After a few moments of silence Captain Priestly spoke, “Well let’s get to it then. Commander, join your . . . men in the shuttle launch and we’ll get you on your way.” The captain then turned his back on Commander Reese in a dismissive gesture.
“Good luck,” Keefe said, the words flowing across his lips before he had a chance to consider what he was saying.
“Thank you,” Reese said and departed the bridge.
Captain Priestly and Commander Keefe stood in silence as the computer counted off the time to shuttle departure. Finally Keefe spoke, “God help them.” “Who?” Priestly asked, “The people on the planet or the vampires?” Keefe smirked and said, “You know, I’m not sure anymore. Some of the things that Reese said made sense. He has some valid points.”
“I suppose,” Priestly added, “but it’s still hard to figure where it fits into the grand scheme of things.”
“Some say we evolved from apes,” Priestly said. “It sounds so foolish, doesn’t
it?”
“Scientists, some days you don’t know who or what to believe,” Keefe added. This last statement hung in the air as the two men remained silent. Minutes later they received confirmation of the landing and the destruction of the shuttle engines which would prevent escape from the planet.
“We’re done,” Keefe said.
“What the hell is the name of this place?” asked Priestly.
“The information blackout should be complete by now,” Keefe said. “Let’s see what information the computer has on it. Computer—state planet designation and location of shuttle launch.”
The computer responded: No formal designation in library. Intelligence reports only local designations.”
“They must really want to hide this place,” Keefe said, “they won’t even name it.” “Apparently,” Priestly agreed. “Computer, what are the local designations and lo-cation of shuttle?”
“Planet is locally designated as Earth. Shuttle has landed in one of the major continents called Europe in a region known as Transylvania.” “What was it that Reese said,” Keefe said aloud, “that the inhabitants of this world believed in myths and legends—well I guess they will have a new one to go on now.”
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SHORE LEAVE
C.J. Henderson
“It is upon the navy under the Providence of God that the safety, honour, and welfare of this realm do chiefly attend.”
Charles II
“God help us all.”
Anonymous
THE HUMAN SAILOR’S FIST SMACKED AGAINST THE SIDE OF THE EMBRIAN’S HEAD FOR THE FIFTH TIME, making a loud and juicy sound. The noise seemed to please the sailor mightily; the Embrian, not so much.
“Keep it up, Noodles,” shouted a much taller sailor, also human, one dressed in much the same uniform as the other. “We’ll crack this coconut yet!” The two sailors were part of the upstart human fleet from that far end of the galaxy into which most reputable races did not bother to venture. It was a fearsomely cluttered area, one filled with debris from the great space wars of the elder races, all of whom disappeared so long ago. The whole place abounded with black hole snares, meteor whirls, nebulae pits, all manner of mines and traps as well as system-wide sargassos of wrecked armadas just waiting for the chance to befoul modern trav-ellers.
Of course, the Embrians being heelstomped in The Cold Bone Cellar—which by the way neither contained a particularly gelid temperature, nor found itself situated beneath the surface—did not care what race the sailors were, nor where they were from. They only wished for respite from the heelstomping and the continual thumping of their conga-like heads. Luckily for them, the unmistakable sound of approaching law enforcement began to filter through the riotous din enveloping the tavern at that moment.
“Rocky,” cried out Noodles, he of the keener hearing, “sounds like the shore pa-trol.” Holding off his next punch for the moment, Chief Gunnery Officer Rockland Vespucci cupped a hand to his ear, confirmed his friend’s assertion, then shouted;
“Men of the Franklin—time for a strategic withdrawal!” To which Noodles, more officially known as Machinist First Mate Li Qui Kon, added most vocally; “Run and live!”
Tossing the soldiers, sailors, and officers from the other ships with whom they had been brawling into a central pile, the sailors in question assumed a semblance of a formation, heading for the back door on the run as they sang;
“Oh, we’re the boys of the Franklin,
We fly in outer space,
We wipe our asses with moonbeams,
We know how star dust tastes.
“The boys of the fighting Franklin,
The best ship in all the fleet,
Say a single word ag’in her,
And we’ll pound ya ‘til yer meat!”
When the military police did arrive they seemed in a particular lather, one not quite in line with a simple barroom bare-knuckler. The MPs were, as was standard at any port where different cultures docked together, a mix of the five great races of the Pan-Galactic League of Suns. That meant, of course, there were no humans among their numbers, which is why those warbling the thirty-some odd verses dedi-cated to the virtues of the Fighting Franklin were so quick to make their exit. And, with their usual precision, within only five blocks at top-speed exit, the group of some twenty-seven original roughhousers had split up into some eleven groups of two and three, all eleven striving mightily to pretend not to know one another and to walk in opposing directions.
Now calmly walking through the streets, Rocky and Noodles assumed the innocent pose of two guileless gobs out for a stroll in an exciting new port of call. And, to be fair, they were very good at doing so. Indeed, so shamelessly naive did they appear, the grifters, hoodwinks, and typical bottom leeches one found in any such hub city allowed them passage, feeling it beneath their dignity as thieves to go after pigeons so utterly tender.
