Star Cat: The First Trilogy (Infinity Claws, Pink Symphony, War Mage)

by Andrew Mackay

  Then, his left forearm beeped.

  “Huh?”

  The ink swirled around into three, long lines, waiting to be answered: Tripp Healy.

  “Ah, God. Not now… ”

  Tor rolled his shoulders, cleared his throat and relaxed his muscles. He squelched the ink to his wrist with his shaking index finger.

  “Tripp?”

  “Tor?”

  “What is it? I’m kinda busy right now,” he winced in pain. “Can it wait a couple minutes?”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m busy.”

  Tripp’s huffs of displeasure waded from Tor’s wrist, “Look, we’ve docked with Charlie. You’re meant to be liaising with them.”

  “I’m…” Tor groaned through his turmoil, “Not ready, y-yet…”

  “Are you in the Fit Room?”

  “No,” Tor burst into tears and drooled from his mouth, “I’ll be there soon. Just w-wait for m-me-oh-Christ-alive—”

  “—Tor? I didn’t catch—”

  He swiped the ink away from his wrist and slammed both hands on the sides of the toilet bowl.

  BLOICK-CRUNK!

  Something beyond evil occurred inside his abdomen. He kicked his feet apart and tore the waistline of his inner-suit legging apart with his ankles.

  “Gaaooooowww…,” he squeezed his eyes shut and tore the plastic off the toilet seat. A final squeeze of his stomach muscles was all it took.

  Tor’s eyes bulged out of their sockets. A blood vessel burst in his forehead.

  SCH-JUNTT-SPLASH.

  Then, an intense wave of relief smothered his very being. He’d released whatever had been causing the turmoil into the bowl.

  “Ohhhh,” he cried pink tears with insane joy, “Thank God.”

  He looked at the toilet paper dispenser and found that it was empty.

  “Damn it,” He brushed the empty cardboard tube and muttered to himself, “Does no one replenish the facilities anymore?”

  Against his better judgment, and with little option to improvise, he removed his left boot, rolled his sock off his foot and held it up for inspection.

  “Farewell, my friend.”

  Thirty-Eight Seconds Later…

  Tor dropped the used sock between his legs and into the toilet bowl. He bent over, grabbed his inner-suit pants and pulled them up his legs.

  The pain in his back had gone, too, much to his surprise. All in all, a very worthwhile trip to the convenience.

  “A comfort break like no other,” he smiled with relief and went for the flush. His face fell when he saw the contents of the bowl.

  “Eh? What the hell…?”

  A fleshy arm the size of a toilet brush wriggled around in the water, thrashing for dear life.

  SCHWIPP!

  A talon swung out from the end and scratched at the porcelain, trying to climb out.

  Tor gasped and slammed the toilet seat shut - right on the end of the limb. It squealed and kicked its talon around in pain.

  GROWLLL.

  Tor buckled over in pain and clutched his stomach, “Ooof,” He could feel something wagging from his behind. He squeezed his stomach muscles and put a stop to the commotion.

  “Nuuuhh,” he squealed, “What’s h-happening to m-me?”

  CREEAAAKKK!

  The material on his right shoulder snapped apart, pushing the skin and joints through the sleeve. “Oh my God, Nooo—”

  KEERRAAATTTCH!

  His arm burst apart, splattering the cubicle walls with pink goo. The sleeve tore off and slopped to the flooded ground.

  “Aggghhhh”

  A Shanta limb unfurled from the socket in his shoulder and swished out its talon.

  “Sha…sha…” Tor’s head shook around. His mouth flung a rope of pink gloop into the air. “Shaaaaantaaaaa—”

  Thinking fast on his feet - and then his knees - he lifted the toilet seat up, scooped the dead limb from the water and lifted it in the air.

  “Sha… shaaaaan…”

  He gargled through his tears and hacksawed at his shoulder with the talon. The large limb squealed and flailed around as he hacksawed the Symphonium-laced talon across his upper forearm.

  The razor-sharp edge punctured through the grotesque right Shanta arm.

  HACK-HACK-SLASH!

  “Nggggg,” he dropped the spent limb to the floor and slammed the toilet lid down on his newly-formed wrist. He planted his boots on the wall and tore himself away from his mutated arm, all the while keeping his weight pressed down on the lid.

