by Chris Winder
The Admiral was furious. His training, upbringing, favorite television shows, self-help tablets and motivational videos all said the same thing: keep your emotions in check. However, that was proving to be a lot more difficult than he’d anticipated. Never before had he known such shame, such humiliation and such pure, white-hot rage. Never before had he wanted to personally hold-down an entire species, one at a time, squirt his digestive juices on them and listen to each of them scream before devouring their filthy, smelly bodies.
The Admiral’s Guidebook warned that in circumstances where victory seems tenuous, where defeat seems certain, there is only one course of action. That course of action involves two steps. Step one is to keep emotions under control. The crew will be counting on the Admiral keeping his cool and appearing to be confident, even if the Admiral isn’t actually feeling so. This is an important first step and should never be ignored.
With that thought buzzing around in his head, Admiral Eekbo began working very hard at bringing his level of rage down to a minimum. He understands that bad decisions are often made during the heat of emotion, and that no emotion is as powerful as rage. It seems to be working, but the cowardly crew before him aren’t making it any easier. He daydreams about launching them, all of them, at the planet. Maybe that would work.
Step two was to open a sealed red envelope inside of the Admiral’s Guidebook. He hadn’t been aware that such a thing existed. He didn’t even know that guide could come apart, but when he searched for “all hope is lost”, a hidden program activated. The program included a list of steps that had to be taken in order to safely open the guidebook and retrieve the envelope. But, he didn’t want to do it. He didn’t want to admit that everything he’d tried had failed.
His mind flopped first to thoughts of ordering his ships to cruise into the star the wretched planet was orbiting. Then it turned to the legend of the Captain who did that. Then to the Admiral who threw the Admiral’s Guidebook out the window… and ensured his complete defeat. Then a thought dawned on him. What if this was the place, and these were the species who defeated that Admiral long ago? What if that was why they knew what to expect and how to defeat it. The epiphany struck him like a charging hornswaggle.
“The Earthlings don’t know about the envelope”, he whispered to himself, eyes growing wide. “There’s no way they could know. They’ve never been in my situation.”
“Commander”, he said to his second in command. “You have the bridge. When I return I don’t want to see any withdrawn eyes and I don’t care how you take care of it.” He was satisfied to see that all the eyes, withdrawn and not, were now turned to his Commander. With that, he slithered to his ready room to open the Admiral’s Guidebook, something he never thought about doing, didn’t know he could do and was both afraid and excited about.
As soon as the door slid shut behind him and clicked into place, Eekbo rushed to his saucer-shaped desk, flipped it onto its side and removed his Admiral’s Guidebook from its magnetic restraints. He let his desk fall with a loud crash and held the guidebook in front of his eyes.
The steps to open the guidebook to retrieve the envelope were still on the screen. It’s likely, he thought, that the Senate wanted to make sure that no Admiral would be tempted to do anything else, to look up some other kind of solution or otherwise find a way to back-out.
Admiral Eekbo followed the steps. The thought crossed his mind once or twice that the steps might actually be a way to detonate a bomb hidden within the device. Either way, he thought, it would do him some good. Just like the instructions said, however, when he completed the steps, the screen shorted out and a bright, red envelope gently fluttered to the floor.
Eekbo tossed the remains of the Admiral’s Guidebook to the floor as the screen fizzled and the electronic components inside welded themselves together, no doubt rendering the guidebook unusable. Then he ripped it open and withdrew a thin white piece of plastic, on which were written five lines of instructions.
Had Admiral Eekbo a mouth that could hang open, it would do so. Had he eyebrows that could raise, they would also do so. As he had neither, his glands stopped producing… anything at all. They were unable to process the emotion he was feeling.
Eekbo dropped the plastic on the floor from a limp tentacle and slithered his way out of his ready room and onto the bridge. His mind was still trying to come to terms with what he’d read. He heard that some species were forced to perform this task, but that he always chalked up to primitive techniques and ineffective weaponry. Never did he think he’d actually be doing this.
