by Tom Shepherd
“First a bump, then a rattle?” When Tyler and J.B. took possession of the PH at the Sedalia shipyards on their way to the Rim Worlds, Paco bragged their ship was unmatched at FTL or sublight. That was before the encounter at Alpha Gate, from which they barely escaped. Tyler had no idea how many of its nine lives the wounded, flying cathouse still clutched within its golden hull.
“We should be okay for entry and touch down, correct?” J.B. said.
“For landing?” Paco said. “Yeah, sure. But I’m holding my breath until the Henry reaches a maintenance bay.”
Lieutenant Arabella said, “Captain, we’re approaching standard orbit. Multiple ships rising from the atmosphere, closing fast.”
“Welcoming committee,” Tyler said. “Let’s talk with our Quirt-Thymean allies.”
“Incoming transmission, audio only,” Rosalie said. “It’s in Terran standard, so they’re probably using a translation buffer.”
“Suzie, can we—”
“Already set up, luv.” Suzie rotated her seat. “They’ll hear you in upper caste Pharmaadoodil.”
“Rosalie, monitor in case I fuck it up.”
His sister groaned. “Tyler! You’re transmitting.”
“Oops. Explain it to them.”
“Me?”
“Hey, you’re the exo-anthropologist.”
She took a breath and spent a long moment chattering in the Polynesian-Dutch sounds of the main Quirt-Thyme language. Suzie, who had access to every language in the data base, covered her mouth to suppress laughter. Finally, both women turned to Tyler and pointed.
“Ahoy, Quirt-Thymean friends!” He tried to sound chipper. Always a good policy when you’ve begun by making a complete ass of yourself. “We are a Terran legal services ship, requesting clearance to the maintenance starport closest to your capital city.”
“This is the Imperial Planetary Guard. Are you the cleverly flown, most beautifully famous starship Patrick Henry?”
“Well, I don’t know about famous—”
“Do I have the honor of speaking to the Tyler Matthews of the most noble and heroic Matthews family?”
“Heroic? Not really. But I am Tyler Noah Matthews the Fourth.”
“You are heroes of the Quirt Thyme Empire, sir. It is a joyful and advantageous day. Your fleet destroyed the pirate league, and our shipping sails unmolested. We cannot thank you enough.”
“You are very gracious, but my mother commanded the fleet. And Quirt-Thymean forces made the victory possible. Now, about landing—”
“That is quite impossible.”
Tyler frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“We prefer if you make port at our Imperial Hub, where we can provide many, many happy resources at the Station on this most auspicious day. The Festival of Toorlazimbaa begins tonight. You will enjoy all ten days quite enjoyably. So, pretty please, dock at the Diplomatic Quad?”
“Pretty please?” J.B. mouthed silently.
Tyler muted the channel. “Rosalie, what the hell is Toorla—I can’t pronounce it.”
“Toorlazimbaa. It means Harvest and Harmony Festival. Ten days and nights. Sex and food. Lots.”
Tyler unmuted the comm. “Happy Toorlabamba, guys. But we gotta proceed to the surface.”
“Are you certain?” the Planetary Guardsman said. “You decline food and sex and a berth on our wonderful orbital station?”
“Duty calls,” Tyler said.
“Most regrettable. Kindly raise your shields.”
“Uh…why?” Tyler was losing patience with QT ambiguity.
“You will be much happier if you gently raise them, my dear friend and closest ally Tyler Matthews.”
“Again…why?”
“So we do not kill you when we open fire.”
“What?”
J.B.’s hands reflexively went to the control panel but did not punch the alert square. Tyler held up a finger and spoke to the QT commander again. “Why would you shoot at us”
“You are here, as our guests, to defend Sub-Prince Zenna-Zenn for regicide, correct?”
“Yes, but—”
“That is a most grievous capital offense.”
“Regicide?”
“Yes,” the Imperial Guardsman said. “And defending a regicide. Firing now.”
Yellow streaks from the laser cannon of half a dozen patrol ships bracketed the Patrick Henry. Without waiting for the order, J.B. hit the alert claxon to proclaim the ship under attack.
