A Swift Kick in the Asteroids

by Edward Zajac

  “Because I can read sents. She wants to stop these bastards, and she thinks I can help.”

  Zagarat shook his head. “The poor deluded fool.”

  Fletcher smirked at the comment. And so did Zag.

  Suns, he really was starting to like Fletcher.

  Now, who was the sunning idiot?

  Zag leaned back against the plasticrete wall, hugging his knees to his chest. “So, who was this Qassi you and Dahlia were talking about anyway?”

  Fletcher’s glee faded at the question. He gazed off into the distance, as if seeing not what is but what was, and for the very first time, he looked… old. It wasn’t as if he had suddenly developed wrinkles or anything like that. There was just something about him that made him seem so much older than his apparent years.

  Actually, there was something. It was the eyes. It was always the eyes. Those normally effulgent blue orbs grew cold and dim; his pupils as deep and vast as space.

  “Qassi was someone I knew a long time ago,” said Fletcher, his voice as distant as his gaze. “He was a Deus scientist assigned to perfect the devilium refining process on Feytor Feytor Aye. But then he saw the way Deus treated the natives. The Weiylans. There was nothing he could do, at first. He was just another lowly scientist on the corporate maglift. But he slowly bided his time, gathering evidence against Deus. When he gathered enough evidence, he gave it to a little group called the Shadow Dancers. And that little group gave it to little old me. From that point on, a friendship was formed. He was a good sent. I’m gonna miss him.”

  “And this was twenty fiscal years ago?” asked Zagarat.

  Fletcher shrugged. “Who pays attention anymore?”

  “You know,” said Zagarat. “One day, you’re gonna answer my questions.”

  “Maybe,” said Fletcher. “But I’m not sure you’re gonna like the answers.”

  There was a swish sound off in the distance. And that could mean only one thing. Well, two things. One: Zag had had a little bit of an accident. Or two: the door just opened.

  Zagarat didn’t feel anything squishy down below so it was definitely the second one.

  Fletcher held his finger to his lips, preemptively silencing Zag, which really wasn’t necessary because Zag had no intention of saying a sunning thing right about now. He was too scared to talk. But a part of him still wanted to know what was happening.

  He crawled forward on his hands and knees, pausing beside Fletcher, who was already peeking through the portal he had created, pulsepistol in hand. Zag’s head danced about as he tried to see something, anything through the gap. But all he could see was Fletcher’s massive head. And a bit of dandruff. And a few gray hairs.

  Otherwise, nothing.

  But he did hear something familiar. A sound like a woman giggling.

  He raised himself up on his knees, hoping to catch a glimpse of something over the top of the makeshift wall. But Fletcher quickly grabbed Zag by the lapel and pulled him back to earth, or the linolacrete floor in this case, before he could see anything at all.

  The sunning bastard.

  A louder giggle pierced the air, followed by the sound of a crate shifting. Then there was silence. And more silence. And even more infuriating silence.

  Then a voice said, “You can come out now.”

  Zagarat recognized the voice instantly. It was Dahlia. He popped his head over the top of the makeshift wall just in time to see Dahlia zip up her uniform.

  But not in time to see anything else.

  Timing had never been Zagarat’s strong suit, something to which the Eeyani Comedy Troop and a few ex-girlfriends could easily attest. Only one of those groups had laughed at Zag’s performance, and it wasn’t the group he had hoped would laugh.

  Dahlia sat on a biobed, her legs dangling over the edge. Beside her was a sentient with pearlescent skin and orange hair. A sent who was not endowed by his creator with some enviable rights like life, liberty, and a very large reproductive organ. Zag knew this because the guard was completely naked.

  “Good,” said Dahlia, pocketing something long and pointy. “You listened to me.” She gestured towards Fletcher. “You, grab his legs.” She then lifted her chin towards the far corner. “You, open that malfunctioning bed over there.”

  Fletcher vaulted over the five-foot high crate with unnatural ease, pivoting on his extended right arm. Zag tried to do something similar, but with much different results. He belly flopped onto a deusteel crate, shimmied his way across, then flopped over the side.

  But at least he stuck the landing, which was nice.

