Atalan Adventure Pack: Books 4-6

by R. M. Hamrick

  Katie pulled out a Nurflan-legal sized electronic ink tablet (or, as they probably called it, ‘legal size’) which had been labeled with the words “Do Not Remove from the Multicultural Awareness Center” on all sides with a Sharpie marker. As the document slid across the desk, the desk began to aggressively flash in neon colors. Frankie could almost feel the buzz of the electrochemical reactions taking place on her skin. This document might have all the answers for her. Answers she may not like.

  RECORD OF ADOPTION

  NURFLANT FEMALE-308221 WAS ADOPTED BY NIFLLL AND LINDA NEW YORK ON THE SEVENTY-THIRD SOLAR CYCLE IN THE YEAR OF OUR CHARTREUSE.

  Below the printed statement, attached to the document, were identification photos of a Nurflant (infant Nurflan) and two aliens—the New Yorks Frankie presumed. The baby could’ve been any pink Nurflant, although Frankie’s DNA matched it. The photos of the adopters were grainy, but perfectly adequate for determining the New Yorks were not her parents. The New Yorks were Rennos, not human.

  “Got any other matches?” asked Tarke.

  The lower Frankie’s shoulders slumped, the more saturated her maroon coloring became. “They told me they adopted me. Here.”

  “I know. Come on, Farkie,” came the childhood nickname and the warm furry arm around her.

  If she wasn’t “Nurflant Female-308221,” then who was she?

  Tarke led her to one of the Trundle In-and-Out exits away from prying eyes. Having been friends for most of their lives, Tarke could read Frankie’s emotions like they were written on her skin. Either because of this or despite this, Tarke whispered on their way out, “Really, if you’re THE GALAXY’S MOST WANTED, you can tell me. You know that, right?”

  Frankie gave a low Marge Simpson groan. If cartoon agitation lines were actual manifestations, they’d be following Frankie like a cartoon rain cloud.

  #

  When Frankie reached the semi-privacy of her legally grounded ship and the full privacy of her cabin, she allowed herself to finally collapse. Sitting on her bed, she grabbed the comforter from all directions, bundling herself up into an even more private space. Trans-galactic adoptions were hardly ever straightforward, but Frankie thought she at least knew she was legally adopted through the Nurflan government to the Earth humans who had raised her. It was a story of luck, fortune, and love. Now, it seemed contrived and Frankie wondered what other forces were at play. The pile of bedding shook with sobs as Frankie grieved for her fake history.

  Before a heavily hashtagged stance on the economic value of Kassa could be delivered to the other side of the galaxy—where Kassa could not even grow, Frankie had stopped crying. The tears ended more abruptly and sooner than most species that cry would have surmised, including Frankie. The cocoon felt stuffy and was thrown off. She would need more information in order to effect more specific and persistent tears. Still her voice croaked as she spoke.

  “Compi, route a call to the residence of Franklin and Saanvi Chakrabarti on Earth.” Frankie couldn’t bring herself to say “parents.”

  Compi did not respond.

  “Compi, route a call to my parents.” Okay, maybe she could.

  After accounting for the usual unusually long processing time, Compi still did not respond. Frankie suspected there was something wrong with Compi’s interface in her room’s wiring. She’d have Quaja fix it.

  “Compi, please send a message to Qua— doh.”

  Frankie had to manually reach for her tablet and route the call through various way stations via Windows Wizard to reach Earth. Windows Wizard used outdated communication lines, but it was easy to hack, and thus easy to assist other call participants who’d reached the conclusion of their Technological Absorption phase before the technology’s emergence. Frankie caught sight of her coloring—a foggy, barely-there mauve. This distracted her for most of the communication programming. Frankie couldn’t recall ever turning that color before. It was as if her entire self had lost its identity. She’d lost her way. Unfortunately, by the time her parents connected, Frankie had left distraction and had made it around to anger.