  “Gaaaaaah,” the arm tore away from his shoulder socket and writhed around in pain.

  He slammed the lid down, trapping the vicious limb inside the bowl. The sound of talon-on-porcelain scratched and squealed from inside.

  “Take th-that, you Shaa-aaanta s-scumbag.”

  SLAMM-GROOWWLLSSCCHHH!

  He hit the flush handle, slammed his palm on his right shoulder’s stump and kicked the cubicle door open.

  The Bridge

  Alex and Nutrene pulled themselves along the weightless metal gantry.

  Alex spoke into his headgear microphone, “These outer-suits are kinda funky.”

  Nutrene burst out laughing when she caught sight of his USARIC-issued helmet skin. The thick, wet protective membrane looked like his face was melting.

  “You look like a waxwork that’s been left in the sun for five hours,” Nutrene said before realizing she must have looked the same.

  “Touché, Nutrene.”

  A rocketing sound occurred above their heads, forcing Saturn’s light away from them.

  Alex lifted his head to inspect the source of the noise. A giant fireball the size of Enceladus moved towards Saturn at a snail-like pace.

  “What’s going on up there?”

  “Is that Enceladus?” Nutrene’s voice came through Alex’s headgear.

  “It must be.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “How should I know?”

  Alex grabbed the bridge railing and yanked himself further along. The front of his boot drifted a couple of inches from the grille, “I don’t want to hang around to find out.”

  Oxade’s voice chimed in with disdain, “When you two lovebirds are quite finished enjoying the view, do you think you could get on Beta and take what’s ours, please?”

  “We are, we are. But we think you should see this,” A pang of nerves socked Nutrene in the stomach.

  “What is it?”

  “Do you have a feed of Saturn and Enceladus?”

  “No, but I can get one. Why, what’s wrong?”

  “The moon. Well, one of them, anyway. It’s a fireball, like a raging inferno,” Nutrene widened her eyes and took in the scale of the spectacle, “It’s fantastic.”

  “Never mind that now. I’ve advised Beta team that you are en route. Go in, take the data download package from Poz, and get the hell out of there.”

  “Oh, uh… yes, of course,” Nutrene just about managed to tear her eyes away from Enceladus and focus on Opera Beta’s outer airlock hatch.

  “Nutrene? Come on,” Alex waved her over. “Let’s go.”

  “I’m coming…” she took one, final glance at the giant inferno rocketing towards Saturn.

  The Control Deck

  Space Opera Beta - Level One

  Neg watched Poz retrieve Beta’s data from the communications console via his arm extension.

  “Seven minutes until data transfer is complete,” he advised to anyone listening.

  Tripp watched the process take place with Jaycee. The pair were mesmerized by the technology on display.

  “So, this is what the future looks like?” Jaycee whispered. “Manning/Synapse ditches the human look and goes with a tin of beans?”

  Tor stumbled into the room looking for all the world like a shivering, bag of sweating nerves with post-traumatic stress disorder.

  Tripp, Jaycee, Manuel, Poz, Neg, and Jaycee turned around to see who produced the wretched gurgling.
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  “Tor,” Tripp yelled, “Where have you been?”

  “S-Something’s happening to me, I’m s-sick,” he grumbled through his mouthful of saliva, “M-My organs feel so c-c-cold…”

  “Who’s this?” Poz asked, flippantly.

  “Oh, this is Tor Klyce. Our sort of communications officer,” Tripp clapped eyes on the sweating man properly, “My God, Klyce. Pull yourself together.”

  “I’ll b-be okay,” Tor’s doubled-over and almost vomited on the floor.

  Poz knocked the swivel chair over to him, “Here, have a seat.”

  “Th-thanks.”

  Tor staggered across the control deck and turned around, thumping his behind onto the chair, “Owww.”

  “What happened to you?” Jaycee reached into his belt, preparing himself to blow the man’s head off.

  “I’ll be okay. I think I’ve caught some kind of space flu, or something,” Tor lied. He needed to keep his mutation a secret from the others, or else he was dead.

  “Ah, that explains it,” Poz rolled his head around and blink his eyebulbs, “The flu? Whatever it is pervading the atmosphere on this ship has clearly gotten to him.”