  “Who is he?” asked Fletcher, grabbing the guard’s feet.

  “A sent who was a little too touchy feely for my tastes,” said Dahlia.

  They heaved the guard into the air and made their way across the room, the body hanging limply in between them. Zagarat opened the biobed cover and they swung the body back and forth, as if about to skip sentient rope, then tossed the guard inside.

  “That should do it,” said Dahlia, closing the cover with a thud.

  “Shouldn’t we turn on the life support system or something?” asked Zagarat when Dahlia turned and walked away.

  “Trust me,” said Dahlia. “He doesn’t need it.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Zagarat. Then the realization dawned on him. “Wait a pulse. You didn’t just knock him out? You actually killed him?”

  “Of course I did,” said Dahlia.

  Zagarat froze. “You mean, you mean, you mean, he’s, he’s…”

  “Dead?” said Dahlia. “Yes. He is no longer amongst the living. A sentient whose warranty has expired. A guard whose OS has crashed. A-”

  “I got it,” said Zagarat, holding up his hand. “But… but you just killed him.”

  “Better him than me,” said Dahlia, plaintively.

  “But you didn’t have to kill him. You could have just knocked him out or something.”

  Dahlia stormed forward. “How do you think this is gonna end? Do you think you’re going to somehow find a way to free all the Weiylans without killing a single guard?” She tapped Zagarat hard in the forehead with her index finger. “This is the way the universe works. Kill or be killed.” She turned towards Fletcher. “Get in the lifesuit.”

  Fletcher did not budge, narrowing his eyes as he stared intently at Dahlia.

  She stepped closer, hovering over Fletcher. “Get in the suit or we’re gonna have a problem.”

  Fletcher raised himself on his tippy toes so as to look her straight in the eyes. “Don’t test me, Dahlia. Others have tried and it never ended well.”

  Dahlia held his gaze, never once blinking. “Get in the sunning suit.”

  Neither moved for some time, which was slightly unnerving. Actually, it was sunning nerve wracking. Zag watched and waited, hoping one of them would eventually bend or knuckle under completely because he really didn’t know if he could hit Dahlia.

  Or hurt her at all.

  Luckily, Fletcher blinked first, although he didn’t look happy about it. Reluctantly, he began to undress down to his… aw, geez. He then slipped his arm inside the full body spacesuit, eyeing Dahlia obliquely the entire time.

  “Don’t start with the arms,” said Dahlia. “Start with the legs.” She gestured towards Zagarat. “You, come over here and help.”

  “My name is Zag,” grumbled Zagarat.

  “What was that?” Dahlia barked back.

  “My name is Zag,” said Zagarat, with more aplomb than he expected. “And you shouldn’t have killed him.”

  Dahlia stepped in close and Zagarat instinctually flinched, bracing himself for the inevitable punches, swirlies, and the occasional noogie. The wounds of the body heal quickly, but the wounds of the heart and mind linger on over time.

  “Just grab the sunning helmet,” said Dahlia.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Zagarat, handing the helmet to Fletcher. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” Fletcher placed the helmet down beside him. He then leaned in cons
piratorially and said, “Is it just me or are you totally turned on right now?”

  “What?” said Zagarat, squinting in bemusement. “No. What the suns is wrong with you?”

  Fletcher threw his arms into the air. “What? I’m just saying it was kind of hot.” He turned and winked at Dahlia.

  The fire in her eyes could have boiled water.

  “Don’t mind him,” said Zagarat, compelled by some unknown force to apologize for Fletcher being, well, Fletcher. “I know he sounds and acts like a bumbling idiot, but he can actually do some amazing things. Not getting killed being foremost on that list.”

  “Not getting me killed better be his new number one on that list,” said Dahlia, cinching the belt around Fletcher’s waist. Cinching it so hard that he actually gasped for air. “Now, your name is KweeKore. Everyone calls you Kweek. You’re a Geffen. That’s why you need the lifesuit.”

  “Geffen?” said Zagarat. “You mean Geffen like Arz Mently from Dragon Dynasty Geffen? I thought they were just actors. I didn’t think any sentients actually talked like that.”