  Frankie’s mother appeared on her tablet screen. Having spent the last few years hopping from planet to planet, and hardly ever calling because she was a bad daughter, Frankie could notice the signs of aging. Most humans of a certain age and credit score did not remain on Earth. If not an assisted living cruise, at least a planet with low gravity to aid in mobility. These planets were oft advertised as anti-aging planets: “Don’t Let Your Skin Sag to the Floor. Visit Malibu Anti-Aging Spa, Resort, and Planet today.” Frankie’s parents were homebodies and in cranky, get-off-my-lawn style claimed people should age ‘naturally’ as their home planet intended, despite the clear contradiction in bringing home a small Nurflan infant. “Oh, we mean older beings,” they’d dismiss.

  Saanvi’s brown skin resembled crinkled paper as it hugged her eyes in a smile. She was in the kitchen. Not because she was cooking, but because it was the ‘only place in the house with good lighting.’ Frankie had long given up encouraging them to install an upgraded lighting package in their module house, which was discounted 34% with their Earth Incorporated Retirement Scenario 3B membership card.

  “Where’s Dad?” Frankie asked without even saying hello. She wanted them both on camera when she announced that she knew their lie.

  “I’m here, kiddo!” A familiar but old face arrived sideways before settling above its wife’s shoulder.

  There. Now she would see their reactions. She had been told lies all her life. Neither would get a fair warning from the other.

  “I was never adopted from Nurfla’s Trundle In-and-Out. Where the MEVIX did you get me?!”

  Two shocked faces leaned forward, closing the gap between face and camera. The video disconnected, but the audio did not cut out before Saanvi could be heard criticizing Frankie’s use of a curse word in a conversation with her parents.

  While it didn’t lead to specific tears, the generic ones were painful enough. If she had felt lost and defeated before, she wasn’t sure what she’d be now. What was after defeated? Demolished? Disintegrated? Reclaiming her blanket, Frankie curled first into the fetal position, then transformed into an isopod-like ball of safety. She had reached out to her parents and expected to hear the truth, or at least another lie—but they had ended the call and possibly her connection to them. She, sure as Hell was a popular tourist destination, wasn’t going to reach out again. Frankie had never thought her parents adoptive parents had ill-intentions, but they were hiding something. Had they stolen her? Were her parents—her real parents—alive? Had they wanted to keep her? Were Franklin and Saanvi Chakrabarti child traffickers?

  Maybe that was why they hung up on her.

  The Isopod of Safety was safe, but also lonely. She wanted Tarke to barge in and ask her absurd questions and demand the story rights to sell to Jerry, Miami Vice, or whatever that docuseries was she watched about adopting aliens. Frankie stretched out and lay flat on the bed, facing the port door in the ceiling. If she wanted comfort, she was going to have to rejoin the rest of the ship and ask for it. That action was difficult, but not the hardest she’d have to tackle in the next few solar cycles. Also, she really needed to pee.

  FIVE

  After an appropriately long time using wormholes and the like, Gail’s family arrived, two human women and their two offspring. Gail’s entire crew stood at attention in the Atalanta Empress cargo bay. Tarke straightened her back to unnatural proportions. Having been reminded of the gravity of the situation as if it were a gas giant, Tarke had taken measures to histrionic levels, which did nothing to make Frankie and Gail more comfortable.

  “You could’ve picked us up at the airport,” chided Fala in a tone only a blood relative would take upon crossing the first structural thresholds. The older child ran around exploring the dangerous, rusty ship, but she was small so they allowed it. The infant remained in hand, and she was also small so she allowed it. Or at least, couldn’t do much about it. Or, anyth
ing for that matter.

  The two women were historically tall for humans, although average for their generation, or more accurately, that particular period in Earth’s nutritional and genetic manipulation. While heightier heights had been attributed to more favorable outcomes, the human race had of course taken it too far. When congress stared down the barrel of their fifteenth amendment to the Stooping is Not Accessible Act to heighten door frames and do away with ceilings, it was decided that shortness had its perks too. Even more so for cheap spacecraft. Fala would be most comfortable in the two-story cargo bay area, where Quaja had created a delightful meal.

  “I would have, but we’re not allowed to leave orbit,” said Gail, trying to fit into her captainly words.

  “She’s not allowed to leave orbit,” Fala corrected, pointing at Frankie.