  “What do you mean?” Tripp spat. “Flu? Pervaded the atmosphere?”

  “Captain Healy, your ship is infected with whatever this pink gas is. If it’s even a gas, of course.”

  “Bleuurrgggghhh…” Tor pressed his only arm to his knee and spat a rope of pink drool to the ground.

  Tripp noticed Tor didn’t have a right arm now that he’d uncovered the stump, “Holy hell, Tor. Where’s your arm?”

  “I had to remove it. It malfunctioned.”

  “Malfunctioned?”

  “Where is it now?” Jaycee asked. “Don’t lie to me, Russian. Where did you leave it?”

  “Why-why d-do you c-care?”

  “When Baldron took my hand it fell to the floor and tried to attack him. It ran out of battery and flipped him the bird. You can’t leave Androgyne parts lying around—”

  “—It’s o-okay, I took c-care of it.”

  “Russian, huh?” Neg tucked the side of her head onto her cylinder ‘shoulder’ area and scanned Tor’s face.

  “Wh-what are you looking at?” Tor wiped the drool from his lips and complained to Tor, “Why is she looking at me?”

  “I dunno. It’s better than her making eyes at me for a change.”

  Tor spat another mound of pink phlegm to the floor, “You do all realize that there’s a giant cat on the loose who’s—”

  “—Oh. I know you,” Neg beamed and cut off Tor’s note of caution, “Viktor Rabinovich.”

  The sick man sat back in his chair, dumbstruck, “How do you know my name?”

  “Dummy,” Neg giggled in her childlike electronic voice, “Everyone knows you. You were assassinated five years ago. But, here you are, alive and well. Tut-tut. Bad man.”

  “This is asinine,” Tor tried to jump out of his seat and accost the rude droid, but slumped back to his seat in pain.

  “Four minutes remaining till the transfer is complete,” Poz’s head spun around to Neg and Tripp, “Okay, enough bum-fondling from you two, please. I gather we have visitors at the airlock.”

  “That is correct,” Manuel bent his back cover toward the door, “Tripp? Would you like me to meet and greet our guests from Opera Charlie?”

  “Yes, and take Jaycee with you.”

  Jaycee needed someone to take out his frustration on, and so thumped Tor on the back, “Do I look like a doorman?”

  Tripp looked him up and down. That Kevlar suit. His large frame, and booming voice.

  “Actually, yes.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Stop being insubordinate and go with Manuel. Remember who’s your Captain, here.”

  “Fine,” He stomped toward the door in a huff and clenched his fist as he walked past Tor.

  “N-No, d-don’t hit me! I’m sick—”

  “—You got that right,” Jaycee lifted his fist and threatened to clobber the man.

  “No, no, please—”

  THWOMP.

  Jaycee slammed Tor on the back of his neck with his new ‘Baldron hand’ and continued to the door, “Landaker says hello, dickhead.”

  Manuel slumped in the air and shook his covers in disapproval, “Jaycee?”

  “What?”

  “That was unnecessary.”

  “You’re unnecessary, my encyclopedic friend,” Jaycee palmed the panel on the wall. The door opened and allowed him out, “Are you coming or what?”

  “Very well.”

  As the pair left, Tripp, Poz, and Neg discovered they had front row seats to the unveiling of Tor’s breakfast.

  “Bloooarrggghhh—”

  SCHPLA-AA-TT.

  Chunks of spew splattered around his feet. The pink gunk ran across the floor and down the nearest grate.

  “Oh, that’s just gross,” the three of them complained. They turned away and pinched their nostrils shut.

  Chapter 14

  Primary Airlock

  Space Opera Beta

  Jaycee watched Alex and Nutrene enter Opera Beta’s airlock. He tapped the window and held his thumb up at them, “Ready?”

  Both of them nodded and held their thumbs up at him.

  “Okay,” Jaycee said to Manuel, “Let’s decompress and get them in.”

  “Good idea,” Manuel said.

  “Here we go,” Jaycee yanked the level down and eyed the pressure inlet on the wall. The dial spun to the left, indicating the pressure drop.

  SPRIIISSSHHHH!

  A cloud of white gas burst around Alex and Nutrene. The inner airlock door flew up and offered the pair onto the ship.

