A Swift Kick in the Asteroids

by Edward Zajac

  As Xena imagined all the possibilities before her, the door chime rang.

  “Come in,” said Xena, lazily placing her drink onto a mottled rimestone table beside her.

  Leevee entered, never looking up from his PCD. “Hello, Xena.”

  “Hello, Leevee,” said Xena. “So, how does everything look on our ship?”

  “Pretty gravitational so far,” said Leevee, digitally manipulating his PCD with fluid ease. Unfortunately, he was nowhere near as adept in digitally manipulating Xena’s organic PCD, even with guided instructions from the help department. “I’ve finally linked with the server. I now have access to most of the systems. From what I can gather, the new guards are working out fine, but I’ll know more when we talk with Gevron and the others.”

  Xena stood. “Then we shouldn’t keep them waiting any longer.”

  They walked outside, four guards falling in step behind them. They strode directly onto the maglift, requesting COMMAND.

  “Have you heard anything about this new Galustay process Research has implemented?”

  “Yes,” said Leevee, manipulating his PCD. “The results are astonishing. The serum is much more concentrated. It practically requires no distillation whatsoever.”

  “That’s wonderful,” said Xena.

  “Well, I’m not sure about that,” said Leevee. “The results may be promising, but it consumes twice as many subjects. I still have to work out the metrics on that one.”

  “That’s why I bring you along,” said Xena, wrapping her arms around his and placing her head on his shoulder. “For you brains and your body.”

  For the first time, Leevee looked up from his PCD and smiled.

  Suns, he was easy to control. All she had to do was uncross her legs every once in a while and her wish was his command.

  The doors opened onto COMMAND. While the rest of the ship was pristinely white, this room was gunmetal gray, accented by opaque sconces on the walls and opaque illumi-tiles on the floor and ceiling. In the center of the massive room was a long plasticene conference table, with digiports at every one of the thirty opaque chairs.

  Xena Xa sat down at the head of the table. “Hello, everyone,” she said, resting her hands on the opaque surface. “I apologize for the inconvenience. I know our next scheduled meeting wasn’t until the next fiscal quarter. I was just so excited to see your progress for myself.” She inclined her head towards Gevron, her Lassen head of security. “From what I can see, your security seems to be Tier 1. You should be proud.”

  “Thank you, Xena,” said Gevron, gold flakes shimmering against his bronze skin.

  “Although, I did have one question,” said Xena. “When did we start hiring Geffens?”

  “I know you prefer to work with the major races,” said Gevron. “But I’ve worked with KweeKore before and I can assure you that he is very good at his job.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Xena, with a flippant flip of her hand. “I would never dare to question your choices. I was simply curious, that’s all.” Xena paused. “I would however prefer if you hired Lerandans or Bylarians or any of the more erudite sentients in the future. I find them much more trustworthy.” She glanced up at the ceiling. “Excepting our wonderful pilot, of course.”

  “La-ahhh mahahh mau uh huh,” came a voice over the speakers.

  “Yes,” said Xena with a warm smile. She leaned over to Leevee who sat with his nose in his PCD, as always. “See if you can get the translator working, would you?”

  “Sure,” said Leevee, his fingers dancing across his projected screen. “I’ll add it to the interminably long list of vital things I have to do.”

  “Thank you,” said Xena, curtly. She turned back towards Gevron. “And have you looked any further into that other matter we discussed?”

  “What, the Mistrals?” said Gevron. Xena nodded. “Yes, I looked into it. I think they may be an option when we eventually expand our operation, but right now a Mistral would be cost prohibitive. The Mistral Council demands a high premium for their services.”

  “It was just a thought,” said Xena, with a wave of her hand. “But, as you say, if things continue as they have…” She turned her attention to the scientist. “Well, I hear you’ve finally made some great strides with your Galustay research, my dear Sicil.”

  “Yes,” said Sicil, sitting up in his chair. “I’ve been able to streamline the entire process. The serum is so concentrated you could practically drink it straight from the blue tap. By the end of this fiscal year, I’ll be able to tap a bluie at least fifteen times before depleting it.”