  “But it’s her ship,” said Gail, quick to correct her daughter. “I mean, in a sense, the ship belongs to all of us. It’s home.”

  Frankie smiled a sheepish smile, but her eyes screamed, “This is not going to work.”

  “I don’t know why you let such a ruffian stay. The Galaxy’s Most Wanted…really?”

  “She’s not THE GALAXY’S MOST WANTED. She just looks like her.”

  “And you think that’s a coincidence? I’ve never looked like THE GALAXY’S MOST WANTED. I don’t think innocent people do look like criminals.”

  “…and you’re married to an attorney?”

  Fala seemed to ignore the question as she continued, “I’m just saying,” which was a clear indication that she probably shouldn’t be saying it. “If someone was making trouble in my neighborhood, I’d pick her out any day.”

  “…and you don’t think that you’re biased by THE GALAXY’S MOST WANTED posters?”

  “Informed, but no. I’m above such clear mind tricks.”

  “OK,” she said, which was a clear indication that it wasn’t OK. “But you’d be wrong. Frankie is upstanding. I won’t have you talk about my crew that way.”

  Fala’s tall frame shrank into itself. “Sorry, Mom.”

  Taking Barbara Jr.’s hand, she said, “Would you like to see the ship?”

  Barbara Jr.’s golden brown face took on a second sheen. “Yes, please! Is it true that this will all be ours?”

  Fala quickly pushed Barbara Jr. from the room. Around the corner, she answered, “Everything that doesn’t fall off of it, yes.”

  Medow, Fala’s wife, bounced the baby in one arm in the far corner of the cargo bay, having excused herself for a phone call shortly after boarding the ship. She, like many human attorneys, had an instant communicator she had implanted over the temporal lobe of her brain. To avoid accidental phone calls, a head tilt was required to maintain the call. Phone neck crick was alive and well. She balanced the baby in one arm and massaged her sore neck with the hand of the other arm. The infant wavered on the edge between cooing and crying and had an average level of human baby-cuteness, where one could freely lie about without guilt.

  Quaja approached and motioned she’d like to take the baby with the traditional two tentacles outreached. Several smaller tentacles danced, mesmerizing the infant, and possibly some of the more easily influenced crew members. Medow shook her head, accidentally ending the phone call.

  “Oh well, he was just going to berate me over my education anyway,” Medow said. Now that there wasn’t an additional voice in her head, she reconsidered handing the baby off. “I graduated from Earth and I’ve been trying to play catchup ever since, you know?”

  Quaja nodded. Although her experience with humans was limited, it had mostly been with Gail. She didn’t have any reason to doubt Medow’s statement.

  Medow had sharp facial features, a trait that almost all Earth attorneys had. It suggested attorney-ism had a genetic component to it, and perhaps it was more than an occupational choice. It seemed the galaxy had molded itself into a bureaucratic space, although whether the bureaucracy had created the attorneys, or the attorneys had created the bureaucracy was not certain. A cortaneous flangelex or the genetic transport capsule, sort of thing.

  According to current estimates, attorneys outnumbered their clients by 3:1. Surprisingly, the universe supported such a ratio when taking into account specialties, locations, and cultural barriers. Much like pornography, there was an attorney for every situation. In fact, some theorists—a dying breed in the galaxy of bureaucracy—believed the universe would continue to become more and more legalistic to the point where only attorneys were birthed. Those not genetically predisposed for legalism would have little reproductive success, eventually eliminating their genetic lines, even before being convicted and/or burned at the stake for whatever letter of the law they’d crossed, typically the letter t. Theorists warned it was happening before their eyes, and there wasn’t a single legal mandate to prevent the death of a rebellious, anti-loophole type of galaxy. Another, lost to the great balancing legal system. True nirvana.

  The tactility and mobility of Kieron, and the sweet nature of Quaja made for an excellent temporary caregiver. If not for fear that the strong were dangerous, and the poor payout of childcare, Kieron would be highly sought for orphanages and nurseries where touch was lifesaving, and multiple limbs meant high-capacity juggling. Quaja used these abilities to care for the infant and herd Gail and Tarke away from the adults talking.