  “Sure they do,” said Fletcher. “All the Geffens on Ulla Ulta sound like that. You know, ‘Oh-diddly-ong-ong-bing.’ That’s just the way they pronounce Eng… pronounce Universal.”

  “But they sound like they’re, um, they’re…”

  “Idiots?” said Fletcher. “I know. But believe me, they’re not. You know the Theory of Nearly Everything posited by Oh One Wan? A Geffen named Iddly Ong Ong actually came up with the same theory thirty fiscal years earlier. The only problem was no one at the conference could actually understand what he was saying. It wasn’t until a grad student found his notes a few years later and translated them that the universe learned of his achievement.”

  “Oh,” said Zagarat. “I didn’t know that.”

  “You keep travelling with me, you’ll learn a whole lot of things.”

  “I can’t wait,” said Zagarat, rolling his eyes.

  “You ladies about done?” said Dahlia. “Because we don’t have a lot of time.” She slipped a Quoren plated glove onto Fletcher’s hand, cinching it at the wrist. “I turned off the respirator so you should be fine. Although, the helmet might smell a bit from the Methanene gas. Now, I’m gonna take you on a quick tour of the ship. Just play along and don’t say or do anything stupid.”

  Zagarat opened his mouth to speak when Fletcher held up his gloved hand. “Don’t.”

  Zag smirked, keeping his thoughts to himself.

  Fletcher slipped on the helmet, the Quoren plated visor obscuring his face. “How do I sound?” he asked.

  “Tinny,” said Dahlia. “But that’s the way KweeKore sounded. There’s just one more thing you should know. If you screw this up, I will shoot you dead myself. Is that understood?”

  “Relax,” said Fletcher. “I’m on a strange ship with no idea what’s going on. What could possibly go wrong?”

  Dahlia looked as if she was about to strangle Fletcher right there on the spot.

  “He’s just joking,” Zag assured her. “He does that to lighten the mood. I’m sure everything will work out just fine for us.”

  Confusion, bewilderment, and dismay crisscrossed Dahlia’s aspect as if running a relay race across her face. Zagarat wondered if that was the way he looked when he first met Fletcher.

  “Come on,” said Dahlia, eventually. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Fletcher jumped off the biobed, the silver lifesuit glittering as he moved. He walked over to Zagarat who was rubbing his hands together and nibbling nervously on his lower lip.

  “Would you stop worrying so much?” said Fletcher. “It’ll be fine. I’m just gonna go out and get a feel for the area. Just stay here and hide behind those crates until Dahlia or I return.”

  “Okay,” said Zagarat, taking a deep breath. “Okay.”

  “And here,” said Fletcher, handing him his clothes. “Take these.” He handed Zag his silver sidearm. “Oh, and take Betty. You probably won’t need her, but at least you’ll have her.”

  Zagarat looked down at the pistol. “Betty?” he asked.

  “Yeah, Betty,” said Fletcher. “What’s wrong with Betty?”

  “Nothing,” said Zagarat. “I just didn’t know sents actually named their pistols, that’s all.”

  “Well, she’s not just any old pistol,” said Fletcher. “She and I go way back. She saved my meteorites quite a few times. So, make sure you treat her well.”

  “Um, okay,” said Zagarat. “Thank you.”

  Dahlia waited beside the door, her arms crossed. “Are you coming or not?”

  “Yes, mother,” said Fletcher, following Dahlia outside.

  When the door closed behind them, Zagarat made his way to the back of the room, settling down in Fort FletchandZag. He sat there quietly, holding the pistol up to the light.

  The sidearm… Betty looked so innocuous; shiny and light, as if made of plasticene or plastiglass. She was almost toy-like. But she could probably level most sentients with a single blast, if the coders for Universal Galactic Soldier of Kahn were at all accurate with their stats.

  Zagarat’s knowledge of sidearms was mostly based on vid games such as UGSK. And Betty looked like a Magi PK-9000. Or, at least, a close facsimile.

  He placed the gun on his lap and leaned back against the wall, resting his elbow on an access panel cover as a barrage of questions assailed his mental firewall.

  Why did the universe hate him so much? Was it because he didn’t worship any particular deity? Was it because he had cursed the Universe as a kid and the Universe still held a grudge? Or was the Universe a woman who found him absolutely undateable? He must have done something because she always treated him like dreck. Just like now.