“Suzie! Shields, evasive maneuvers,” Tyler shouted.
His bio-energetic fiancé disappeared to take command of ship’s functions from within the Main Library Computer. The Henry carried no weaponry, but her speed and maneuverability was unmatched. With Suzie flying the ship, that would ordinarily be enough. But the thrusters had a rattle…
Tyler stabbed the comm square. “Engine room—Paco, I need light-plus, now!”
“FTL engines are offline,” Chief León reported.
“We just flew here at max FTL, Chief,” Tyler said. “Eleven days without dropping to black.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong!” Paco cried. “Rodney’s crawling into an access tube with a diagnostic kit.”
Suzie’s Neo-British voice filled the bridge. “We’re down to seven percent sublight capacity.
“Shield status?”
Soon as she had raised shields, the QT cannonade targeted the weaponless Terran ship. Blasts of light ignited the Henry’s screens and tossed the ship hard to port, aligning the vessel with an escape vector to the Imperial Hub.
“All screens holding. Those blue plonkers keep hitting us with low-level thermic bursts.”
“Give me all the thrust you’ve got,” Tyler said. “Arabella, I’m taking the helm.”
“You have the helm, sir,” she repeated the transfer protocol and released control to the Captain’s station.
“More power, Suzie. Best speed to the Hub. Brake at the last second.”
“Got it, Ty.”
Suzie pushed the straining sublight engines to max, then deployed braking thrusters and downshifted to docking speed. Inertial dampeners held them motionless inside the ship while countervailing principles, discovered by Albert Einstein and Tanella Jennings, battled each other to a standoff outside the Henry.
“Heading for an open bay,” Tyler said. “They won’t risk hitting their orbital shopping center.”
“They aren’t pursuing,” J.B. said.
“Arabella, take the helm. Get us to a docking bay.”
“Aye, sir. I have the helm.”
Tyler’s comm buzzed. It was Rodney Rooney. His fuzzy red hair dominated the smallish viewscreen designed for intra-ship communications. “Sir, I just spot-checked both FTL drive packages. All systems are working flawlessly.”
“So, what happened, Lieutenant?” Tyler said.
“I don’t know, sir,” Rodney said.
“I know,” J.B. said. “The Quirts tossed an ECM blanket over nearby space and froze our engines.”
“Okay, if you know, how do you know?” Tyler said, wide-eyed.
“I read Mom’s After Action Report. They pulled the same trick on Flávio Tavares’ pirate fleet at the Alpha Gate.”
“Wowzers. That’s some advanced technology,” Rodney said from the engine room. “Do you think we could get a copy of the specs?”
Tyler muted the comm. “Lieutenant Arabella, control your pet.” Wowzers? For a complete fool, Rodney was a surprisingly brilliant starship engineer. He was also painfully young and madly in love with the Lebanese beauty.
“I’m flying the ship, sir.” Arabella kept eyes on the instruments. “I’ll deal with that idiot later.”
“Freezing FTL engines. Where did Indigo’s people get a device so technologically advanced?” Tyler wondered.
“They became a spacefaring Empire before the Egyptians built the Sphinx,” Rosalie said. Lucy hopped into her lap and purred.
Tyler reopened the comm to his engineering bay. “Rodney, forget
the new tech for now. That Orbital Hub has tons of maintenance facilities. Do a triage on the ship. Get me a prioritized list of repairs.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Bridge out.” Tyler leaned back in his command chair, hoping Lucy wouldn’t morph into a Bengal tiger in the face of imminent danger. The Hub loomed larger in the viewports. “So, what’s their game here?”
“I’m monitoring ship-to-ship chatter,” Rosalie said. “The Quirts definitely wanted us to escape their ambush.”
“Right into their orbiting corral,” Tyler said.
“Where you can eat and play and talk in safety,” Rosalie said.
“Hey, until we get some answers, this friendly alliance bullshit is over.” Tyler linked with his fiancé. “Suzie, I’ve restored helm control to Arabella. You can return to the bridge.”
She reappeared at her research station. Tyler shook his head. Suzie’s bio-energetic circus trick still felt like half science, half magic, to him.
