama, hopping in place. “It him, it him, it him.”

  “It’s not him,” said Dahlia. “And stop hopping. You look like an idiot.”

  “But look at eyes,” said Rama, pointing. “Blue. Just like Qassi say.”

  “Wait,” said Fletcher. “You know Qassi Valon?”

  “See?” said Rama. “Fletcher know Qassi. Fletcher know Qassi. Him him. Him him.”

  “It can’t be him,” said Dahlia. “Qassi knew Fletcher twenty years ago. He would have been eight at the time.”

  “Ohhh,” said Fletcher, nearly cooing. “You think I look twenty eight? That’s so nice of you to say that. Thank you.”

  “But eyes and name,” said Rama, pointing. “That Fletcher. And Fletcher help Weiylans.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” said Fletcher gently. “My name is Fletcher Griffin and I’m here to help. Just like I did twenty years ago.”

  “A black hole’s worth of help that was,” Dahlia grumbled.

  Rama saluted, coming to attention. “Rama help Fletcher. Fletcher just say and Rama do.”

  “Rama,” said Dahlia levelly, never taking her eyes, or her aim, off of Fletcher. “Aren’t you forgetting something? You were supposed to deliver the beds here, then bring one to Sevin at the tank. He’ll be mad if you’re late, and we don’t want that to happen.”

  “Oh,” gasped Rama. “Rama foget. Rama busy chying to kill Fletcher.”

  “It’s okay,” said Dahlia. “But I would get going if I were you.”

  Rama nodded. “But what bout Fletcher and…”

  “Zag,” said Zag quickly when Rama pointed his massive finger at him. “My name is Zag.”

  “Rama de Demara,” said Rama, touching his hand to his chest. “And Rama sor-ree that Rama try to kill Zag. Zag not mad about that, are Zag?”

  “What? Um…” He turned. Fletcher waggled his head from side to side. “No, um, you, um, Rama was just doing what, um, Rama had to do.”

  Rama clutched his hands together, squealing with delight. He grabbed Zagarat in a full body Weiylan hug, which was often employed by Weiylan chiropractors for its effectiveness in spinal realignment. Unfortunately, when applied by a layperson, the technique can cause organ realignment as well as ocular realignment. Luckily, Rama seemed like a professional.