Clenching my teeth in one hand and phase pistol in the other, I forced my way through the brush, and stumbled into a clearing.
Porthos stood like a melting ice sculpture, staring straight ahead. A cat-size kitten stood beside him—fur and tail both on end. I looked to see what could convince cat and beagle to stand side by side in silence.
And froze.
Less than a hundred yards away a small herd of cattle surrounded a pile of rotting bones, bones the cows were busily consuming.
Porthos grabbed my pant leg and pulled me back into the bushes, but he was too late.
The cows turned as one entity, looked me over from head to toe, and sneezed.
Adrenaline screamed through my veins, along with a good dose of healthy panic. The kitten scrambled up my legs and onto my back. I grabbed a handful of fur and stuffed the little beast inside my shirt, then immediately regretted the action.
We tore through the jungle. Porthos took the lead while the kitten mewled encouragement. Fear made up for the lack of machete as we stumbled through bushes, fell over crumbling rock walls, and dodged hungry vines.
Nothing fazed the stampede thundering behind us.
Suddenly, Porthos scrambled over a huge log.
Always one to chose discretion over valor, I bent to catch my breath and study the takeoff.
Not a wise move.
Leaves behind me exploded, and a giant carnivorous cow stampeded right into my extended posterior, catapulting my body, kitten and all, clear over the top of the log.
That might have been the end of the story right there, but Porthos had chosen our path well. Instead of slamming into a tree, or worse yet, another herd of meat-eating cattle, the kitten and I clawed and slid our way down a mud-encrusted incline, splashing to a stop at the bottom of an overgrown ravine. Due to its location in the middle of a rain forest, the ravine had no choice but to be filled with scuzzy water, complete with the required complement of UBCs: unidentified bump-and-I’ll-eat-you critters.
The kitten decided my head had a more likely chance of staying above water than the rest of my body. Tiny claws in your skull can be a real motivator. So can strange things sliding by your leg. Without waiting to try to identify the unidentifiable, Porthos and I swam toward the far end of the ravine, where there appeared to be a clearing above water level.
The brush and trees had been hacked away to make room for a shuttlecraft. I didn’t recognized the hull, but I did recognize the towering aliens headed my way.
“What were they?” Big Ears asked. “The aliens I mean.”
Archer shrugged and thought fast. “Nausicaans. Very big Nausicaans.” He stretched his hand toward the ceiling. “At least twice your height and ugly enough to curl the hair on your grandfather’s head.”
Big Ears touched his bald head. Shran gave a knowing nod and said, “Nausicaans can be very temperamental.”
Everyone around the table mumbled their agreement.
Pond scum gave way to mud. We crawled on our bellies until we reached a small stand of brush, where our surveillance team reconnoitered. I plucked and squished only five or six leeches. My leech count was down, but the mountain-size mosquito bites more than made up the balance.
A pair of Nausicaans squished through the muck, loading boxes and containers marked with the P&P insignia onto the shuttle. Bound to the shuttle’s loading-ramp strut was a gray-haired carbon copy of Cari Fetchalot.
I looked at Porthos. He looked at me. We shared a partner-type thought: There was no way to know how many more of the big thugs might be waiting inside. “You have a plan?”
I needn’t have asked. Porthos was a pro, and pros always have plans. He disappeared into the bushes and reappeared a moment later, dragging an enormous black cloak. The kitten promptly started inspecting the material for more leeches.
“You expect me to play Nausicaan?” I took one whiff of the fragrant fabric and declined. “I’m not wearing anything that smells like rotten petunias.”
Porthos gave a low bark of disgust. He sniffed the air. Eyeballed the kitten. Vanished into the jungle.
This time he didn’t reappear.
I’d just about decided to charge in with phase pistol blazing when birds exploded out of the jungle. A black and brown beagle blur hurtled into camp, followed by a very large, very irritated jungle-type cat. A cat that looked remarkably like the kitten curled up in my lap.