“I don’t think we should have run for it until we found out if that place validated parking.”
About to give out with a snappy rejoinder, Rocky suddenly noted that he and his partner were being followed by four rather large and singularly dangerous-looking Danierians—pasty, bulbous beings known far and wide for their quick tempers and all-around lack of social skills. Noting that they had been noted, the quartet began to pick up speed, not slowly, but switching from a quick walk to a supersonic lurch with one quick whoosh.
This motivated the sailors to take the opportunity to test their land-legs by crank-ing their own mobility up to the ultimate, racing down one oddly shaped back alley and then the next. By this point the Danierians could no longer actually be seen due to the great, bilious dust cloud their pursuit was raising. Availing himself of this advantage, Machinist First Mate Li rummaged through his pockets, examining one discovery after another until coming across a temporal spanner bar.
Setting it for what he imagined were the appropriate amount of seconds, he tossed it down in front of himself and Rocky, kept moving forward, then nodded with appreciation when he first heard the tool, normally used for re-aligning warp engines, “klik” back into standard reality, then heard the expansion field open just in time to trip up their pursuers. The welcome sounds of beings falling against one another and the somewhat harder surface of the street, as well as the unwelcome ozone-frying smell of shots being fired, came to the sailors, bringing a laugh to their lips as well as added speed to their retreat.
Finally, several blocks and random turns later, the two slowed down, picking up their conversation where they left off. Assuming the Danierians were simply part of the house security for the house they had helped make so less secure, they put the creatures out of their minds as Rocky asked;
“So, Noodles, tell me, exactly what did you park that you wanted a validation for?”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” responded the machinist. “Storage of future information.”
“Where do you get these ideas,” asked Rocky. “I swear, you’re the ki
nd of guy who proposes polkas for national anthems.”
“And you’re the kind of guy who steals miniature aliens when running out of a bar instead of a couple of spare bottles.” Needless to say, Rocky was indeed puzzled by his friend’s comment. Not that part about the bottles. No, the gunnery officer was cer-tain Noodles had managed to palm two or three fifths on his way out the door. That would certainly explain the slight “klinking” sound emanating from his duffle.
Indeed, it was the part about stealing aliens—miniature or otherwise—which had him perplexed. Scratch his head as hard as he might, Rocky could not remember a single instance of doing such. Questioning Noodles on the subject only brought the equally inscrutable rejoinder;
“Don’t look at me, I certainly didn’t steal them.”
Rocky’s confusion only lasted another moment, however, mainly because at that point the gunnery officer followed the assumed trail leading from the end of Noodles’ directional finger to the objective being speared by such action, namely the nine small fry following behind the pair of sailors.
“You crazy git,” shouted Rocky. “I didn’t steal them. They’re followin’ us. And,” he added, after taking a closer look, “I don’t think they’re small aliens.” “You think they’re human?”
“No, goddamnit—I don’t think they’re human. I mean, I don’t think they’re small aliens.” Scrutinizing the troop now standing still behind them, obviously ready to start moving once more as soon as the sailors did, Noodles said slowly;
“I don’t know . . . they look small and they look like aliens to me.”
“I don’t mean they’re not small aliens, I mean yes, they’re small, and yes, they’re aliens, but I don’t think that’s all they are.”
“What else could they be?” Noodles looked the silent contingent over again, then asked, “Robots?”
“Not robots—why is everything robots to you machinists? No, I think they’re kids.” “Who cares if they’re kids—why are they following us?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then, you should ask them.” “Why me?”
“Because, I spotted them first, you’re closer to them, and I don’t like children or small aliens, unless of course they’re robots.” Against such thunderous logic, the gunnery officer found himself without choice. So surrendering, he dropped down on one knee and asked;
“All right, who’s the ring leader here? I want to know what you bunch are doing followin’ us. Com’on now . . . speak up.”
One plump melon of a creature dressed for all the world in what seemed to be a scouring pad stepped forward and announced in the squeakiest voice either sailor had ever experienced;
“We grateful orphans. Follow you to happy safety. We know you kind kipkips. Not sell us to be chowder.”
After a painful amount of conversation with the alien, who did indeed turn out to be a child, the two sailors learned that the nine tykes, all of different species, were orphans purchased from a galactic state home for a Representative Brummellig’ic for the purpose of being turned into a type of outer rim gumbo. Somewhat suspicious, Noodles used his com to check what the orphan they nicknamed Melon had told them. When he looked up from his labors, Rocky threw an all-encompassing;
“Well?” at him, to which Noodles replied;
“Like always, translation between Earth Basic 9.8 and Pan-Galactic’s a bit rough, but the little zucchini might have something. There is a Representative Brummellig’ic on planet right now, and he’s got enough power to keep all information about himself off the low class bands. The kid’s right, though. I found a mention of him on some kind of society page—he is throwing a big party tonight.”
