Atalan Adventure Pack: Books 4-6

by R. M. Hamrick

  Surprise! It’s gambling!™

  What had first seemed to be a drugged, lackadaisical crowd, was. But now they’d grown tired of clapping their hands and had organized to find the final act of the festival. Something and the Somethings were out. Rumor had it the next big thing was both next and big—and, the loot boxes were pretty cool. If the crew thought they were going to get anywhere in stealth, they were mistaken. People knew that smart people do smart things, and if they’d accomplished the Selfiequest then surely, one could follow this group to treasure before snatching it out from under them. They’d become the hero of their three-act story. Of course, it wouldn’t be complete without a character arc, so perhaps this hypothetical thief steals the treasure, but learns it was really family he needed all along.

  Good for him.

  Even in the crew’s most chill moments, no one had ever deemed them to be inconspicuous, anyway. It was near impossible to ignore the buck-naked (or in this case, butt-naked) Cardalol, two excessively large rectangular pumice stones, a wickedly gorgeous Kieron, an ancient robot lady, and a bright beacon of a body that flashed neon colors with each footstep. Also, Frankie had a paper map the size of a regulation flag that flapped behind her as she moved. Among treasure hunting festival-goers, film crews—also without permits—roamed the lawless ex-POA planet, producing all manners of documentaries, interactive media, and basic stock footage. Frankie glared over her shoulder as someone ran alongside her crew, commentating.

  “And now you can see the non-native using a map. While most maps have interactive user interfaces based on real-time satellite imagery, this is the ancient analog version. Notice the creases on the document, which gives the impression it can be folded in a specific procedure so that it’s smaller than the area being mapped. However, our lie detector test determined that was a lie,” said someone in a Nature Documentary Voice, which was remarkably similar to Earth British.

  Another joined his ranks.

  “And here, the suspect continues her frivolous and public hunt for treasure, unaware that the galaxy’s foremost bounty hunters are close on her tail.”

  Frankie skidded to a stop. Behind her, a hovering platform holding narrator, cameraman, Steadicam, and director nearly crashed into her. Upon the director’s whispered request, the cameraman zoomed onto Frankie’s face before grabbing and shaking the camera to ‘inject emotion and a sense of action’ into the scene.

  “It seems the fugitive has caught wind of her hunters. Still, it’s only a matter of time before THE GALAXY’S MOST WANTED is captured and submitted to authorities for a hefty sum.”

  “—and, cut to commercial,” said the director at an unnecessarily high volume. “Don’t worry, dear, we’re on a commercial break.”

  “Great,” said Frankie, but not really meaning great at all. More, she meant ‘Glad you’ve found a place to pause to address the life-or-death matter you’ve thrust upon me,’ which also had a great deal of sarcasm. So perhaps she meant, “Oh, I wasn’t worried,” which meant its opposite.

  Non-sarcasm was hard.

  “I’m not that woman on the wanted posters. Stop following me,” she tried.

  “I do admit that you are a bit showier than that photo,” admitted the director, “but it’ll do.”

  “Tell your audience I’m not that Nurflan,” Frankie requested with some firmness in her voice (damn sarcasm).

  “Oh, don’t worry. We have a disclaimer that’s displayed in the beginning and ending credits, and every time we return from a commercial break.”

  The narrator presented a card to the camera as he recited it. “All suspects are innocent until proven guilty by a court of law. LOL.”

  “What the mevix—you can’t say LOL at the end of it,” said Quaja, pulling down the card with angry momma-bear tentacles.

  “Oh, don’t worry. That’s not an acronym for ‘Laughing out loud.’ It’s an acronym for ‘Laughing Over Legalese.’”

  “Great.”

  But it wasn’t great at all.

  “On CAT THE BOUNTY HUNTER, we’re on the prowl for one of the GALAXY’S MOST WANTED,” started the narrator. The camera zoomed in on Frankie’s face, as if it hadn’t been close enough.