Nausicaans flew one way, crates flew the other as the cat twisted its sinuous length through the tangled mess. The cat yowled, a low, angry sound, and the cuddly kitten in my lap turned into a bundle of teeth and claws. The kitten headed toward Momma while I took advantage of the situation and slithered closer to the captive woman.
No reinforcements came off the shuttle to help the opposition. I studied the pair closely: one Nausicaan was a real giant, with a bushful of hair and heavy leather vest. He towered over the smaller Nausicaan, but the little guy wasn’t intimidated. The smaller one’s headful of tightly woven braids stuck out like frozen snakes as he zapped the burly one with something in his hand. The big one leapt forward, drawing a double-edged sword from his belt.
That’s when I noticed the beagle-size box creeping along the ground.
Fortunately, the Nausicaans’ attention was still focused on the cat. She dropped to her haunches and slid to a snarling stop. Her tail lashed from side to side, scattering leeches and leaves.
I slithered to the next crate and crouched in position, nerves singing with adrenaline.
The box moved in rapid bursts without slipping or sliding. It stopped the moment a Nausicaan glanced its way, moved forward when the aliens returned their attention to the angry cat.
I’d have to get him to teach me that little trick.
Mud flew every which way as the kitten dashed between its mother’s legs. The jungle cat snarled once more at the Nausicaans, snatched the kitten in her mouth, and disappeared back into the jungle. Two crates stood between the captive and my hiding place. Mouth dry as the Sahara desert in spite of the humid air, I banana-slipped to the next crate, peered around the corner, and prepared to make my final run.
That’s when I realized even heroes make mistakes.
My stomach clenched like I’d been gut-punched as the big Nausicaan sidled over to the box and settled into a prime lid-snatching position.
“Porthos!” I did a sliding forward shoulder roll—a move only possible in extreme muddy conditions—and raised my pistol.
But I was too late.
The Nausicaan snatched the box with one hand, leaving Porthos standing naked in the humid jungle air.
So much for the beagle stealth-box method.
Porthos attacked the huge alien’s ankles. I drew a careful bead, but before I could fire, the phase pistol flew from my grasp. Pain racked my shoulders as someone wrenched my hands behind my back. I’d forgotten one of the prime rules of engagement: Never lose sight of your opponents, especially the smaller ones. The stench of rotten petunias assaulted my sinuses, and my knees buckled.
Porthos renewed his attack. He ducked in, nipped at the Nausicaan’s ankle, dodged out again, but the beagle’s precision timing was off by a fraction of a second. The Nausicaan landed a blow upside Porthos’s head, sending the little beagle sailing into the side of the shuttle with a hollow thud.
Light glanced off the double-edged sword as Porthos’s attacker prepared for his final charge.
“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned a sword.” This time it was White Beard who interrupted. He took the pipe from his mouth and frowned. “What kind of sword?”
Big Ears piped up. “Nausicaans have all kinds, lots of them really old. The double-edged serrated blades are very valuable.” He sucked on his teeth and grinned.
“Swords are an honorable way of doing battle.” The Klingon slammed her fist on the table and glared around the table.
“No question about that,” Archer said. Time to wrap this story up. “They have other nasty weapons as well.”
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Porthos cocked his head as if to say, “Interesting story, boss. What’s next?”
Archer chuckled. “There are other ways than brandishing weapons to catch someone’s attention, however….”
A whistle shrieked through the clearing—one perfect note so loud and shrill it knocked a purple spy bird out of the closest tree and drew the Nausicaan up short.
“Be careful with that beagle,” the woman said. “He’s worth more than all the junk you’ve got in these crates.”
The Nausicaan holding me close enough to dance clamped a band around my wrists and tossed me over by the woman. Metal flashed in the small one’s hand as he headed toward his partner in crime.
“Porthos is one of a kind,” the woman continued. “My own creation. He’s the reason you’re getting paid a fortune to kidnap me.”
Sun glinted off the sword as the big Nausicaan started to swing. The smaller one lunged forward with the rod in his hand. Metal connected with Nausicaan rump. Sparks flew, and the acrid stench of burning hair stung my nose. The big guy must have been zapped with a ten-megawatt jolt. I have to give him credit: He didn’t fall over. He just sort of crumbled in place.