Rocky and Noodles looked suspiciously, then sternly, then helplessly at their new litter. Finding no recourse there, they walked away several paces, then looked at each other, lips pursed, eyes narrowing. As one they turned and stared down at their three-times-three tag-alongs, and then turned back to look at one another again—lips tighter, eyes down to slits. Finally, on the verge of choking and going blind, Noodles offered;
“This can’t be happening to us . . . ”
“I know; we ain’t had shore leave in sixteen months—”
“We don’t know anything about taking care of kids . . . ”
“And this Brummellig’ic creep, he’s certain to have a lot of muscle—” “It’s not like we can go to the authorities . . . ”
“No, no—even if there weren’t no spotter cams in that bar we just helped redesign, they’ll be lookin’ for everything in blue and white to invite in for a chat—” “MPs will only be worse . . . ”
“Even if we weren’t in trouble, guy like this Brummellig’ic could have people bought off anywhere. If we was to even talk about this to anyone, if word got back to him—” Rocky drew a finger across his throat, with an accompanying dreadful sound to get his point across. Rolling his eyes, mostly in fearful agreement, Noodles said;
“This is not fair . . . ”
“I know that,” agreed Rocky. Turning his head, he stared as hard as he could at their nine new companions, trying to ignore their pathetic demeanors and large im-ploring eyes—those that had eyes, of course. Turning back to his friend, he whispered;
“Elvis Corkin’ Presley, all I wanted was to drink and fight, dance some with beautiful girls, see a couple shows, do a little gamblin’ . . . not play nursemaid.” “You’re absolutely right. This is not our responsibility. By Buddha’s Mint Julep, for all we know, maybe they sell orphans all the time to make into bouillabaisse out here. We’re not home, you know.”
“And another important factor,” added Rocky, his voice dropping to an even lower, more conspiratorial level, “we’re a lot bigger than they are—” “Our legs are longer . . . ”
“We could most assuredly run much, much faster than them—”
And then, the one that looked like Shirley Temple, if Shirley Temple had been the offspring of a seal and a geranium, started to cry. She had a beautiful crying voice, not—that is—one melodious to listen to, but one perfectly designed for fetching sympathy. So utterly loud, shrill, and trembling was it that windows began to open, and even passing motorists started coming to a halt. With the speed of politicians placing blame, the pair of gobs emptied their pockets, searching desperately for something they might just happen to have on their persons which would placate a caterwauling alien five-year-old.
Luckily, Noodles just happened to have a 9/10s galvanized securing bolt which caught little Shirley’s eye. Throwing out a purple tendril, she snagged the five-point-eighteen ounces of steel and happily began chewing. Wiping perspiration from their now freely beading heads, Rocky with the edge of his tallywacker, Noodles with his bucket cap, the two shrank against the closest wall as the oppressive reality of their situation began to dawn on them.
“You know,” said Noodles, his eyes now constantly scanning for authority in all its varied guises, “we’re in trouble.”
“Oh, ya think? Listen, Edison, we gotta start cogitatin’ on what we’re gonna do here.” With that statement, Rocky turned to look over the kids. Noticing they were near a type of public park, he rounded up their reluctantly-accepted charges and got them all off the street and out of the main public view. Finding an alcove large enough to house them all, and discreet enough that they could talk freely, he posted Noodles at the leafy entrance to keep watch, positioned the children on the ground, then sat down in front of them and asked;
“All right, let’s figure some stuff out. First off, how many of you understand what I’m saying?”
Melon screeched out a reply detailing that he, Shirley, and three others whom the gobs immediately nick-named Curly, Snip, and Poodle could understand basic hu-manspeak. The others, whom they designated Bubbles, Fork, Creepie, and Poindex-ter, did not speak anything close to Earth 9.8, but Snip could apparently translate for Bubbles and Creepie, Creepie could then straighten out Fork, and Poodle could get across enough to Poindexter to keep him in the loop.
With this established, Rocky im-mediately explained the buddy system, telling the group that if things were going to work at all, everyone was going to have to help everyone else. And at that point, Shirley asked the question that sent our boys from merely falling over a cliff to rock-eting over it.
“What things are going to work?”
Her question could be taken in any of a hundred ways, and both swabbies felt the twisting knife of each possible one. Cutting through the selfishness of their desire to throw away their paychecks on dice, dames, and drinks, her query focused the small fries’ plight perfectly—abandoned by Rocky and Noodles, the nine of them were bound for a soup pot. Boiled alive with celery and onions to feed the decadent rich.
“Noodles,” said Rocky of a sudden, “if you’d like to take off now, and go back out to have some fun, I’d be real understandin’ of such an action.” “What,” responded the machinist, “and let a loose propeller like you get our kids baked up into won tons? No way I’m going anywhere, you crazy wop.” The gunnery officer smiled. All right then, he thought, it was settled. They would help the kids. But, the back of his mind questioned, help them to do what? A quick interrogation gave the gobs the following facts. The kids had all come from the orphanage. None of them had anyone on the outside to whom they could turn. The beings who were going to sell them to be soup were to meet those wishing to make them into soup at The Cold Bone Cellar. The merry disruption caused by Rocky, Noodles, and their shipmates had rendered the kids’ sellers unconscious, giving them the opportunity to escape along with the still conscious combatants. The buyers had been the ones they eluded outside the tavern.
Breach the Hull Page 29