  The cameraman began streaming to the knockoff jumbotron, where the face of someone who didn’t want their face on a knockoff jumbotron was plastered along with some sort of statistics misattributed to her, including her favorite band and sexual preference, the minute text of which couldn’t be read by persons above a certain age. What was clear for all were the words GLAXAY’S MOST WANTED emblazoned, typo-and-all, on the mildly confused and considerably angry Nurflan face.

  The face turned sideways before the monitor only showed the Nurflan’s running sandals, which most of the galaxy found atrocious, but Frankie had said they were surprisingly functional. However, now they were on global display and Frankie understood what her crew meant when they’d said the shoes were embarrassing to be around. She was embarrassed to be around them too, and promptly kicked them off. Some man whistled and was promptly tackled by all respectable beings in his vicinity. After dismantling the system of patriarchy fostering such comments against others, they returned to their previous activities.

  Meanwhile, the camera was pointed at feet because Tarke and Quaja had launched onto the platform and overturned it.

  “Let’s get you back to the ship,” said Gail, reaching for Frankie like a gentle metal giant.

  “We won’t get our ship back until the festival is over. We’ve got to find the final act,” said Frankie, who was now having second thoughts and glanced around for her running sandals. She put them on, but apologized all the same.

  Having covered a third of the small planet, Tarke broke the silence. “You’ve got a message.” In response to her captain’s confused look, she added, “I forwarded the ship’s messages to my Palm Pilot.”

  Frankie was now even more confused.

  It wasn’t the fact that she called it a Palm Pilot despite their retirement in 2022 Earth Time. It wasn’t a Palm Pilot. That’s just what Tarke called them. The original devices, along with Blackberrys, had all been gathered up and sent to an electronic pasture located in Nebula System 383 (see The Great Electronic Retirement of 2022 Earth Time in Appendix H for more information).

  No, it was the fact that forwarding the ship’s messages to Tarke’s anything was a very second-in-command administrative task and as such, there was no way Tarke would have done any such thing. She’d actually crossed things off her job duty list before signing the onboarding papers. Frankie was sure handling messages was one of those things.

  “What? I’m expecting a phone call,” Tarke said.

  Still, it seemed rather convenient.

  Dictated by Matt and typed by that uh, cool third-party app thing. As the GALAXY’S MOST WANTED (I’ve got to say what? OK, alleged), you can’t own part of Hephaestus as stated in our new laws that we passed while you were away. You’ll have to find another place for your underwater lair. Also, business license. Yours is annulled.

  Sincerely, Matt and umm, why can’t I have your name?

  Tarke read the note in her best imitation of a Nature Documentary Voice. Despite having spent a significant amount of her childhood in actual Britain, most found her imitation ghastly, uncouth, and frankly offensive.

  “You don’t own this planet anymore?” asked Gail. Her entire body seemed to slump a little lower in sadness. It was the unhappiest she’d been today, even including the time she had to paint Tarke’s butt. “ARE WE HOMELESS?” she panicked suddenly.

  “We don’t live here,” said Lorav. Patav squeezed the bridge of her nose, like her captain was desiring to do.

  “So. We’re homeless,” said Tarke, nodding to Gail.

  “And shipless,” said Gail, slumping so much that her rear was grazing the water’s surface.

  “Yeah, I’m scared... shipless,” whispered Tarke in mock-horror, causing Gail to start crying, either in laughter or utter despair. It was uncle
ar.

  Frankie had missed the fun, but sort of forced wordplay. She was too busy draining of color. What had been flashing, had diminished into a light gray with notes of pink and a giant note of panic.

  “Captain?” asked Patav.

  “It’s the cave.”

  And there they were at the foot of the third act.

  SEVEN

  The entrance of the cave was revealed only by the lowest of tides. And, it wasn’t so much an entrance as it was a hole. And it wasn’t so much a hole as it was a hole gated with cylindrical metal bars blocking ingress and egress of anything larger than a Hot Pockets sandwich, like the five-cheese pizza one with flaky crust which is coincidentally the best Hot Pockets sandwich. Through the Hot Pockets sandwich openings, a knot of dark tentacles waited for rescue, or when the tide came in, death.

