Rogue Galaxy, Episode 3: The Golem Gambit

by J. Boyett

  Beach didn’t respond to the question. Except to repeat his previous order: “Take the shot.”

  ***

  Inside the lab, Landers eyed the door again. Heavy computers and hard drives were still flying around and bouncing off the walls, but she thought it might just be possible to make a break for it and get out of the lab. Of course, she wasn’t sure what good that would do, since Du’Thokk would soon be able to kill or enslave them no matter where they were in the ship. But at least they wouldn’t have to spend their last moments with all this racket.

  No sooner had she once again gingerly poked her head out of hiding, though, than Horowitz’s glare snapped onto her. Du’Thokk’s, rather; there was no way that face of seething rage, of power thwarted for the first time in gods knew how long, could belong to Jan Horowitz. Landers froze, as if she’d cast her eyes upon Medusa.

  This wasn’t random rage anymore. Du’Thokk was there in that body, present and aware and looking right at her. “Trying to escape me?” she/he said, in a whisper that cut across the room.

  All the objects that had been flying through the room suddenly jerked to a halt, and hung there suspended as if they were now being aimed.

  Before Landers could begin whimpering for mercy, there was the hum of the door opening, from the far corner of the lab behind her and to the left. Her hand whipped around just in time to see Ensign Tracy Fiquet charging into the room, clutching some sort of doodad; in her peripheral vision, she saw Horowitz’s/Du’Thokk’s head whip around, as well.

  Instead of relief at being rescued, Landers felt only horror and dismay at what was bound to happen to Fiquet. Now that Du’Thokk had full volitional control over his/her telekinesis, there was no way the tiny ensign would make it across the room without getting smashed. All those hovering hard drives and other chunks of equipment were now deadly smart bombs.

  It wouldn’t do any good to shout out a warning—anyway, Fiquet was already flying into the room and couldn’t have stopped if she’d wanted to. But Landers couldn’t help herself, and a cry of desperate warning came spilling out anyway.

  Which was why she couldn’t be a hundred percent sure that she really did hear a frustrated grunt come from Horowitz/Du’Thokk. One thing was certain: the objects were all still hanging in mid-air. Landers had expected them to all be lobbed at Fiquet, and yet the ensign was almost across the room and leaping upon Horowitz.

  Even without launching the projectiles, Horowitz/Du’Thokk should have been able to halt Fiquet in mid-air, yet he/she didn’t do that, either. Nor did he/she even step out of the way, but only stood there motionless as Fiquet leaped onto him/her and slapped the headset onto his/her head. Fiquet twisted a dial as she did so.

  At the very last second, a floating monitor seemed to wrest its way loose of the spot where it hung in mid-air, and flew at Fiquet’s skull. But it lost momentum at the very moment Fiquet twisted the dial, as if the monitor were suddenly cut off from whatever power had ordered it to attack.

  Had it not lost speed, the monitor would have hit Fiquet in the head with its corner, hard enough to kill her. Instead, it hit her with the flat of the screen, and just hard enough to send her toppling to the floor. Horowitz, released from the grip of the distant shaman, fell right along with her as her eyes fluttered closed.

  As the others rushed in to help Fiquet and restrain Horowitz, just in case, Landers could only stand and stare at the Chief. The more she replayed the moment in her mind, the more convinced she became that she really had heard the Chief grunt. That, added to the hesitation in the attack, led her to the conclusion that Horowitz had still been in there, fighting Du’Thokk’s control. And that one last spurt of resistance had saved Ensign Fiquet’s life—probably saved the whole ship, too.

  Landers shook her head in mute appreciation. Dang, Chief, she thought. I didn’t know you had it in you.

  ***

  On the bridge, the helmsman stayed true to Beach’s orders—as soon as the longhouse cleared the horizon he said, “Firing now,” not waiting to be told a second time.

  Even after they knew the cannon had been fired, the bridge crew could not help but hold their breaths. This, despite the fact that there simply couldn’t be any way Du’Thokk could have used his formidable powers against a laser attack. For one thing, the laser beam moved at the speed of light, which meant there was no way the shaman could have had any natural means of knowing it was on its way. Besides, Du’Thokk had presumably never heard of laser cannons, so how could he have prepared for an attack by one?

  There was no way he was still alive. Obviously no way.

  Still, everyone was quiet as they waited for Vorhees at the science post to confirm it.

