SPACE TEAM: THE TIME TITAN OF TOMORROW
BARRY J. HUTCHISON
ZERTEX BOOKS
Copyright © 2018 by Barry J. Hutchison
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published worldwide by Zertex Books.
www.barryjhutchison.com
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
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Oh! I Almost forgot…
For Doc Brown
ONE
DRAVEN NOSTRO WAS AGITATED. It had been almost a week since he had last killed someone and this, for him, was something of a record.
It wasn’t his all-time record, of course. That had lasted five years and was unlikely to be challenged anytime soon as, in the decades following that fifth birthday party, his murder rate had continued on a steepening upwards curve. Nowadays, if he didn’t slaughter someone every couple of days he started to get grouchy. He put it down to a combination of his increasing age, his decreasing patience, and the fact that he really – on a fundamental level – liked to kill people.
“Draven?”
The voice spat at him from across the table. Draven flicked the dark pools of his eyes over to his younger brother, Sliske, then down to the cards he held clutched in his own pointed fingers.
“Deflect,” he said. He nodded to the bloated, toad-like figure who sat around the table on his right. “Target Musso.”
Musso’s tongue slapped across one of his bulbous eyeballs. Draven recognized it as one of the Gorf’s more obvious tells. Musso was holding nothing. Whatever came out of his mouth next was a bluff. The knot of irritation that was coiled in Draven’s gut slackened a little in anticipation.
“Uh, uh…”
“Take your time,” urged Draven’s sister, Esera. She sat on Draven’s left, directly across from Musso. Her voice, like her face, was soft and sweet, and betrayed none of the dark urges that surged through her black and lifeless veins. “There’s no rush.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Sliske, which brought a giggle from his sister.
Musso took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at his sopping brow. His eyes, which always seemed to point in slightly opposite directions, swam independently as they took in the three waiting faces around the table, then stole a desperate glance at the door.
“Could I… Would you mind if I took a short bathroom break?”
“Yes,” said Draven.
Musso half-sobbed in relief and began to stand. “Oh! Thank you, I won’t be—”
“We would mind,” Draven concluded.
Musso stopped halfway to his feet, one hand on the back of his chair, the other still clutching his cards.
“Sit down, honey,” Esera told him, her smile now showing off far more teeth than it previously had been.
The chair creaked as Musso lowered himself back onto it. The waterproof plastic sheeting on the floor rustled beneath his feet.
Musso didn’t bother to dab at his brow now. What was the point? He studied his cards. There was nothing he could play, no move left for him to make, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit it. Not yet.
He looked up at the faces of the others. Draven was the eldest, and considered by many to be the worst of the three. It was Sliske who had always worried Musso the most, though. There was something disarmingly attractive about the man, with his porcelain white skin and immaculate eyebrows, but while all four members of the Nostro family were murderers, there was an air about Sliske that suggested he probably got more of a kick out of it than rest of them.
“I have a family,” Musso pleaded. “I… I have four children.”
“You should’ve thought of that, fat man,” Sliske said. “Before you took your seat.”
“No, I mean take them,” Musso sobbed. “They are younger. Leaner. I mean look at me.” He thudded himself on his chest, making his sagging breasts jiggle beneath his shirt. “You don’t want me. You don’t want this. I am old and fat and—”
Esera lunged across the table, her lips drawing back to reveal all her many teeth. Musso attempted to scream as she tore out his throat, but just sort of farted a couple of wet hiccups from his ravaged windpipe, instead.
“Hey! It was my turn to go first!” Sliske protested, grabbing his sister by the hair and wrenching her head back. Esera spat a half-chewed mouthful of Musso in his face, hissed loudly, then buried her face in the still-alive-but-rapidly-becoming-less-so Gorf’s open throat.
Her weight toppled the chair backwards. By the time Musso hit the floor, Esera was straddling him, giggling as she played in his fountaining blood like a child in the spray of an open fire hydrant.
“I get the next one,” Sliske said. “It should have been my turn.”
“We’ll see,” said Draven. He gestured to the cards, cups and colorful balls now scattered on the table, then rose slowly and grandly. “Set up the next game. Tidy up. I shall see if any other challengers await.”
Sliske protested, but Draven made it very clear he wasn’t listening. He glided past the now very much dead Musso, paused to savor the coppery tang of blood that flavored the air, then continued to the door. It jerked sharply aside at his approach as if terrified he might touch it. A small but lavishly decorated bar area was revealed, with another door set into the wall opposite.
A blue-skinned cocktail waitress stood by the bar. She straightened at the sight of him, and nodded eagerly when he glanced her way. His smooth brow furrowed as he looked her up and down. “Where is the other one?”
“She’s, uh, she’s sick,” the waitress said. “The agency sent me.”
