Space Trash

by Chris Winder

  It suddenly dawned on Admiral Eekbo that he hadn’t seen any ships in the vicinity. Either the enemy had the ability to cloak their presence, or more likely, hadn’t detected his armada. However, he thought, perhaps they had no desire to explore the stars and were satisfied with living within the boundaries of their own planet. His sensors had long ago detected their satellites, but it was likely the primitive devices were hundreds of years old. Any species which had progressed to the teleportation stage had certainly passed beyond the need for satellites.

  Admiral Eekbo’s attention was drawn back to the holo-vid as the specimen was scanned with a three-dimensional, non-invasive, completely hygienic scanner to examine the internal structure of its body. The scientists on the ship could be heard making ooh and ahh sounds, though few species outside of a Kalaxian would recognize them as anything other than gross farting noises.

  This species, it seemed, had an endoskeleton. How primitive, the Admiral thought. His own species had evolved away from endoskeletons, exoskeletons or anything in-between long ago. The body was so much more useful when it was simplified. True, Kalaxians were born with a vestigial little bone in their third tentacle, but most parents had that bone removed from their young at birth. It was an unsightly thing to see, and since Kalaxians were about fifty percent transparent, everything could be seen.

  The most fascinating part, according to the scientists, was the fact that their brain-matter was all located in one place on their bodies. Unlike his own kind, who could lose two or three tentacles and survive, if this kind of creature just lost it’s brain… bone… house… thing, it was a goner. Eekbo considered this to be interesting… very interesting.

  “Proceed with the rest of the examination and contact me when it is complete”, ordered Admiral Eekbo. A press of the yellow button turned it green and the holo-vid faded away. Now it was time to take care of another important and pressing matter: lunch.

  Lunch consisted of either a vegetable, or a protein, but usually not both. Either way, lunch had to be killed and that was made more difficult when a protein and a vegetable were eaten together, because they could communicate and develop devious ways of fighting back before the digestive fluids within the Kalaxian could dissolve them.

  Kalaxians were not opposed to killing things, and neither were they, as a race, squeamish about it. As a matter of fact, killing things was what they did for entertainment and relaxation. The louder it screamed, the deeper the sleep at night. As such, one particular vegetable was grown aboard the plantation vessel that screamed louder than any other, and was therefore in high demand. Occasionally, when a Kalaxian misbehaved, their privilege to the succulent meal would be temporarily suspended. This was enough to make even the most stubborn brute mind their superior.

  The kennel ship was reserved for breeding the angry, little protein that was also in high demand, even though they bred as fast as they could be eaten. The little morsels would, of course, have their claws removed and their teeth knocked out before being offered as a meal. There was no use dying just to eat one, but the squeals and screams were delightful and worth all the extra effort. Eekbo shuddered in pleasure as he thought about them.

  Two clicks on the left button and then a click of the center button sent a message to the kitchen to bring him… hmm… he’d actually have to think about it for a moment. He thought he wanted the vegetable they called a Carrote, but now the Gnupid was sounding lovely as well. He was hungry, but not hungry enough to rush a decision like this.

  Just as he had made up his mind, definitely the Gnupid and hovered over the center button to place his order, it changed from green to bright red. As his tentacle was already moving toward it and the sudden change in color caused him a moment of confusion, he inadvertently pressed it, then groaned. It was the science vessel calling. Obviously they’d found something interesting that was going to take up so much time he’d be completely famished by the time he actually got to place his order.

  He was about to yell at, and likely threaten, whoever had interrupted his meal order, but the sound that came from the overhead speaker and the images which appeared on the screen took the rage right out of him. Instead, he felt confusion. He blinked his eyes and leaned forward to try to see better. It appeared that the connection between his vessel and the science vessel was having… interference.

  “Communications, why am I hearing and seeing this. What’s wrong with the signal from the science vessel”, he asked, his voice hesitant but calm.

  A greasy, gray-skinned, three-eyed, tentacled Kalaxian turned around and said, “Admiral, the communications link is stable. What you see is what’s being transmitted.”

  Admiral Eekbo stared at the monitor again and tried to make sense of what was happening. It appeared that something… green… had spattered against the screen and that there was smoke, and a lot of it. The audio revealed screaming, which to other species sounded like very loud, very long farts. Was there fire? What was all the screaming about?

  “Communications, show me other compartments of the science vessel”, he ordered.

  His communications officer pressed a button several times, cycling through different cameras aboard the vessel and settled on one that didn’t have so much smoke. It was the sleeping quarters and something was definitely wrong. Kalaxian scientists were well-disciplined, organized and level-headed, completely unlike most others of their species. However, viewing this room made it look like a pack of Gnupids had gotten loose, grown to twice their size and were taking revenge upon their oppressors. It wouldn’t be completely out of the question to believe that’s exactly what was happening, but he couldn’t see any Gnupids at all.

