“Yeah, I know.”
From there it was smooth sailing. Broog crawled under one of the desks, stuck the device in place, clicked the little switch that activated it, and then crawled back out.
“That it?”
“That’s it.”
“Good,” Broog said. “Broog out.”
The feed went black.
Again, it was so hard finding good help.
Fortunately, that was sometimes exactly what one needed…less-than-solid help.
McCracken pulled up the Military Universal Computer Knowledgebase (MUCK) and entered in the name Trek Gibbons. He knew all about Trek’s past, including his two-bit detective skills and the fact that all of his books were written by a ghost author. That data wasn’t in the MUCK; that data came from the fact that Rebben Coolait was McCracken’s long-lost cousin.
It was almost time for Trek to give a little back to the society that had given him so much for being nothing more than a fraud.
McCracken would wait until first thing in the morning before he activated the device that Broog just planted. It would kill all communications on Quarn, except for the emergency devices that he had, of course. Then he would contact Trek and get him on board. Then he would call The Committee to an emergency session.
“It seems,” he said as he approached the window that looked out into the vastness of space, “that The Rebellion is about to begin.”
Looks Like the End
Morning must have arrived, because Trek awoke to the sound of a door unlocking.
He was stiff and sore and in desperate need of using the facilities. The office lights beamed on an instant later, reminding him that his headache had yet to vanish.
“Good morning, Trek,” Riggo said, sounding chipper. “I hope you had a fine evening.”
“It was swell,” Trek replied with a cringe. “How’d the anniversary go?”
“Surprisingly flawless. The tip about the diamonds was a thing of genius.”
“Glad I could help,” Trek said. “Say, I don’t suppose you’d mind if I used the can before you kill me?”
Riggo chuckled and motioned toward the henchmen. “Take off his shackles while you’re at it. He’s not going anywhere and I’ve never been a fan of killing a man while he’s tied up. There’s just no dignity in that.”
“You’re all heart, Riggo,” Trek said as the restraints snapped off, bringing some life back into his tingling extremities. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a hit of Soothe I could take? You know, to calm the nerves before the…well, finality of things.”
Riggo flicked his hand at a henchman, who pulled out a thin wafer and handed it to Trek.
The Soothe continued to dissolve slowly in his mouth a few minutes later as he did his morning business. It brought that familiar calm that had gotten him into this trouble in the first place. His friend—only friend—Herb, had said that Soothe would one day be the death of him. Trek knew that was true, but he just didn’t think it would be so soon and he never anticipated it would be due to him not paying back a loan shark.
As he sat there, he thought of ways out of this mess. There had to be something. Of course, taking a hit of Soothe wasn’t the brightest thing a man could do when attempting to go into survival mode. Too late now.
That’s the way it is with you, Trek, he thought as he stepped out of the stall and began the walk back. Always looking for the quick buck, the easy ride. Well, all rides come to an end at some point and yours is about there.
Trek returned to his death chair and looked across at Riggo.
“Any last words?” asked the RiffRaff boss.
“Um…don’t kill me?”
“You disappoint me, Trek,” said Riggo with a sigh. “I’ve read all of your books, more than once, and they were always full of creativity, deep thoughts, and dramatic interludes that transcended the average author. Yet, when we meet, you seem like a bit of an idiot.”
Trek considered spilling the beans. Maybe if he told the truth regarding Rebben Coolait being the real author of the books, Riggo would take pity on him and let him go.
That was the Soothe talking.
“Well,” Trek said as he cracked his neck from side-to-side, “I guess I’m just better when I have time to plot and write. What you see in my books is not the first draft, after all.”
“Fair enough, fair enough,” Riggo said. “I guess we should just get on with this, then.”
He lifted the Neutron 1100 and lowered it again as Trek’s datapad chimed.
Incoming call from Monty McCracken, Supreme Commander of the Gordo Galaxy military.
Riggo looked genuinely impressed. “You know McCracken?”
Trek didn’t, but he desperately wanted to at this moment. He shrugged like it was no big deal. “Should probably answer it. He’s the type that expects quick responses or he starts looking into things.”
“Hmmm,” Riggo said as one of the henchmen handed the pad over to Riggo. “No funny business, Trek,” he warned.
“Or what, you’ll kill me?”
“I’ll make it hurt.”
“Got it,” Trek said.
Riggo pressed the button.
“Uh, hello?”
Trek Gibbons? said the voice through the speaker phone. This is Monty McCracken, Supreme Commander of the Gordo Galaxy.
Riggo grimaced at Trek, clearly getting that Trek really didn’t know the commander after all.
“Yes?” Trek said, ignoring Riggo’s sneer.
I have a job for you.
“A job?”
We’re setting up a new investigative division on Space Station Quarn and I want you to run it.
“That sounds nice,” Trek said. “It’s been a while since I’ve headed up any investigations. Kind of miss it, truth be told. But right now may not be the best time. You see—”
If it’s about the pay, I assure you that you’ll be well taken care of.
“No, that’s not it…well, actually, how much are we talking?”
It’s negotiable. First we get you here and then we’ll worry about that.