  Quaja pushed others aside as her tentacles slipped through the bars, mostly on their own accord, to reach the fellow Kieron. A Kieron’s head cavity only held half of a Kieron’s brain cells, called kieron. The other half were divided among the tentacles, much like an Earth octopus. As such, Quaja was only somewhat in control of her body, and she used that control to press upon the gate to more easily entwine with the other Kieron.

  “Do they know each other?” Frankie chose to ask the mind-reader, rather than the minded as she seemed preoccupied.

  Lorav shook her head.

  “That’s just how Kierons greet each other. It’s rather sexy, I think,” said Gail.

  Frankie wasn’t sure if she didn’t think it sexy because she often didn’t think things were sexy, or because all they could really see was Quaja plastered to the gate.

  Eventually, Quaja pulled off with a great suction-y slurp, allowing both the ingress and egress of water and air so the prisoner did not suffocate or drown. A large circular combination lock that one might see on a locker to keep others out of one’s stuff secured the gate, except this lock was keeping a person inside while the gate was letting a lot of stuff in, including the rising tide.

  Unlike Earth octopuses, Kieron had lungs, and thus required a good bit of atmospheric oxygen in order to survive and thrive, of which this tide had nothing of the sort. Like water, water everywhere, Nor any drop to drink, Hephaestus’s atmosphere had water, but water hadn’t atmosphere—unless one was speaking on the pervading mood or tone of a location. In that case, oceans had an atmosphere of water.

  And if the Kieron species were to have their own atmosphere, it would be an atmosphere of mechanical dexterity and extreme industry, for they excelled in some of the most technical and exacting work. Frankie had never heard of a Kieron musician before, or really any Kieron in a creative or subjective line of work. Course, it was always too difficult to hear of any specific creative being, no matter the species, so you know…

  He was traditional Kieron in one way though. He was, objectively, quite handsome. While Quaja was the color of a deep dark evergreen forest, this Kieron was milky black with suction cups of a different black that wavered between a flat black and a purple-black—whatever color that was, it was pretty. Gail who typically fell all over herself when she saw Quaja, had now possibly collapsed at the full sight of—

  “Who is this?” asked Frankie, who had finally found a way to butt into the exposition.

  “He’s the Ghost in the Machines,” answered Tarke. She probably had his poster on her walls. Her tiny dormitory on the ship was possibly smaller with the layers of music posters from several hundred stellar systems.

  “Ghost and the Machines?” Frankie asked, misinterpreting the musical act’s name.

  “Yes,” confirmed Tarke erroneously.

  “Where’s the rest of them?” she asked the Kieron.

  “It’s just me.”

  “Weird.”

  “Well, OK, thanks,” he said in a silky voice. “But do any of you have the combination?”

  The tide had created a 50/50 atmosphere-to-water ratio. He hung from tentacles braced on the top section of the gate. While Kieron were master lock picks, combination locks were basically Kieron-proof if they didn’t break under the pressure of the super strong tentacles. They assumed Ghost had already attempted that method of escape.

  Around this time, typically the grand master of ceremonies would get on the big screen and tell them the next clue, but they seemed to be on their own here. It was as if the ticking clock of the tide demanded the hero take independent action and implement what she’d learned from this story arc.

  “Does anyone know the combination?” Frankie asked Lorav, which really wasn’t the lesson.

  She asked Lorav, because not only was it convenient to ask her when others were occupied, it was also easier when others were many, many hyper-high festival attendees. She’d leave Lorav to process through all the dumb spit, like a poop-smith mind-reader.

  Some of the spit made its way to Frankie, anyway.

  “03-11-52. That’s my birthday,” said an amorphous blob emerging from the shadow of a much more solid being. “Well, it’s the date I separated from the parent blob.”

  Tarke was there to handle that spit. “First off, the lock doesn’t go up to 52, and secondly, did the person who set this lock know your birthday?”

  “No, I guess not. Not even the parent blob remembers me.”

  The amorphous blob dejectedly slimed away, collecting a few hairs, antenna, and an irritating amount of glitter (anything greater than 2 glitters) in his blobness.

  “Something and the Somethings were a nine-member band,” offered Quaja.