Now seemed like a good time to introduce myself. “Doctor Findalot, I presume?” I closed my eyes and turned my head as the woman looked me over from head to toe—and giggled.
I opened one eye, then the other.
“Yes, I’m Doctor Findalot, and that,” she pointed at the Nausicaans, “is Buff and Fluff. The big one’s Buff. The other one’s Fluff. Your not-so-typical Nausicaan couple.”
I nodded and squinted at the pair. Besides the different sizes and hairstyles, it was difficult to tell them apart.
Buff was back on his feet, but his eyes weren’t really in focus. He shuffled over to the loading ramp, grabbed the doctor with one hand, the back of my shirt with the other, and carried us both inside the shuttle, where he dumped us into an empty space between a stack of ragged crates and the open cockpit door.
Fluff bounced in and tossed the beagle’s limp body in a small cage nearby. I swallowed hard, willing Porthos to move, but Double-O One didn’t even whimper.
The shuttle was a utility model, a stripped-down hollow tube, with cockpit up front, engine compartment in the rear, and lots of floor space in between.
In spite of their constant bickering, the Nausicaans managed to haul the rest of the booty inside in a remarkably short time. The loading ramp retracted and the exterior door snapped shut as the pair filled the shuttle with their not-so-fragrant presence.
I had a pretty good view of the cockpit from my aisle seat. Fluff slipped my phase pistol into a bulkhead compartment along with an implement I didn’t recognize, then came back to make sure we were comfortable.
“Welcome aboard,” she said in barely understandable English. There was no misunderstanding the prod in her hand, though. She grabbed my chin and smiled. “We’ll be departing shortly. Please make sure your bindings are securely fastened.” She grabbed our wrists and clicked the bands closed another notch. “And bring your knees into a full, upright position.” A swift kick from that lovely, size-twenty boot got us into the proper position.
“I have some breath mints,” I said, trying not to gag at the stench of who-knows-what sliming my face. She definitely needed a visit to Dentists-R-Us. Failing that, maybe I could talk her into a deal of some kind. “Whatever they’re paying, we’ll double it.”
Fluff sneered, not a pretty sight. “Enjoy the flight—it’ll probably be your last.” She spun around, flipping snake braids in all directions, and returned to the cockpit as the shuttle left the ground with an ear-numbing rumble.
“Feels like the thrusters need adjusting,” I said to no one in particular. The acceleration pressed me tight to the floor for a moment; then we settled into a nice cruise.
Maybe now was the time to indulge in a little light conversation. I skipped the “what’s a nice girl” line and got straight to the point. “So, Doctor Findalot. Do you have any idea why we’re about to be sold into slavery?”
The doctor shrugged. “A few years ago I discovered a new cloning procedure. I’ve had one major success: my daughter Cari.”
“Doctor Fetchalot is a clone?”
“The Nausicaans claim there’s a transport ship out there, waiting to torture me into submission.”
“Sounds terrific.” I couldn’t tell what direction we were headed, but I knew one thing: Once the shuttle hooked up with the transport ship, escape would very likely be impossible. I glanced at Porthos and frowned. The beagle hadn’t moved a muscle since he’d been knocked silly.
“Porthos,” I whispered, glancing toward the cockpit. “You’re going to miss dinner.”
Porthos immediately rolled into a prone position and shook his head so hard his ears flapped against his cheeks. He struggled to his feet, flipped the latch on his cage open, and slipped out the door.
“Wait a minute. How did it manage to get out of the cage? It has no hands!”
Gotcha! Archer stifled a grin. “He is a consummate escape artist. I’m not doing him justice, though; it isn’t so much the fact he escaped. Double-O One had a flair for the dramatic. I’d swear he straightened his coat and winked as he stepped free of that cage.”
“Winked…?” Big Ears was flummoxed—a situation Archer thoroughly enjoyed.
“As I was saying…”
Porthos eased between a stack of crates and the bulkhead wall. My stomach did nervous butterfly things while we anxiously waited to see what he would do. He reappeared in the shadows near the engine-room door, clambered up a set of access rungs, shoved a vent open with his nose, and scrambled inside. All without making a sound.