“I see,” and then he mouthed at Riggo that he could now pay him back. Riggo lifted the gun again and shook his head. Trek sighed. “Well, Commander McCracken, I guess money’s not enough to solve this problem. You see, I’m about at the end of my journey with life at the moment.”
What?
“He’s about to die,” Riggo interjected.
Who is this?
“Name doesn’t matter,” Riggo replied. “What matters is that Trek Gibbons owes me a lot of money and he’s got this problem with paying it.”
I see. There was a long pause and then, You must be Riggo Peschalk.
Riggo shifted uneasily and blinked a few times.
How much does he owe you?
“Just over 100.”
Gold? That’s easy.
“Platinum.”
Not so easy.
“Exactly.”
I’m sure that you want to just do away with Mr. Gibbons, but at the end of the day business is business, is it not?
“I’m listening,” Riggo said.
We need him to help solve some issues we’ve been having. If you’ve read anything about him you know his ability to solve…things.
“I’ve read all of his books.”
Hmmm…right. Well, anyway, what will it take to release him to me?
“Dead or alive?”
He does me no good if he’s dead.
“I can’t imagine he’ll do you much good alive either,” said Riggo. “He’s got habits, you know.”
We all have our habits, Mr. Peschalk. What’s it going to take?
“Double what he owes.”
That’s a bit unfair, don’t you think?
“After the troubles he’s caused me? No, not really.”
Double is out of the question; but I’m a reasonable man, so I’ll make a deal with you. You turn over Trek Gibbons to me and I’ll pay your one hundred platinum plus an additional t
wenty-five platinum if he completes the job I have for him to my satisfaction.
“That’s not double.”
The alternative is that you’ll get nothing from me except an investigation into the death of Mr. Gibbons. I assure you it will be rather drawn out and extremely thorough, even to the point of bringing in a Class-A Probe Squad.
“You wouldn’t,” Riggo said, looking somewhat pale.
I guarantee you that I would.
Trek was shocked. Why would the leader of the largest-known military force in the universe be interested in him? And why to the point of paying 125 platinum and threatening one of the strongest organized crime bosses this side of Kargoot?
“You leave me little choice,” Riggo said.
Oh, you have a choice, Mr. Peschalk. One hundred and twenty platinum or a deep, probing investigation. But I’ll make this even sweeter. If our dear Mr. Gibbons fails to deliver what I need out of him, I’ll still pay seventy-five platinum to you. Then I’ll release him from my employ and will send you notification of his renewed availability for your purposes. This means that you’ll lose only twenty-five platinum instead of one hundred and you’ll still get the satisfaction of dismantling Mr. Gibbons however you see fit.
“What?” asked Trek, sitting up.
I see you’ve found your voice again, Mr. Gibbons. Yes, do be aware that I’m expecting the best out of you. If you succeed then you may well find yourself in a lucrative career. If not, well, I think we’ve already detailed what that will mean.
“Oh.”
Do we have a deal, Mr. Peschalk?
Riggo was all teeth. “I believe that we do.”
Splendid. I shall expect to see you on Quarn soon, Mr. Gibbons.
The Committee
Two days later, The Committee had called a special session to discuss the communications sabotage.
It would have occurred sooner, but many Committee members were otherwise engaged.
They were vacationing.
McCracken took a bit of pride in the fact that he had interrupted everyone’s leisure, especially since The Committee’s most notable work surrounded documenting best practices when seeking out leisurely activities.
Of course, McCracken also had left them all hanging out to dry for a couple of days by making sure that the communications system stayed offline.
Committee member Beng, the chair of the Chebble world—a little offshoot planet that barely made it into the Gordo Galaxy’s upper echelon in the first place, due to a lack of proper documentation—had been chirping that he was not pleased with his inability to look up nudey pictures. This was a big deal since Chebbles were always either looking at nudey pictures, taking nudey pictures, or taking part in a nudey picture. It was their industry, after all. How a bunch of short-legged, long-armed, pink-skinned, hairless, three-eyed creatures could be considered sexy was anybody’s guess. Aside from the Chebbles, most races found the entire ordeal dastardly and disgusting. Chebble-based pornography, that is. Standard pornography was thoroughly accepted by everyone, except the aforementioned Chebbles, who preferred only their own brand.
McCracken waited for everyone to file in and take their seats. This always took a while because they had a tendency to engage in copious amounts of small talk. Anyone standing outside of the room would undoubtedly hear the murmur of voices and assume work was being done; anyone standing inside the room for more than 10 seconds would recognize that those outside the room were mistaken.
Clayzon, the tall, frail, disturbingly red leader, stepped past McCracken without so much as a nod. McCracken didn’t mind. In fact, if there was any one person on The Committee that was worthy of a little respect, it would be Clayzon. As with all Yopperians, she was tough and intelligent. She was almost capable of focusing on issues. Where she swayed was if someone flirted with her. Yopperians weren’t known for having a lot of physical self-confidence, so a bit of proper attention could turn your average hard-nosed Yop into a slobbering mess.