  Lorav knew where she was going with this, of course. “The Pitmosh numbers fluctuate with injuries, deaths, and lawsuits, but the minimum is thirty-two.

  “32 - 9 - 1...” Frankie recited the numbers as she tried them on the combination lock.

  The lock didn’t give.

  “Wow, I really thought that was going to work,” said Lorav; the thought seemed to be her genuine idea and not one siphoned from someone who knew the correct combination.

  “Maybe we need to retrace our steps and look for clues,” was a proper suggestion that completely ignored the ticking clock element of the story. This suggestion was Gail’s.

  “Well, there is one other solution here,” said Tarke, pulling out her weapon from… somewhere… and giving it a precursory and completely unnecessary cocking.

  “You can’t shoot your way in there. You’ll kill Ghost!” shouted… basically, everybody.

  “He’s going to die anyway,” replied Tarke, possibly not seeing the real problem for the solution at hand. Disappointed, she un-cocked her weapon.

  Tarke’s eyes took on a sadness of a different depth, not because she couldn’t fire her really cool weapon, but for her friend. “Sorry, Frankie. We need to use the other one other solution.”

  Frankie impulsively glanced at the scarred-over radiation burn on Tarke’s left hand. It was her constant reminder of how dangerous her ability could be.

  “I don’t think it’s an R1 lock,” pushed Tarke, gently.

  It wasn’t sweeping geological changes. It was a simple lock, a musician’s life, and a tide which had reached a distinct level that pressed the hero for a decision.

  Frankie held the lock at an angle to the stellar light, allowing the light to reflect off it. Taking off her goggles, which had a fair amount of glitter that had made its way inside and now fell down her cheeks like a glamorous snot-running emotional breakdown, she concentrated her vision on the lock, converting the near-ultraviolet light and the ultraviolet light to soft X-rays. From there, it was relatively easy to see the correct positions for the wheel based on relative densities, and with just a few trials, she was able to set Ghost free (in the person-in-a-cage sense, not the release-from-the-physical-plane sense).

  Just as Ghost made his escape, a rogue wave submerged the cave, in a classic ‘that was close’ moment. This moment passed as the wave receded and the tide continued its gradual climb—but, it would have been an uncomfortable few moments for Ghost all the same.


  Frankie sighed in relief and replaced her goggles.

  Without a large gate between them, Quaja and Ghost intertwined in an orgy-like configuration that was almost obscene, as many orgies were. Gail did not hide her jealousy, curiosity, or arousal before being pulled into the spaghetti hug, her mechanical hydrostats joining in. The pasta-like ball then rolled toward Frankie. Quaja and Gail knew better than to pull their captain into such a physical embrace, or any embrace in general—physical, emotional, psychological. They withdrew as three individual entities; two managed the task more gracefully than Gail.

  “That’s an amazing talent you have there. Thank you for saving me,” said Ghost—or whatever his actual name was.

  “I wouldn’t really call it a talent,” mumbled Frankie.

  “Well, thank you anyway,” he said graciously.

  “Could I ask a favor? I know you spent all day imprisoned and almost died, but do you think you could still play your set? Maybe your band could take the lead.”

  Mevix, his band. Frankie had a sudden image of searching for all of Ghost’s back-up singers, dancers, and whatever. She also concurrently realized they might be dead since high tide had arrived.

  “Sure, but it’s just me.”

  “You’re Ghost and the Machines?”

  “Yes.”

  Frankie thought that was weird, but well, things were weird around here. “All right, let’s hear ya.”

  Ghost in the Machines left to get ready for his concert. It probably was cruel to make him play, but she wasn’t the one who locked him up. She just wanted this invasive festival company to clear out.

  Quaja gestured to Frankie. “It seems those eyeballs helped you work something out.”

  Frankie was a bright, but steady mint color. It still wasn’t in her family of colors, but at least she wasn’t speed-cycling through the visible color spectrum. Frankie sighed again. She hadn’t realized how exhausting it had been to be a flashing Christmas tree or a loud billboard advertising unresolved issues until it had stopped.