Draven waited, one eyebrow raised.
“Sir. The agency sent me, sir.”
The eyebrow held steady for a while, before eventually dropping to join the other one. “We will require refreshments.”
“Yes, sir. Right away,” the waitress said, practically snapping to attention.
Draven held up a hand to stop her. “You may wish to wait a few moments. They’re still cleaning up in there.”
The waitress looked from Draven to the door and back again. She swallowed, then nodded slowly. “I’ll do that. Thank you.”
Draven had barely taken a step when the waitress spoke again.
“Uh, and anything for your father, sir?”
He stopped abruptly, then was on her at once, his slender fingers wrapping around her throat. He jerked her off the ground without any apparent effort and her blue skin tinged purple as she gasped and wheezed, her feet kicking at the air.
“My father is none of your concern,” he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. “Is that understood?”
The waitress gargled out something unintelligible, but it seemed to do the trick. Draven released his grip, letting her slump to the floor. “Never mention him again,” he warned, then he turned and swept onwards to the second door. Like the first, this one beat a hasty retreat, shunting sharply into the doorframe as Draven approached.
The room beyond this door was set out like a doctor’s waiting area. But an expensive doctor who had probably never seen an ill person in their life, and who instead charged a lot of money to make the faces of the rich and famous incrementally worse.
There were two ‘people’ waiting – although that term applied only very loosely to one of them, who appeared to be primarily made of metal. Draven made no attempt to hide the way his nostrils flared in distaste. Cyborgs. Was there any crueler joke than a living creature without a drop of blood in its body? Such a waste.
The other person – the non-cyborg one – had been draped across one of the waiting room’s leather sofas, his hands tucked behind his head. He jumped up as Draven entered, his utterly unremarkable humanoid face lighting up with a grin.
“Well, hey there, tall dark and spooky! I thought you were never going to come out.”
Draven looked the man up and down, pausing just briefly on his outstretched right hand. “Who are you?” he asked. “I was expecting a Gorf.”
“The froggy guys? Yeah, I’m not one of them.”
Draven turned away. “You should not have been let through. I do not know you. Be on your way.”
“Yeah, the guys on the door, they weren’t going to let us in,” the man explained. “But then they found out who I was.”
This made Draven hesitate. He turned his head to look back over his shoulder. “Oh? And who are you?”
“The name’s Cal. Cal Carver,” the newcomer replied. “I’m the King of Planet Earth.” He jabbed a thumb back in the direction of Mech, the cyborg. “This here’s my faithful manservant, Gunga.”
Mech opened his mouth to say something, but Cal quickly jumped in. “He doesn’t speak. Completely mute. Poor guy. Watch this.”
He turned and addressed Mech directly. “I’m better than you, right? I’m the most awesome guy you’ve ever met. I’m better than you in every single way. Say absolutely nothing if you agree.”
Mech’s expression darkened, but his metal bottom jaw creaked slowly shut.
Cal turned back to Draven. “See? Not a word. Poor son of a bedge.” He puffed out his cheeks. “Anyway, I’m here in town for a few days on business. You know, King stuff. I heard that you run some kind of card den here, or whatever, and I thought I’d swing by and check it out.”
Draven shook his head, but only once. The desire to kill had lessened a little when he’d watched the Gorf die, but every moment in this man’s company was making it grow. There was something about him. His face, probably. Or his demeanor. Whatever, the thought of tearing him apart made Draven’s teeth hum pleasantly inside their sockets.
He turned crisply on his heels until he was facing the Earthman once more. “Very well. Follow me, Your Majesty,” he said, bowing in a way that was roughly one third respectful and two thirds sarcastic. “Welcome to the game.”
TWO
CAL PULLED his chair in closer to the table, crinkling the pristine plastic sheeting beneath him. The whole room smelled lemon-fresh, although he was fairly sure there were no actual lemons involved. Space lemons, maybe.
“Is that in case of spillages?” he asked, gesturing to the floor.
“In a way,” said Draven.
“Good idea,” said Cal. “Speaking of which, any chance I could get a drink? I noticed a bar back there…”
“Refreshments are coming,” Draven assured him. He nodded across the table to Sliske. “Deal, brother. Our guest is eager to begin.”
Cal rubbed his hands together. “Yes, I am,” he said, then he went to his belt and unhooked a leather pouch roughly the size of a water canteen. It chinked as he deposited it on the table. The three other players sitting at the table eyed it indifferently.
“What is that?” Esera asked, with the sort of tone that suggested Cal had placed a bag full of his own steaming hot excrement in front of her.
“It’s my stake,” said Cal. All three of the siblings visibly flinched at that last word. “You know, credits? Cash. Money. Moolah. Dough.” His brow furrowed. “I can’t think of any other… Bones!”