  The room was in shambles. The huge bowls the scientists used as beds were either toppled-over or broken. Because they were translucent, Admiral Eekbo could see scientists hiding under two of them. He leaned forward to press the button on the right twice, the one on the left three times, then a pause before three more presses and then the big red button to activate the intercom in that particular room to inquire as to what exactly was happening, when the scientist under the left bowl was replaced with green goo and a loud popping noise was heard.

  The Admiral finished the sequence of button pushes and asked, “Scientist, what’s happening on your vessel?”

  The scientist kept two eyes looking around while the third eye looked for the source of the voice and finally settled on the camera. It looked like it was trying to tell him something, but the bed over his body completely muffled his communication attempts.

  “Get out from under that bed and tell me what’s happening!”, the Admiral ordered, and to his surprise, the scientist’s eyes withdrew almost completely into its head. Eekbo’s gasp drowned out the gasp of all seven other Kalaxians on the bridge. “Do it now or I’ll have you cleaning up hornswaggle guts tomorrow!” This was a very serious threat, as hornswaggle gut cleaning was reserved for slaves and prisoners of war, which usually amounted to the same thing.

  Hornswaggles were large, hairy animals, and their guts had to be cleaned regularly. Due to inbreeding, (they were almost completely wiped-out during a very long, very confusing war against the nasty, shapeshifting Moopraxians), they had some digestive troubles from time to time. Rather than rendering the animal unconscious to perform surgery, Kalaxian bodies, being able to bend in so many different directions, were found to be quite suitable to the task of climbing up inside of the animal and removing the obstruction manually. Needless to say, the task was unpleasant and could not be performed with any kind of armor. The olfactory glands would be overwhelmed with the odors a hornswaggle could produce and there was no way to block it.

  The scientist seemed to consider this for a moment. But then there was a flash of bright light and the camera quit functioning.

  “The camera is not responding”, the communications officer said, as if the Admiral couldn’t see that for himself. “Sensors indicate there have been several explosions onboard.”

  Explosions? Admiral
Eekbo could hardly believe his auditory nerves. “What’s the source of the explosion?”, he asked, filling the room with the scent of his rage.

  The communications officer rapped furiously on its three buttons, switching from camera to camera, but nearly half of them were no longer responding. Finally it settled on one which showed a scientist flailing its tentacles about wildly in a very disturbing display of lack of self control. A moment later, sound to the room was enabled.

  “... to all die!”, the scientist screamed. “Bioweapons which we’ve never encountered before! They tricked us! We’re all going to die!” Then the scientist began to wither, slowly closing in on itself. Foam erupted from every orifice, of which Kalaxians had many, like some species would say was reminiscent of pouring salt on a slug. Once the scientist reached half its size, the ends of its tentacles burst into flame. A second later, the camera stopped functioning.

  Admiral Eekbo had to think fast. The ship had to be destroyed, naturally, as he couldn’t let the rest of his fleet become infected with whatever bioweapons this species had developed. At the same time, he couldn’t let their data go to waste. After just a moment of consideration, he made his decision.

  “Extract the data they recovered from the specimen and load it into our computers. Inform me when it is complete”, he finally said.

  A few moments later the communications officer informed him that the task was complete.

  “Now… destroy the science vessel.”

  There were no gasps from the bridge, but the stink of fear, concern and anger began to fade. They were relieved by his order and seconds later, two dirty contrails announced the launch of a pair of missiles. Several seconds later, the science vessel vanished in a cloud of ionized gas.

  A careful study of the data from the science vessel revealed many horrifying truths about Earthlings. First, that the species controlling this particular planet were not to be taken lightly. Second, that warfare was not unknown to this species. Third, that… according to analysis of transmissions from the planet’s surface, the weapons this species employed as bioweapons were actually elite soldiers known as ‘crack whores’. Fourth, that the use of anal probes was expected, and that the bioweapons were prepared with a wide variety of infectious diseases, was not only foreseen, but was expertly planned for.

  Earthlings, it seemed, did not even care about their own species.

  The diseases, formerly unknown to Kalaxian microbiologists, had effects which were unpredictable, including spontaneous combustion and implosion.

  5

  Shannon leaned back in the chair they had provided for her and wondered if a less comfortable chair had ever been invented, not to mention the fact that the fabric looked like it had been stolen by a blind man from a leper colony. It felt like burlap, looked like vomit after a ketchup binge, had worn springs like a fat woman had bounced on it for a year and, if she had to guess, probably smelled like a beer fart.

  The makeup artist looked like she’d done her own makeup in the dark with her non-dominant hand, so there was no way Shannon was going to let that amateur apply anything to her face. Besides that, Shannon only used Marissa deBlume-brand cosmetics, the most expensive makeup available in her home-state of New York. There was no way she’d ever be caught using animal-tested, drug store-brand dirt they had the nerve to call makeup. She had standards, after all.

  After politely declining several times, Shannon finally had to motion to her assistant, Claude, to please remove the annoying woman from her presence. She had an interview to prepare for, after all, and commoners like this minimum-wage fool could keep her hands to herself. The interview was everything. The people could wait.