  Medow waved Frankie and the triplets over to the workshop table, as if it were her office. Frankie obediently followed, like a puppy dog begging for free legal advice. The triplets, who’d much prefer to work on this ship—where they could basically do whatever they wanted over doing anything with real chains of command—pulled up their chairs as well.

  “Thank you for helping me on your Earth furlough,” started Frankie on her appreciative, yet slightly desperate introductory speech.

  “Are you kidding? This is a really interesting case.”

  Frankie gave a blush of surprise. “Did Gail tell you about it? Maybe she was a bit—” She broke off, realizing that she was about to assume someone else gave Gail the same measures of strengths and weaknesses that she did, and that also, she was assuming that about Gail’s family, in-law or otherwise. It could give a bad impression, and Frankie definitely couldn’t afford that. She couldn’t even afford this.

  “No, you’re the talk of the galaxy—THE GALAXY’S MOST WANTED—it’s a pleasure to be part of the trial. The galaxy’s best attorneys will be here, and I hope to be the spunky Earthling who goes against the odds, and Disney makes both an animated and live-action movie about it. We’ll have to fudge the time line a bit. Marrying Fala and having a family is the implicit reward in those movies, happily ever after, y’know? You can’t have adventures as a spouse and parent. Shame.”

  “Well, I thank you anyway,” said Frankie, trying once again to start her thank-you speech. Then, after a moment, “Wait, I’m not on trial here. I’m not the GALAXY’S MOST WANTED.”

  Lorav giggled.

  “Well, you sort of are. Sossios is being charged with crimes against the galaxy. She claims you’re the evil twin. So, it’s become a three-way.”

  Patav and Frankie giggled, just now getting to the funny part. Tarke had seemed to wander off from her responsible parties, both curious about her friend’s fate and sensing a need for some pop culture jokes. She shook her mane as she guffawed, making Medow turn the same shade of pink Frankie did when speaking with her parents. Even for 35 Earth years’ worth of education and their arguably similar age, or at least life-stages for their species, Medow felt self-conscious around them. Embarrassed, she could ignore the comment and hope no one pursued the matter further. She could pretend she didn’t get it, hoping to reverse the shame of knowing/talking about three-ways with those who laughed.

  Tarke, who never had any such nuance in interactions, butted in, “Shouldn’t they have separate trials? And only if they don’t find Sossios guilty?” She had seen so many courtroom dramas, she thought she could write her own.

  “Well, in the n
ame of efficiency and for better ratings, most of the galaxy has done away with such a process. This was voted more ‘death match.’”

  “I see,” said Tarke, who actually did. She firmly believed the 88th season of SVU should’ve had twice as many death match courtroom scenes.

  “So, Sossios is trying to prove that we are twins, and I’m the one who did the crime?” asked Frankie, desperately trying to stay on target, as the matter was of some importance to her. “And, what’s my defense? That I’m not a twin?”

  “I don’t think we can defend that at all. You have the same DNA. We can look into your adoption records, but I think the most interesting defense would be to say you are an alternate time-line Frankie/Sossios, and you’ve already been punished for said crimes, and to try you again would be double jeopardy.”

  “…Sorry. If we’re going by most interesting, I’m most interested in the most effective defense. What’s not going to land me in prison?” Frankie was worried she’d had to clarify.

  “I think that’s our best, unless you’ve got another more interesting one.” There had to be some law that attorneys were obligated to pursue what was best for their clients. She imagined she’d need a lawyer to understand the rules on that. “The twin story is…dare I say…fantastic. The world believes in evil twins. They believe police officers don’t lie. And they believe that you wouldn’t be in court if you weren’t guilty—”

  “Sossios is the one they’ve charged!” Frankie responded with an exclamation point denoting complexion, not volume.

  “—and they love an underdog story. Even better than convicting someone on trial? Rescuing someone in trial before convicting someone.”

  The other parties at the table were quiet and serious. They nodded as they heard the truths they found to be self-evident. Frankie felt like the only sane person in the room. How would this be OK?