  “That’s very encouraging,” said Xena, intertwining her fingers. She extended her index fingers and touched them to her lips. “There’s only one problem. That’s what you said about synthesizing Galustay. And here we are a fiscal year later and still nothing.”

  Sicil rolled his eyes. “Look, Xena, I know you want to expand our operation. Believe me, so do I. But science doesn’t work that way. It’s all trial and error. I know it doesn’t seem it, but I am making real progress. So, don’t worry you’re pretty little head about it. You just take care of the money and I’ll take care of the science.” He smiled that condescending smile of his. “Okay?”

  Xena flashed an even more condescending smile right back at him. “Of course,” she said, turning towards Leevee. “Do you have access to Eclipse?” He nodded. “Good. Bring that up, would you?” She then turned back towards Sicil, smiling. “Do you want to hear a joke?” She looked about the table. “Who here would like to hear a joke?”

  No one answered. Xena continued nonetheless. “A woman hires an experimental chemist. He’s had troubles with the law, but his work shows real progress so she takes a chance on him. Funds his research, pays him a healthy stipend. He makes promises, but his work always comes up a wee bit short. The woman begins to lose faith in him. And then it happens. He suddenly has a breakthrough. The woman is happy because her risk, her trust has finally been validated.” She held up a finger. “Now, here’s the funny part. Just when woman feels vindicated, she learns that the scientist she hired, the one she trusted was actually a con artist. That it was actually his assistant, Owon Ollitz who was the visionary.” Xena looked about the room. “No one seems to be laughing. It must be me. I was never very good at telling jokes.”

  Sicil’s face blanched from yellow to white. “Xena, I can explain…”

  “Do you have the prog up?” Xena asked Leevee.

  Leevee nodded, holding out his PCD. Xena searched the display until she found the appropriate tab. She depressed the virtubutton and Sicil began to tremble apoplectically. His entire body quavered uncontrollably, blood seeping from his eyes until his body fell limply to the floor.

  Xena motioned towards one of the guards. “Take care of that, would you?”

  The guard nodded then dragged the scientist formerly known as Sicil away.

  “About sunning time,” said Gevron, nearly grinning at the sight of Sicil’s lifeless body. “That sent was starting to annoy the suns out of me.”

  “I agree,” said Xena. “It was time to part ways.” She turned towards Leevee. “Give Ollitz a raise and offer him a new position as Head of Research.”

  “Understood,” said Leevee, nodding.

  Suddenly, there was a loud buzzing sound. Gevron glanced down at his datapad, reading something to himself. Once he was done, he frowned and set the tablet aside.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Xena.

  “It’s nothing to be concerned about,” said Gevron.

  “Now now, Gevron,” said Xena. “You know I don’t like secrets.”

  Gevron sighed. “Xena, I assure you. It’s nothing. The hybrid you hired just wants a few minutes of my time. That’s all.”

  “I assume that means the two of you are…”

  “No, no,” said Gevron quickly. “I don’t indulge in that sort of thing.”

  “That’s wonderful to hear,” said Xena. She waved her hand in the air. “Well, send her
in. I haven’t seen Dahlia for ages. How is she working out anyway?”

  “Surprisingly well,” said Gevron. “The Weiylans trust her completely. And she seems to have no qualms about what we’re doing here.”

  “Of course she doesn’t,” said Xena. “She wants what we all want. Credits. Power.”

  The maglift doors opened moments later and Dahlia walked inside the conference room, dropping her head low.

  “Come in, come in,” said Xena, waving her forward. “You’re always welcome here.”

  Dahlia strolled forward, never looking up from the floor.

  “Well, hybrid slut,” said Gevron. “Speak.”

  Dahlia nervously chewed on her lip, trembling slightly at Gevron’s tone.

  “Now now, Gevron,” said Xena Xa. “There’s no need to be rude.” She cupped Dahlia’s hand, tapping it gently. “What is it, girl? You’re safe here. You can tell us.”