“What is he talking about?” Sliske asked.
“Bread. That’s another one,” said Cal.
“You misunderstand, Your Majesty,” said Draven. “We do not play for money.”
Cal raised his eyebrows. “Oh. I see.” He looked around the table. “Just for fun, huh? Well – and I’m going to be honest here – that is refreshing. Everyone’s so materialistic these days, don’t you think? It’s nice that four people can just sit together and play a game for the sheer fun of it.”
Esera smiled, and Cal felt his eyes be drawn to her teeth. “Ooh, I like this one. He’s funny,” she said.
“I disagree,” said Sliske. “I already find him tiresome.”
“Oh… you!” said Cal, winking at the younger of the siblings. “Give it an hour and you’ll love me. Or, you know, hate me. One of those. It can go either way.”
“You misunderstand,” said Draven with as much patience as he could muster. Which wasn’t much. “You play for money. If you win, we shall make you stupidly wealthy.”
“And if I lose?”
It was Sliske’s turn to show his teeth. “Then we tear you open and gorge on your blood.”
Cal blinked.
Then he blinked again.
He put a finger behind one ear and pushed it forward. “Sorry, you…?”
“We eat you alive,” Draven said.
Cal nodded slowly. “Right. Right. I thought that was pretty much the gist of what he said, I just wanted to double check. I mean, that seems… Well, it seems…”
His voice faltered into a croak. Clearing his throat, he turned in his seat. Mech stood behind him, his back against the wall. “Did, uh, did you know about this?”
Mech nodded. It was taking an enormous amount of self-control to keep the smirk from his face, but he was managing somehow.
“You did? Why didn’t you say something?”
“I thought you said he couldn’t speak?” Draven interjected.
“What? Oh, yeah. Yeah, no. I mean no, but… He can mime! You couldn’t have fonking mimed?”
Mech raised his metal shoulders in a nonchalant shrug.
“You’re totally getting a pay cut for this,” Cal told him. “I want you to know that. And kiss goodbye to your Christmas bonus.”
The plastic wrap rustled beneath Cal’s feet as he turned back to the table. Sliske and Esera were practically drooling as they eyed him hungrily, but Draven was demonstrating a somewhat greater level of self-control.
“Do you wish to retire from the game?” the oldest of the three siblings asked.
“I’ll be honest, kind of,” Cal admitted. “I mean, no offence – if I was going to be eaten alive by anyone, I’d want it to be you guys – but it isn’t quite how I envisioned spending the afternoon.”
“Retiring means you forfeit,” said Esera.
“Forfeiting means you die,” Sliske added. They exchanged glances and both giggled in a creepy kind of harmony.
Draven waved a hand vaguely. “But, it is your decision, of course.”
Cal leaned back in his chair. “So, just to be clear - if I quit the game, you’ll definitely kill me. If I play, you’ll probably kill me. Unless I win, in which case, I’ll be rich and you won’t kill me. Have I followed that correctly?”
“You have,” Draven confirmed.
Cal drummed his hands on the table. “Well alrighty, then. As long as we all know where we stand. Deal me in.”
Esera clapped her hands together excitedly. “I knew I liked this one.”
“I’m first,” Sliske reminded her.
“Fair enough,” said Cal. “And then… what? Does it go clockwise?”
“No, not the game. Eating you, I meant,” Sliske said. “I’m first.”
Cal swallowed. “Oh. Right. Gotcha. Well, you know… enjoy, I guess.”
“I will.”
“I suspect I’m pretty succulent,” Cal bo
asted. “I mean, I don’t want to overpromise or anything, but I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. In fact, I came very close to eating myself once. I mean, not by choice – that would be insane – but still.”
The door jerked aside, revealing the blue-skinned waitress in the doorway. A tray floated above a metal cuff on her wrist, remaining perfectly balanced in the air. On it sat four drinks. Three of them were red and gloopy while the fourth was clear and sparkling.
Draven gestured impatiently for her to serve. Her eyes met Cal’s as she deposited the clear drink on a small side table that unfolded from within his chair’s arm rest.
“Why thank you, young lady,” he said. “And what’s your name?”
“Loren,” said the waitress.
Cal’s smile didn’t falter. “Loren? That’s… that’s your name?”
Loren nodded.
“That’s not exactly original, is it?”
Loren frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Well… I mean of all the names you could be called, ‘Loren’ seems a little obvious, don’t you think?”
“And what’s your name?” Loren asked, her voice clipped and short. “Hmm? Cal Carver, was it? That’s what you said, right? That’s not exactly new and original, is it?”
“That’s different,” said Cal.
“How?” demanded Loren.
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