“Commander”, he said in a voice that felt too quiet, even to him. “I have the bridge.” After the Commander acknowledged, he continued.
“All crew, into your battle suits and into the assault ship. We are invading the planet ourselves. Once the assault ship is loaded, the rest of the fleet will be scuttled. Anyone left on board will be scuttled with the ships. I will start the self-destruct sequence and all of the ships except the assault ship will detonate in ten minutes.” The crew didn’t respond, but instead just stared at him as if he were going to say ‘just kidding’ and they were all going to have a good laugh or something.
When he didn’t say ‘just kidding’ and instead sat at his command seat and began entering in the command for self-destruct, then they finally started moving. Klaxons sounded and Kalaxians began slithering this way and that, some of them literally in circles. Others pulled out their guidebooks, uncertain of what to do, even though their Admiral had just told them exactly what to do.
Admiral Eekbo finished entering the commands for self-destruct and made his way to the shuttle that would ferry him over to the assault ship. To his dismay, most of the rest of the crew was in bedlam. Two appeared to have died from the stress, there was a fire in one of the galleys, three were fighting over a single battle suit and another four were doing the Kalaxian equivalent of crying. The Admiral ignored them and continued toward the shuttle.
Two minutes later he was aboard the assault ship and was donning his own battle suit. It took him a minute or two to figure out how to put it on, because he’d never done it before. Once he figured it out, he started feeling more confident. Kalaxian battle suits were nothing to be scoffed at. Their polysteel exoskeleton was powered by antimatter generators, which also powered their energy weapons, including sonic pistols. The Earthlings didn’t have a chance.
A few minutes later, his Commander announced that the rest of the fleet had self-destructed on time. Six thousand of the nearly thirty thousand had made it aboard the assault ship and they were ready.
“Begin the attack, Commander”, Admiral Eekbo ordered. “And make haste. Let’s show these nasty Earthlings what Kalaxian warriors and battle armor can do!” Those within earshot erupted into cheer.
8
Cletus picked his nose with a dirty finger and stared at the bottom of his car, trying to imagine how he was going to get the new freeze plugs into the engine block. He squinted, turned his head this way and that, closed one eye and wondered if he’d have to remove the exhaust pipes. There were two of them, near as he could figure, and that meant more work than just one.
The buzz of the cicadas was loud, a cool wind was blowing through the tangle of trees, vines, bamboo and especially weeds surrounding his property, and lying in the shade under a 1973 Ford LTD, belly full of beer, was about the best experience he’d had in his entire life.
Suddenly something occurred to him. He wasn’t sure what it was, but a very small, very tightly-wound alarm clock went off in his head and he slowly withdrew his finger from its gold-mining expedition. He looked left, and saw his house, a multi-colored double-wide on three-foot support piers so when the creek flooded he could still keep his socks dry. Of course, he’d have to make sure he had the boat ready and moved his car to high ground. But, his house looked fine, so he looked to his right.
To his right was the wreck of the chicken coop his cousin, Bobby, had ruined by smashing into it with the li
ttle pickup that was now parked at the edge of the woods along with the rest of the wrecked vehicles he owned. But everything looked good over there, too. The problem couldn’t be down, he thought so it must be… be… bee. Holy hell his ass was on fire!
Cletus flailed-about under the car, cursing as he banged both knees, both shins, sprained a finger and chased a black wasp out from the inside of his blue bermuda shorts. “Gawd-dang fuggin mutha rackin’ dag-nabbed flippin stupid gawd-dang bug! I ain’t done nuthin’ ya stupid thing!”, he roared between gasps of pain and dull thuds of metal as he earned new dozens of new bruises and a few cuts.
If the wasp was offended by the cursing or threats it received from the man, it showed no indication. Instead of turning around to provide further punishment for the foul words it had heard, it simply flew away as if it had all the time in the world and nowhere to be.