  “Well,” said Dahlia, looking up at Xena. “It’s about KweeKore.”

  letcher was absolutely miserable. Not only did his helmet stink, but his stomach seemed to be eating itself in lieu of other options. And it wasn’t like he could go down to the mess hall and eat any of their shleck because they’d kill him the minute he took off his helmet. No, he’d just have to soldier on until he figured out a way out of this.

  And he probably should have figured something out by now. The universe usually showed him the way. But not today. Oh, no. Today, the universe refused to spend any time with him at all. She was a fickle mistress, the universe. One minute she would unveil her greatest gifts to you and the next, she would disappear, probably to flirt with some other Noomani.

  As Fletcher made his way to the bridge, a message came over his comm, summoning him back to the tank. There he was forced to watch the same gruesome scenes unfold over and over again. Biobeds rocked and Weiylans screamed as a viscous white liquid dripped into a crystalline ampulla. And all the while, Fletcher watched with his hands balled into tight fists.

  “We lost another one!” shouted an exasperated tech. “Call the Bluie!” Rama arrived moments later. “Take that one and bring us another. KweeKore, go with him.”

  Fletcher nodded then led the way outside. Rama fell in step beside him.

  “How you doing, Rama?” asked Fletcher softly as they walked.

  Rama smiled wanly, cradling an elderly Weiylan in his arms. “Good now dat Fletcher helping. Rama thank Fletch… KweeKore for dat.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” said Fletcher, walking onto the maglift.

  Rama followed him inside and said, “Hangar Bay.”

  Fletcher frowned. “Don’t you want to go to engineering first?”

  “Uh-uh,” said Rama, biting his lips as tears glistened in his eyes. “Rama no go. Not til KweeKore do what KweeKore gonna do.”

  “Okay,” said Fletcher, squinting in confusion. “If you say so.”

  They exited the maglift and strode down the corridor. A guard, dressed in a lifesuit very similar to Fletcher’s, stood outside Hangar Bay 3.

  “Oh-diddly-ong-on-ding,” said Fletcher.

  The guard nodded curtly and then said, rather eloquently, “KweeKore.”

  Evidently, she wasn’t Geffen. From her accent, she might have been Antwanee or maybe Erowitz. Personally, Fletcher preferred Antwanee. He didn’t have a lot of success with Erowitzians. Their language was too confusing. To Fletcher, there was very little difference between the Erowitzy word for “meet” and the Erowitzy word for “intercourse.” But to Erowitzians, there was quite a bit of a difference, something Fletcher learned when he met the king’s daughter, Elegdra. What he meant to say was, “I have dreamed of meeting you for years.”

  What he actually said was… unfortunate.

  When the hangar doors slid open, the Weiylans inside gasped in shock.

  Rama bowed his head. “Fawen gon a Welan,” he said somberly, presenting the body.

  A melodic, nearly numinous hum arose in the hangar. Fletcher recognized the chant as a Weiylan prayer for deliverance. And he really hoped Welan was listening.

  As the chants slowly faded, an elderly Weiylan strode forward and placed his hand on the lifeless clanbrother’s forehead. “Bahnewy fie,” he said.

  Rama shook his head, sniffling. “Non bahnewy fie.”

  “Bahnewy fie,” said the elder, stridently. “Non bahnewy fie, non kailen doh Welan. Fawen doh Deilan and Fawen non serveh Deilan.”

  “Rama kennon bahnewy fie,” said Rama desperately.

  “Rama ken and Rama do,” said the elder. “Rama do for Fawen.”

  Rama looked absolutely wretched standing there, tears streaming down his cheeks as he stared at the lifeless Weiylan in his arms. He looked up at his elder, his eyes nearly pleading for mercy. But the elder simply shook his head and said, “Bahnewy fie for Fawen.”

  Eventually, Rama nodded. “Bahnewy fie for Fawen.”

  The elder nodded with satisfaction and returned to his clan.

  “What is going on?” asked Fletcher, leaning in close.

  “Nothing,” said Rama. “Rama just havta do something after Rama pick next Weiylan.”