Nebby, the Velcrian delegate, was the next to cross in front of McCracken. To say that Nebby was short would be understating the fact. All Velcrians were small, running about shoulder-high to your average human, but Nebby was smaller still. He stood just above McCracken’s waist. What Velcrians lacked in height they made up for in confidence. As was the norm for Nebby, he looked up at McCracken, grimaced, shook his head and grumbled something, and then walked up to his seat. Nebby did this every time McCracken attended these meetings. The first few times, he’d felt like picking up the little green-haired creep and throwing him at a wall, but McCracken didn’t rise to the position of Supreme Commander by overreacting to trivial things.
“Let’s come to order,” Clayzon said above the din.
Everyone took their seats and looked at the chairperson.
“As we all know,” she began, “there was a disruption in the communications hub on our home station.” Conversation picked up again, but Clayzon raised her voice and looked at McCracken. “Supreme Commander McCracken, what have you learned regarding this travesty?”
“Ma’am,” McCracken said, keeping his hands gripped firmly behind his back, “we have yet to find those who are specifically involved, but we do have some intelligence that points to an underground movement that calls itself The Rebellion.”
A wave of concern washed over the faces of the delegation.
McCracken had to withhold an evil grin. These mindless fools loved drama. He counted on it to be their undoing.
“What do we know of this Rebellion?” Clayzon asked, after the chatter minimized.
“Nothing as yet, ma’am.”
“Is it not your job to solve these types of crimes, Commander?” asked Megna, the Awkian delegate.
McCracken turned to face Megna, an action that was always wise since Awkians had a long history of stabbing people in the back with their long, pointy talons. McCracken never could get used to their kind. There was just something about the cyan skin and the six tiny black eyes that had always concerned him.
“Actually, sir,” McCracken stated, “it is not.”
“It’s not?” Beng blurted.
“No, sir,” McCracken replied to the Chebble delegate. “My job is to protect the Gordo Galaxy from outside influences. This, sir, is the work of an internal group.”
“Oh,” Beng said and then turned toward Megna and added, “It’s an internal group thing, Megna.”
“Yes, Beng, I heard.”
There was no love lost between the Chebbles and Awkians. According to historical documents, the two planets had gone to war more than 20 times over the last 200 years.
“I believe this would be a job for Internal Security, no?” said McCracken. He knew that Captain Broog and the rest of the I.S. department were a bunch of fools.
“Yes,” answered Clayzon for the group. “So far, though, they haven’t been able to uncover anything. We were hoping that you may be able to provide some insights.”
“Such as?”
“Well, would you have any idea how to stop another attack?” Clayzon asked.
“No, ma’am.”
“It could have been an isolated incident,” Nebby said, sounding hopeful.
“I don’t believe so, sir,” McCracken replied. “Whoever did this went through a lot of risk to get it done. To believe that they’re going to stop at a simple interruption of communications would be foolhardy.”
“Then what do we do?” Beng asked.
“That, I believe, is the question on the table,” Megna said, shaking his head at Beng.
“That’s why I asked it,” Beng said, frowning.
“No, I mean—”
Nebby jumped from his seat, though this only appeared to make him look shorter. “I think we need to consult with GOD!”
McCracken allowed himself a little groan. Of course they would want to consult with their beloved GOD.
“Madam,” McCracken said, exasperatedly, “we should really stay focused on the matter at hand.”
; “We are all aware of your lack of faith in GOD, Supreme Commander McCracken,” Nebby said, peering just above the table. “If you would just let yourself open up a little, you would find that he’s really quite awesome.”
“I do believe in God,” McCracken corrected him. “I just don’t believe in GOD.”
“I don’t understand the distinction,” Beng said.
“My God only has one capital letter in his name.”
“Oh,” Beng said, blinking. “Then our GOD is better. He got the rights to use all capital letters. You should consider upgrading.”
McCracken took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Anyway, my point is that we need to focus on real solutions, not on otherworldly ventures.”
“I vote we call GOD,” Nebby said, defiantly crossing his arms.
“Seconded,” Beng said.
“I would have to agree,” agreed Megna.
“The Committee has spoken,” Clayzon stated as she reached across the podium to the datapad that sat on its edge.
McCracken wanted to pull out his blaster and put an end to all of this in a blaze of glory. How this group of utter idiots could run an entire planetary federation was unfathomable. It had to be stopped, and he had to stop it.
He forced himself to calm down. It was only a matter of days until he would do just that, too, assuming everything ran to schedule.
The speakers in the room squeaked momentarily and then a repeating tone sounded until the person on the other side of the connection, presumably GOD, picked up the call.
Claybaby, said GOD, what’s swinging?
Clayzon began to turn even redder than normal as she smiled, blinked a lot, and fanned herself with one of her hands.
“Hello, GOD,” she said in a voice that was somewhat more sultry than the one she’d been using during the normal meeting. “I do hope we’re not interrupting anything important?”
What’s to interrupt? I got nothing going on. Just sitting up here checking vids, reading the news, and chilling out.
McCracken clenched his teeth. What kind of god would have nothing going on? Wasn’t there enough suffering in all of the worlds to warrant a bit of interest? And what kind of god is available only by datapad anyway?
The Rebellion Hyperbole (The Adventures of Trek Gibbons Book 1) Page 2