Cletus checked for more wasps in the general area, then spent a few minutes inspecting his knees and shins. He was pretty sure he’d broken something, but his legs moved normally and the dents and gashes weren’t too deep. His butt burned mightily and a welt was forming, but he was smart enough to know that wasps didn’t leave a stinger behind. He grumbled a few more curses and went back to his thinking and inspection. One way or two, he thought to himself, them freeze plugs are gonna’ have to go in. He had to get it done before the weekend because his date with his cousin Charlene wasn’t somethin’ he wanted to miss. “Moonshine an’ frog giggin’”, he muttered to himself with a smile. His two favorite things in the world, next to Charlene, of course.
Cletus crawled out from under his car, inspected his injuries again, and walked to the carport attached to his home. Underneath were dozens of decomposing cardboard boxes, tables once adorned with ‘free’ signs and an assortment of coffee cans. From one of the boxes, he withdrew a coffee can containing an assortment of rusty deep well sockets. From another, he retrieved a very rusty hammer. After a few minutes of searching and cursing, he discovered the box that held an assortment of long pieces of metal, many of which used to be functional socket extensions.
The plan was to first attach one of the socket extensions to an appropriate-sized socket. Then he’d balance the freeze plug on the end, set the plug against the hole in the engine block and whack the whole contraption with a hammer until the plug looked set. Then he’d go to the next plug and do the same until all four that were missing were replaced.
Cletus craned his head back to look toward the front of the vehicle which was pointed at the dirt road leading to his property. He made a face because he couldn’t do anything until Cooter got back from the auto parts store with the plugs.
Cooter was probably going to take a long time to get back, Cletus thought to himself. He’d taken a shine to the purdy new gal workin’ at the auto parts store. Cletus’s face scrunched-up as he tried to think of her name as he massaged the tender, little welt rising on the crease between his leg and butt cheek. He was pretty sure it was Delilah, Delores or Darla. He was absolutely certain, though, that whatever it was it started with a ‘D’... probably. Since Cooter was going to be a while, he decided the thing to do would be to find the mud dauber’s nest and ruin it. The one that stung him in the ass had gotten away, but he figured he could ruin its home, and maybe get lucky enough to murder its children. He’d just scoot back under the car and started huntin’ the mean, young kin of the wasp when he noticed the familiar rumble and squeaks of the county’s longest truck barreling down the road. Cooter wasn’t the world’s best driver, especially after he’d had several beers and if he lost control coming around the last corner and even bumped the car, which happened to be balanced on three rusty jack stands and a cinder block…
Cletus’s face lost all color and he froze for a moment before he cursed and scrambled out from under the two-ton white, American-made cowboy-crusher. His panic wasn’t necessary this time, but not for lack of trying. Cooter had the pickup turned sideways and skidding before it finally came to a stop just a few feet short of the chicken coop.
“You durned fool! You tryin’uh get me kilt? I’m fixin’ tuh open uh fresh can”, Cletus yelled at Cooter as he tried to waft the dust from the air in front of his face.
Cooter roared with laughter. “You shoulda’ seen yer face!” Cooter continued to laugh and reached out of the open window to open the truck from the outside, spilling a dozen empty beer cans on the ground. “You looked like you was gonna…”, Cooter started, before he was interrupted by an explosion from the carport.
Rusty tools, worn used-to-be-sockets, hundreds of recycle-some-day beer cans and things too corroded to identify erupted from the carport in a shower of painful shrapnel. The men jumped, dodged, leaned back, leaned forward in a dance that wouldn’t be out of place in a modern honkey-tonk, and each managed to avoid anything more than superficial scratches. “Ain’t nuthin a bit-o chicken fat on the back-o yo neck won't fix.” According to Cooter, the only thing rubbing chicken fat on the back of your neck wouldn’t fix was herpes, ‘unlessin’ you got it from a dirty toilet seat, cuz everwun knows that's where most folk get it’.
When the dust settled, two proud Arkansas citizens stood still, holding each other tightly, trying to stare through the dust of a very strange, as of yet unexplained, explosion under the carport of a fine Palm Harbor double-wide. When they realized what they were doing, each released the other, coughed uncomfortably and tried to pretend it never happened.