  Fletcher glanced back over his shoulder. The guard seemed to be paying them no mind. “I’ll take care of this,” he said, tapping Rama on the back. “You go do what you have to do.”

  “KweeKore sure?” asked Rama.

  “Yeah,” said Fletcher. “I got this.”

  With another wan smile, Rama left the hangar. Fletcher waited a few minutes then followed.

  “Hey,” said the guard. “I thought you need another bluie.”

  “Na d-day,” said Fletcher, shaking his head. Definitely not today. In fact, not today or any other day. Not if he had anything to say about it. No. Today, everything was going to…

  A flash of movement stopped Fletcher mid-thought. On the edge of his periphery, he caught a glimpse of another set of hangar bay doors slamming shut in the distance. But before they closed, he espied something very interesting.

  A sleek Starlight freighter docked inside Hangar Bay 1.

  Fletcher made his way onto the maglift, fighting the urge to jump with joy. That was how they could escape. He could load all the Weiylans onto that ship. But how? That was the question. He’d need a good distraction. Something that would keep everyone occupied while they escaped.

  Just then, a voice came over the comm. “KweeKore.”

  “Hey, Z…” Fletcher began to say before he realized it wasn’t Zag. “Um, yep?”

  “Ess-oo-ow-ow-nem?” said a female voice.

  “Ummmm,” said Fletcher, nervously. “Uh, yep.”

  “New-isse-Kwee-innit,” said the voice.

  “Gesse-oh-oh-ing,” said Fletcher, in his best Geffen babble.

  “Es-see,” said the voice again. “Buh-bah.”

  Fletcher cocked his head, waiting for another order from command. But it didn’t come. His faux Geffen talk must have fooled them. It was pretty convincing, if he did think so himself.

  As Fletcher exited the maglift, four guards appeared down a side hallway, pulserifles in hand. Fletcher nodded then continued on towards the storage room.

  At least he had a plan now. He just needed a good distraction. Maybe Zagarat could help with that. He’d been pretty useful up to this point, when he wasn’t freaking out about every little thing. He might know what to do. Zag might also know why the guards were following him down the hallway. Fletcher turned. And why another four guards were rounding a far corner, dressed in riot gear; helmets, shields, and gleaming black plastisteel flak jackets.

  And walking towards him.

  “KweeKore?” said the lead guard. According to his nametag, his name was Estelitz.

  “Mm-hmm,” said Fletcher, pausing before the storage closet.

  “If you would come with us, please.”

  “Bessa-up-up-gee,” said Fletcher, looking back and forth between the guards.

  The guards took aim. “Now,” said Estelitz, levelly.

  �
��Eh, crap,” said Fletcher to himself.

  Just then, the Illumi-tiles in the corridor dimmed as a loud explosion sounded off in the distance. The walls and floors shook as a pulse wave rose up through the ground, knocking Fletcher into a nearby wall. To the left and right, guards fell like dominos in a gust of wind.

  Fletcher clutched his aching head. The pain was excruciating. But he willed the pain away when he saw the guards slowly stagger to their feet. Leaning against the wall, he typed in the security code and then quickly slipped inside the storage room, securing the door behind him.

  “Okay,” he said, turning to face Zagarat. “This one was not my fault.”

  But Zagarat was nowhere to be seen. In fact, the entire supply closet was a mess. Most of the biobeds were upturned and lying on the floor. Suns, even his fort had collapsed.

  Fletcher’s eyes grew wide. Zag.

  He ran towards his former fort, tossing plastisteel and deusteel cases aside as if they weighed nothing at all. “ZAG!” he screamed. “ZAG!”

  There was no response.

  Another pulse wave struck from below, casting Fletcher into a pile of deusteel crates. When the crates shifted, Fletcher caught a glimpse of Zagarat lying on the floor.

  “Zag,” said Fletcher, throwing crates aside with reckless abandon. “Zag, talk to me.”

  Zagarat groaned, grabbing the side of his head. “What the suns just happened?”

  “I don’t know,” said Fletcher, kicking a crate aside. “But this one was not my fault.”