  “Hey, team Charlie,” Jaycee stood aside and thumped his chest plate, “I’m Jaycee Nayall, Weapons and Armory. This, here, is our autopilot.”

  “Thank you so much for coming to rescue us,” Manuel said.

  Alex went to peel off his mask.

  “You might want to keep that on, by the way,” Jaycee said. “We don’t want you getting sick.”

  “Right,” Alex loosened his grip and made his way out of the airlock, “I heard you guys encountered some alien entity. Is it really that bad?”

  “Your robot droid thing says Beta is thoroughly infected,” Jaycee said.

  “Poz and Neg?” Nutrene smirked. “They’re a handful, aren’t they?”

  “They’re certainly not on nodding terms with manners, I’ll give them that. The virus isn’t affecting us Androgynes, but the same can’t be said for you humans.”

  Nutrene exited the inner airlock door. It sliced shut like a guillotine behind her, “Where have you been all this time?”

  “I’d rather my Captain fill you in on the details.”

  “We need to know everyone’s coordinates,” Alex said. “Where’s Anderson?”

  “I think she’s resting in Medix.”

  “Medix?”

  “Yes, level three.”

  “Level three?” Alex raised an eyebrow at Nutrene, “Take us to your captain, please. Let’s get you guys out of—” he stopped talking and clamped eyes on the floating Manuel, “Are you the autopilot?”

  “Indeed I am, yes. I’m Manuel. Very nice to meet you both.”

  “You too. Where is Captain Tripp Healy?”

  “Just this way,” Manuel turned around and fluttered up the walkway, “He’s at the control deck…”

  Tor slammed his left hand on the communications panel and dry-heaved. The sweat on his face turned to a fine jelly. He fell to his knees, seriously worse for wear.

  “Guuuh,” his mouth began to foam, “Shaaaa…”

  Tripp looked over from the flight deck and immediately raced over to him, intending to help the man to his feet, “Jesus, Tor. What’s wrong with you?”

  “I n-need to t-tell you something.”

  Tripp hooked his arms under Tor’s one remaining armpit and helped him to his feet, “What is it?”

  “I’m d-dying
.”

  “Ha. And not for the first time,” Poz blurted, concentrating on the up-link from the console.

  “Dying?” Tripp analyzed the man’s face. His eyes were beyond bloodshot. Snot and fluids poured from his ears and nose, “Look at me.”

  “Oh-oh k-kay.”

  Tor’s pupils wound around and turned a murky, urine-color.

  “My God. Tor, you’re really sick.”

  “I’ve b-been t-trying to t-tell y-you.”

  SWISH.

  “Hey, you two,” Jaycee shouted at the pair as he walked into the control deck with Manuel, Alex and Nutrene behind him, “Get a room, for heaven’s sake.”

  Tripp kept Tor upright, “Jaycee, look at him. He needs urgent medical attention.”

  “Where’s Wool?”

  “Still at Medix, I think,” Jaycee looked at Alex and Nutrene, “Sorry about this, guys. Our Russian traitor, here, is feeling a bit—”

  “—Viktor Rabinovich?” Alex eyed Tor with keen interest.

  Tor slid behind Tripp, using him as a body shield.

  Jaycee went for his Rez-9, “Huh? Tor, what are you—”

  Alex threw his left arm out like a Samurai sword.

  SCHUNT.

  The Rez-9 flew into his palm. He swung his arm to Tor and threatened to shoot him, “Viktor Rabinovich.”

  “Yes,” Tor removed the Rez-9 from Tripp’s belt and thrust the barrel against his temple, “Stay back or I’ll blow his head off.”

  A three-way standoff occurred.

  Tor held Tripp’s gun at his temple. Alex kept his firearm pointed at Tor’s forehead.

  Jaycee swung his Rez-9 from Alex to Tor, and then back at Alex, “Hey, what’s going on?”

  Nutrene held out her hands, desperate to put a halt to the forthcoming violence.

  “Guys, please? Can we work this out?”

  Alex took a step closer to Tor, who hid behind Tripp’s body, “You’re meant to be dead—”

  “—I am d-dead,” Tor screamed back, “Don’t come any closer or I’ll blow this bastard’s memory banks out all over this place.”

  “Drop your weapon, Rabinovich,” Alex threatened. “Do it.”