  As he shifted again, Zagarat caught a glimpse of a bio computer dangling from a biobed. The same biobed Rama had nearly destroyed while trying to destroy Zag. Then he saw another. Then another. Then another. Then he looked down at the access panel beneath his elbow.

  Another question now matriculated through his head, starting at kindergarten, progressing through middle school all the way to high school, until finally graduating from college with a Bachelor of Science degree in Could I?

  Or B.S.C.I. for short.

  ahlia wasn’t a very good tour guide. She didn’t regale Fletcher with a fascinating story of the ship’s origin or ramble on about such and such captain who did such and such at the battle of such and such. It was such a shame. In fact, she didn’t say very much at all as she led Fletcher through the heart of the ship. A Starlight M-class freighter from the looks of it.

  But that made sense to Fletcher. Some women, as well as men and a few others, were often intimidated by his rugged good looks and greatness of being. And that was understandable. He was pretty sunning awesome, if he did think so himself.

  Oh, they often hid their infatuation well, often by hitting him repeatedly with whatever blunt object was available, but it was there. It was there.

  So, Fletcher took a self-guided tour of the area, sans the audio commentary.

  The hallway stretched out before him like one long piece of extruded plasticene tubing. Illumi-tiles lined the floor and ceiling, emitting a bright but not blinding white light. In fact, nearly everything on the ship was white, save for the ebony black letters above the doors. Strange designations that meant nothing to Fletcher. A-73. A-44. A-69.

  Actually, that wasn’t true. Fletcher was quite familiar with a 69. Ah, Jilliette.

  (The Society for the Advancement of Honorable Sentient Male Behavior would like to apologize for this previous “joke.” It by no means reflects the view of the SAHSMB or most sentient males in the known universe who find such attempts at humor to be both sexist and absolutely deplorable. That’s our story and we’re sticking to it.)

  The ship practically looked like a floating exhibit for Haree Arel’s work in abstract minimalism. Arel was an interior designer from Bylar Prime who believed that gaudy colors like red and blue are simply distract
ions that draw the eye outward onto the physical universe, while white and black evoke nothing, thereby drawing the eye inward where true vision and genius reside.

  Fletcher followed Dahlia down the hallway. There seemed to be two different camps on the ship. The Weiylans and the guards. The Weiylans were dressed in grey fatigues that looked quite fatigued themselves while the guards wore pristine white uniforms with gold lapels that gleamed as if brand new. Even their ebon boots were pristine, with nary a scuff mark.

  The main corridor was expansive, in height and width. And maybe that was why the ship seemed so empty. In fact, Fletcher had only seen about ten Weiylans and two guards to this point.

  One Weilyan in particular caught his eye. He was an elder Weiylan, with wrinkled pale blue skin, sunken cheeks, and more white hair on his ears and eyebrows than on his head. He was toting a deusteel crate on his shoulder as if the crate weighed nothing at all.

  But Fletcher knew that wasn’t true. Deusteel crates usually weighed at least fifty pounds, and that was when they were empty. This Weiylan was just extremely strong.

  Well, strong for a biped. Average for a Weiylan.

  The great blue beast stumbled momentarily, bracing himself against the wall. But this displeased his Lassen handler, who instantly charged his pulsewand. Blue tendrils crackled and danced at the tip of the two-foot long wand. The guard plunged the pulsewand into the Weiylan’s side, pressing it against his ribcage until the gentle beast dropped to one knee.

  It took all of Fletcher’s strength not to kill the guard there and then.

  The Weiylan trembled in obvious pain and yet held the crate aloft as if more concerned for the crate’s well-being than for his own. He didn’t yell or scowl. He just waited for the guard to finish. He then slowly stood and apologized for any offense, grinning the entire time.

  Fletcher’s heart nearly sank into his boots. It was as if he had suddenly travelled back in time, when Weiylans were beasts of burden to be used up and then discarded.

  He shook his head. He thought the corporations had learned their lesson. But no. The almighty credit still gleamed in their eyes, skewing their personal code of ethics. So, Fletcher just had to remind them that there was right and there was wrong.