Cletus picked his nose, because that’s what he did when he had something to think about. Cooter opened a pouch of chewing tobacco, because that’s what he did when he had something to think about. Then Cletus began rubbing the welt again, because that’s what he did when a mud dauber stung him there… apparently.
The two men stood there, thinking, as the dust settled and the last of the loose tools fell off of the old door Cletus had set across a couple of sawhorses to use as a table. In reality, as all other sawhorse tables were often used, this one was also just another place to stack junk that probably belonged in the trash or recycle bin. Cletus, however, thought himself very clever turning what others would consider trash into a useful piece of furniture. However, once he found a nicer door, this one was pressed into service as a storage table for his tools.
“Whuddaya s’pose that was?”, asked Cooter, his voice the whisper of deep respect. “I’m thinkin’ it were a propane tank.” He said ‘propane’ with a long o-sound, as if he was in awe of the power of the gas, which he probably was. “Don’ know, but I’s fixin’ to find out.”
Cletus didn’t answer, but instead bent his knees and squatted into what he figured was likely a very tactical stalking position. Whatever had blown his tools all over the place might do so again, and he wanted to make sure he was ready.
Cooter watched his friend stalk toward the carport. “Whadder ya doin’?
“Shh!”, Cletus whispered with a violent hand-wave that looked like he was trying to slap Cooter from almost ten feet away. “We don’ know what the hell that was! I’m tryin’a sneak up on it.”
Cooter looked beyond his friend to the scattered, rusty tools. “Tryin’a sneak up on… what?”, he asked.
Cletus rolled his eyes dramatically and whispered, “If’n I knew, I wouln’a be here tryin’a sneak up on it! Now shuddup b’for you get us both kilt!”
Cooter nodded and smiled, as if he completely understood the sound reasoning. Then he frowned and tried to put another pinch of tobacco in his mouth, but he already had more than one, so the pinch he had in his hand went back into the pouch. When he looked back to his friend, Cletus was all the way under the carport, and was carefully inspecting the corrugated metal roof, which now had a hole in it the size of a watermelon. Then Cletus inspected the hole in the table, and then under the table. There was still too much dust in the air to make out what he was looking at.
Cooter didn’t want to be caught off-guard due to the fact that he just walked over to Cletus without doing something ‘tactical’, whatever that
meant, so he did his best to copy the low walk he’d watched his friend do. When he got under the carport, he looked up at the jagged hole in the carport roof, then the hole in the top of the table, and finally joined his friend into inspecting a crater in the dirt under the table.
The men looked from the crater, to each other and back to the crater. One man put a finger up his nose, the other man took a pouch out of his pocket, glanced at it and put it back.
“Whuz tha look like to you”, Cletus whispered before shouting, “Don’ touch it ya durned fool! Things liable to blow up or sumthin’. You tryin’a lose yer han’?” Cooter slowly drew his hand away from the object at the bottom of the foot-wide crater.
Cletus stared at the thing as he turned his head to the left, then to the right, then back to the left again. He was having trouble understanding what he was seeing, even though he could see the whole thing.
One end reminded Cletus of a toilet plunger, the cheap kind. That reminded him that he still needed to unclog the toilet in his guest bathroom from last week… or possibly two weeks ago. The center portion reminded him of some of the various auto parts which were likely still somewhere in the carport. It almost resembled the guts of an alternator, but much longer. The other end looked like… Cletus was beside himself when he recognized it… a rifle stock… sort of. A wide grin spread across his face and caused the ends of his thin mustache to tickle his cheeks.
Being careful to keep his booger-hook off what he now recognized to be the bang-switch of what he also now recognized to be a space-gun, he hefted it from the crater. Cooter opened his mouth to protest, but when he saw how his friend was holding the thing, he also recognized it for what it was: a high-powered plunger, probably from Sharper Image, or a Wal-Mart Super Center. He’d never been inside one, so he could only imagine what kind of super stuff a Super Center sold.