  Shannon had actually been preparing for nearly a month. Payments had to be made to ensure that the interview would go as she and her assistant had planned. It wasn’t bribery, as some would no doubt say if the word of the arrangement escaped the five people who knew about it. What it actually was, in essence, was a commercial. It was her opportunity to put the whole matter of ‘Developer-gate’, her opponents were calling it, behind her once and for all.

  The method would be simple. First, she had to get on television with a friendly interviewer who would ask all the right questions, phrased to look like he was being tough. The questions had been planned, examined by a psychologist and edited, as were the answers. Then a sociologist examined them, and sent them back to the psychologist with edits. It was all very scientific, but that’s as much as she knew about it.

  That was six weeks ago. It took another two weeks to get a television news station to take the interview and the canned questions. She wasn’t going to lie, but the public needed to hear her side of the story, without all the hype, conspiracy theories and other garbage her enemies could shoehorn into her words. The questions and answers were designed to keep the contest fair. If some uncommitted voters were swayed to her side because of it, so much the better. It wasn’t the intention, but she would take it if it happened anyway.

  The practice had been grueling. Not only did she have to pretend like nothing was going on, that nothing was bothering her, but she also needed time to practice. She practiced through the bathroom door with her assistant, no matter what she was doing inside. She practiced in her limousine with her assistant and often an advisor who tried to throw little curve balls at her to keep her fresh.

  She had waited too long, spent too much of her own money, and the money of others, to let this opportunity go to waste. She decided that even if she was scheduled for open heart surgery at eight that morning and the interview was at ten, she’d rather skip the surgery than risk this one opportunity. Surgeries could be rescheduled, but there’s no way to recover from a ruined political career once it’s been destroyed. No medicine in the world could make that better.

  * * *

  Admiral Eekbo consulted his Leadership Guide, something he would never admit to doing. However, considering the fact that he had to destroy one of his own vessels in order to save the rest of his fleet, he felt as though getting a little help from the wise Waratitions at the Kalaxian College of Warfare wouldn’t be the worst idea he’d ever had… namely because he was out of ideas. Everything he considered seemed to be a recipe for disaster.

  Eekbo held up the digital scroll, two tubes connected by a flexible, stretchy nanoscreen, spread the two tubes apart and an image flared to life. The image was of Admiral-General Froop, the patron of the Kalaxian College of Warfare to whom hundreds of successful battles could be attributed.

  Those battles which were not successful were examined, in detail by the professors in the Unsustained Victory department of the college. The department would receive any debris which could be recovered from the battle scene for testing, examination and reconstruction, as they were able to.

  If there were any survivors, they too would be delivered into the hands of the Unsustained Victory department to be tortured and interrogated. Torturing was, after all, the only way to receive a full and complete answer to their questions.

  Through a very thorough and time-consuming analysis of the battle, what went right and what went wrong, it was always determined that the Captain and his, her or its crew, were always at fault. The professors would complete a detailed report for other Captains to study and learn from. In such a way, the Kalaxian domination of the galaxies would be ensured for all future generations… eventually.

  Admiral Eekbo silently scolded himself for the last thought. The mark of a great Kalaxian leader was patience, and he was nothing if not patient. Luckily he was in his own private chambers. He put his second in command in charge of the bridge with strict orders not to go anywhere or do anything until he got back. He told his crew that he was going to rest and was actually able to work-up some rage to keep them worried that he might actually be going to get his battle-staff to slay them all. In that way, he was sure they would allow him some private time to consult his Leadership Guide without any of the crew seeing.

  Admiral Eekbo first consulted the
index, cross-referenced plans that had gone awry, but had not resulted in mission failure and found a list of tried-and-true plans. After he checked the list, he chose one which he had the equipment for, would be zero risk to his crew and although it wasn’t as exciting as the other plans, was completely likely to be successful, so long as he followed the steps.

  He studied the steps for a few minutes, memorized them and put his Leadership Guide back in its hiding place. He was ready. He knew exactly what to do.

  * * *

  The camera crew made their final adjustments and cleaned their lenses. The lighting crew walked around holding up strange devices which, Shannon thought, must be to measure exactly how much light was being cast upon her. The thought of someone casting light upon her made her shiver. She hadn’t done anything illegal, per sé, but allowing developers to contribute to her reelection campaign with the promise to do so if she ever ran for senator to… look the other way, might be seen as bribery by some people.

  Shannon didn’t accept any money personally. The whole election, including the accounting and money-handling was done by a third party. Sure, she had her own funding and donors, but since it was a third party who was handling everything else, she couldn’t control what they did.

  Today’s interview wouldn’t delve too deeply into whether what she’d done was right or wrong, or anything in-between. Instead it would focus on her positive record, on what she’d done for her state so far, and on what she wanted to do in the future. The ‘Developer-gate’ would just be a footnote, easily dismissed as unimportant and not worth the time of the interviewer since it had obviously been blown out of proportion.