  At last Vorhees looked up from his readouts and turned to Beach. “His atoms are totally dispersed, sir—he’s dead.” Then he added, “Or, well, his physical body is gone, anyway. At this point I woudn’t want to vouch for anything else.”

  Epilogue

  Lieutenant Beach strolled with Boksal through the ship’s garden, trying to ignore the aksalion’s fidgeting. It was debatable whether the captain had given Beach this assignment as a show of confidence after the lieutenant’s recent bout of impressive performances, or because he was still mad about the time a few weeks earlier when Beach had tried to kill the captain’s girlfriend.

  “I just do not know,” fretted Boksal, for the twentieth time. “I know it seems like a petty thing to your people, for some reason. But it’s quite important to me.”

  “Of course, of course,” soothed Beach. “But it’s a very important task, Boksal. All their lives, Du’Thokk has exacted his control over the Helpers. His death is a huge shock to them. They’ve never had control of their own actions before. Of their own thoughts, even. We need to provide some sort of counseling before we leave the system, and now that our xenolinguist is dead you’re our only chance at that.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course I knew you are right, friend Beach. And after all, when I left the bosom of the aksalions, I knew there would be strange new challenges I would not know how to face. But I never imagined they would be anything so dramatic as unmediated talk with out-clan females!” He heaved a great sigh. “It is too bad friend Fiquet is not available to help me ease into this difficult task. Of course, that is a heinously selfish thought. The most important concern is that his healing proceeds apace. I trust that it does?”

  “Yes, he’s fine,” said Beach, smoothly playing along with the lie that Fiquet was a male. She did too good a job handling the aksalion for the humans to blow her cover just yet.

  “I am glad of that, truly. It would be altogether too melancholy to lose him so soon after sweet friend Cosway. And then there is the awful melancholy of Blount and, as I know from third parties, that female Horowitz. Ah, friend Beach, such a sad bog it is that we sink in!”

  “But we’ll get through it. Ensign Fiquet will be up and about tomorrow morning—they’re only holding him in Sickbay for observation. And the natives down below will be okay, too, once you’re down there helping us get them on their feet again.” In an uncharacteristic show of warmth, Beach slapped Boksal on the back. “You’re part of the Fleet of the Democratic Empire now! Fighting the good fight’s what we do.”

  ***

  In Sickbay, Fiquet’s head trauma had already been treated. It hadn’t been that serious, and Dr. Carlson hadn’t even needed to enlist the witch’s aid. Fiquet was asleep now only because the doctor had given her a sedative.

  Dobbler was sitting at her bedside. Everyone else in Sickbay had figured out reasons to keep to the other side of the room, and he had taken Fiquet’s hand.

  Her eyes slid open. They fixed on him and she smiled. “You’re here,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he replied. “I’m thinking I’ll stay.”

  MAILING LIST

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  EXCERPT FROM THE LITTLE MERMAID: A HORROR STORY

  Brenna has an idyllic life with her heroic, dashing boyfriend, Mark the lifeguard. She knows it’s only natural that other girls would have crushes on the guy.

  But there’s something different about the young girl he’s rescued, who seemed to appear in the sea out of nowhere—a young girl with strange powers, who will stop at nothing to have Mark for herself....

  Brenna stares at the ocean. Between the hypnotic surf and the strong emotions, time has started to work funny and she has no clear idea of its passage. At a certain point she becomes aware that the blue of the sky has gotten a little bit darker, the color of the sea more somber. Maybe movement will help whatever state she’s in, so she forces herself to start taking steps to the water, turning this problem over in her mind.

  It isn’t the fact that Mark would be attracted to another woman that upsets her. Even if he were to give in to temptation and sleep with someone, it would hurt and infuriate her, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world. And as for him telling her about it, well, she supposes she prefers honesty to dishonesty, given the choice.

  What galls her is his helplessness about the whole thing. He comes to her like a little boy, not grown-up enough to be too embarrassed to ask his mommy to help him keep his penis in his pants.

  She’s walked almost to the edge of the waves’ reach, the line where the wet sand meets the dry. She sits, not caring that she’ll get sand in her clothes. The sea always has such a calming effect. She watches it swell and recede, inexorable, untroubled.

  Maybe the sky is darker. Or it’s a trick of her brain. How much time has passed? Who knows?