At least not a sound loud enough to be heard over the burping engine.
“What is he up to?” I whispered.
“Double-O One has a few genetic enhancements that allow him to go places ordinary beagles dare not go.” Doctor Findalot grinned like a proud mother.
My pulse echoed in my ears at the sight of the cage door standing open. We’d lose a major advantage—maybe our only advantage—if they found Porthos missing. But I was helpless to do anything with my hands going numb behind my back, so I ignored the pond stench wafting off my soggy shirt and concentrated on the scraping noise overhead.
Porthos had worked his way into the ventilation system, and he wasn’t being quiet about it. Before I could deduce what my partner had in mind, a noxious odor swept through the shuttle. I pressed my nose tight to my shirt and tried not to breathe.
“Did you give Porthos cheese?” I detected a slight note of accusation in the doctor’s muffled words.
“I didn’t give him anything.” I thought about the empty cheese-burger wrapper. “Your daughter did.”
“Ugh.”
Up in the cockpit, the Nausicaans were being tortured. A lunghacking cough had Buff curled in a ball. Fluff wasn’t in much better shape. She’d pulled her collar up over her nose, but her color was pale—for a Nausicaan. She lashed out at Buff, her screeches echoing off the shuttle’s hull. I couldn’t understand a word she said, but Doctor Fetchalot thought it was something about dying.
I suggested to the good doctor that we take advantage of the distraction. We inched ourselves around back-to-back and worked on each other’s bonds.
The scratching overhead started, stopped, started again. Porthos was on the move.
Slowly the coughing and gagging subsided. Buff mumbled something about running a maintenance check on the ventilation system once they’d delivered their cargo. Fluff scratched her right arm—the arm that had carried Porthos into the shuttle—and growled something unintelligible.
“Looks like one of our fearless captors has a skin problem,” I said to Findalot.
“She probably activated Porthos’s nanoflea defense system. If he’s rendered unconscious, the fleas automatically head for the nearest warm-blooded body.”
Why did every inch of my skin not covered by mosquito bites or le
ech lesions suddenly start to itch? I pulled my feet close and studied the floor for tiny troops.
The vessel bucked and rolled, flinging Doctor Findalot and me against the wall.
“Maybe we ran into an asteroid belt,” I whispered in the doctor’s ear.
“Get off me before I give you a belt,” the doctor whispered back.
My hypothesis proved wrong a moment later when Buff appeared in the cockpit doorway, smoke trailing from the seat of his pants. The doctor and I held our collective breaths as the big Nausicaan stormed past, yanked open the engine-room door, and stepped inside.
We sagged back into a tangled lump: Buff hadn’t noticed the empty cage.
The shuttle lurched again, slamming the rear door shut. Porthos scrambled out of the air vent, tumbled to the floor, and disappeared behind the crates. A broomstick—an ancient Nausicaan weapon—fell across the engine-room door, lodging in the handle. After a moment of silence the door thumped.
It thumped again a few seconds later, louder this time. Then again and again until Fluffy slammed the control panel with both fists. I found myself introduced to all sorts of interesting Nausicaan curses as she staggered back to the engine room.
My breath stuck in my throat as Porthos dashed into the cockpit, shoved open a section beneath the control console, and proceeded to make a few adjustments. He ducked a few flying sparks and sizzling wires, snatched an object in his mouth, and raced out of the cockpit.
The stench of fried circuits reached my nose about the same time Porthos pressed something hard into my hand. He ducked into his cage as I curled my fingers around the cold metal. Fluff yanked the broom out of the handle and tore the rear door open, releasing Buff from his prison. Both aliens glared in our direction.
You’d have sworn Porthos was a newborn puppy, the way he stretched out in that cage, eyes closed in feigned innocence. Even I believed him.
A brilliant display of electric blues and reds erupted from the control panel. The Nausicaans thundered into the cockpit, kicking everything out of their path.
Tales from the Captain's Table Page 19