  She looks at the sea, past the surf and out to the still line of the horizon. The waves are rhythmic, the line is calm. The combination soothes her mind. The problems seem distant.

  Though she is looking straight out at the level sea from the shore, suddenly it is as if she is looking at it from above. She is dimly aware of the impossibility of seeing it from this vantage, but not particularly concerned by it.

  In its center the flat wall of the sea begins to turn, a slow and stately maelstrom.

  The center of the maelstrom dimples, drops, recedes out of sight. The maelstrom is a sort of tunnel in the water into the depths of the sea. Its watery walls turning, like a tubular funhouse corridor.

  She dawdles at the entrance, unsure whether she’s allowed inside. But then a voice comes: Come, child.

  Still she hesitates for some reason.

  Come in, the voice comes again. Aren’t you a good little girl? Then come in. For I have lost my own dear little girl, and need a new one to replace her.

  But she isn’t a little girl, Brenna protests.

  But of course you are, says the voice. You are to me. To me, you’re all little. You’ll always be little.

  And the voice is right, of course; he’s right, she’s always been a little girl. Content, she puts her thumb in her mouth and scratches herself absently.

  She can’t see whatever the voice is coming from (that doesn’t bother her, she doesn’t need to see), but clearly it’s male. The voice is deep, paternal, confident, old, strong. Calming.

  It is still speaking to her: I need a new little girl. You are a good little girl, are you not?

  She nods her head, the exaggerated bobbing of a child.

  Then come forth.

  She can see him now, sort of. At least, she can make out hints of him. Something alive but born of rock, that doesn’t like to move and does so slowly. Lit by light issuing from someplace other than the sun. Perhaps there isn’t really any light at all, perhaps all light is banished from his presence, and what she “sees” is merely what pieces of the vision of him her mind has been granted. His stone is jumbled yet elegant. Odd life thrives in the temporary fiefdoms of his niches and crannies. Brenna tries to make sense of the whole of him but can’t, his geometry doesn’t fit right. Perhaps because she is so tired, so distracted. What is it that’s distracting her?

  Why do you not come forth?

  He does not sound displeased yet, only amused and curious. Brenna would not want something so worthy to feel displeased with her. One thumb still in her mouth, she attempts a curtsy. Then begins to girlishly waddle forth.

  That’s it. Good, obedient child. Nothing shall ever replace that other little girl. But having you here will be a comfort to me.

  A rhythmic roaring grows louder in her ears, grows less rhythmic and more into a steady unstopping blare. And yet she can still hear that stone’s voice as clearly as ever, as if it could never be muffled by mere noise.

  Obedient child. Now, that other—she never was that. You have her quite trounced in that regard. A beautiful girl. But headstrong.

  Brenna is still moving forward, but she seems to be sinking as well. Her legs continue to move, but they seem to have less and less to do with the motion of her body. That roaring fills her mouth, and there is some dark pressure being applied to some part of her mind, not unpleasantly. That pressure keeps her calm.

  Headstrong. And spoiled. For I have never been able to refuse her anything she asks.

  A wisp of sound, a microscopic razor sneaking in and tearing the black curtain of her calm. Suddenly that pressure feels less comfortable, suddenly it seems localized in parts of her physical body. Maybe her face. Maybe her chest.

  What are you listening to? Foolish girl, do you believe anything out there is real?

  That sound comes again. She has a vision of a coach blowing a whistle. But no, she knows that voice. That’s Holly.

  Holly’s screaming. Is Holly okay?

  No sooner has she seen in her mind the picture of Holly screaming on the beach at George’s and Albert’s house, the house where Mark is, than she finds herself no longer in a child’s body but her own, and that formerly gentle pressure turns itself into an onslaught of claws, amorphous and irresistibly strong, shoving and punching their way into her mouth, nose, lungs.

  Her limbs spasm back to life. The tide surges her up, and as her head breaks the surface of the water the thick, distant sound of Holly’s cry comes threading through the surf: “Mark! She’s there! There!” How dark the sky has grown. Again the sea yanks her below.

  A hand grabs her shirt, then hooks under her arm and around her chest. She is being dragged, someone is making sure her head stays above water. Her eyes sting with salt. When she can keep them open she leaves them on the dark sky. Dark purple, like a dark rich formal bruise.

  For info on this novel and others by J. Boyett, sign up for the mailing list at www.jboyett.net