“You called it, Ty,” Rosalie said. “Station Flight Control is directing us to a maintenance hangar. Upper level of the pod starboard of the hub. They’ll tractor us to touchdown when we cross the energy grid.”
“I’m not feeling a lot of love from our blue buddies right now,” Tyler said.
“We better comply, or Mr. Blue goes to trial without counsel,” J.B. said. “Although it sounds like they’ve already convicted and sentenced him.”
“Forwarding the approach algorithm to the helm,” Suzie said.
Tyler called to Arabella in the nose section. “Steep entry, Lieutenant. You got it?”
“Yes, sir. Approaching force field barrier.””
“Just glide through their containment shield,” J.B. said. “Flight Control will take it from there.”
In a few minutes the Patrick Henry hovered over a pad that rotated to point the ship down a row of empty stalls. Apparently, the parking spaces adjusted to fit the exact size of an incoming vessel. Hangar crews scuttled from safety positions and swarmed around the ship’s periphery, ready to secure the Henry to the deck once the tractor beam released. Soldiers in body armor and helmets waited in the distance.
“We need to disembark, but those troops might try to arrest us,” Tyler said. “What do you think, Bro—weapons?”
“We’re beyond that. They could’ve killed us in space.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking, too.” He smiled at Rosalie. “Charm offensive?”
“We might survive, if you let me do the talking,” she said briskly. “If not, I always carry—”
“No weapons. Come on, let me see them.”
Rosalie sighed, rolled up her jumpsuit legs, and removed a small hand weapon from a holster at each ankle. She placed the kinetic blasters beside her work station.
“Are you packing anything else?” Tyler said.
She smiled coyly. “Only my dimpled grin.”
“The cat stays aboard,” J.B. said.
Rosalie started to protest. “Lucy is—”
“Another loaded weapon,” Tyler said. “The last thing we need is your little buddy morphing into a G’narvian sabretooth because she thinks you’re in danger.”
Rosalie sighed. “Okay, okay. She stays.”
Tyler touched a comm key. “Demarcus, I need you to provide light security for the Recon Team. Sidearm only.”
“Sir, I’m looking in my monitor at dozens of troops in body armor. How do I provide ‘light security’ if you’re planning to walk into that firing squad?”
“Be physically imposing, Inspector.” Tyler closed the link. “Suzie, you are in command.”
She saluted her fiancé. “Sir, yes, sir!”
“What about Julieta?” Rosalie said. “She’s fluent in—”
“Just you,” Tyler said.
J.B. stood and stretched. “I hope they have good biofilters. We won’t have time for a proper decon.”
Tyler laughed. “When did we ever let Dad’s safety protocols stand in our way?”
“I’m serious, Ty,” his elder brother said. “I don’t want to catch anything, or kill the population with a dormant viral agent in my bloodstream.”
The Recon Team gathered by the exit hatch in the lower cargo bay. Julieta and Esteban Solorio, first cousins to the Matthews siblings, showed up uninvited to make their case for joining the expedition. Dark-haired and shapely, Julieta was a medical doctor who shared Rosalie’s training in the dispatcher’s art. Her pensive brother, Esteban, read emotions and had the ability to follow a psychic scent backward in time. Tyler thanked them, but asked both to stay aboard. I don’t need another professional killer and her psionic brother roaming a hostile environment.
Tyler’s hand went to the hatch release but stopped abruptly as his datacom buzzed. It was the bridge.
“Wait, Ty!” Suzie said. “Those Quirt-Thymeans in full body armor are forming a gauntlet at the exit hatches on both sides of the ship. I don’t think they’ve come for tea.”
Tyler’s datacom showed them clearly. Dark gray and sienna body armor. Each soldier—male female—carried what appeared to be a heavy rifle blaster.
Tyler spat. “Shit.”
Rosalie pointed at the arms locker. “Let me get—”
“Stay put. I’m not into suicide.”
“But, Ty—”
“Recon Team, remember? No weapons.” He raised a hand at Chief of Security Demarcus Platte, who was removing his sidearms. “Keep yours, Inspector.”
“I’m a better shot,” Rosalie said.
“We’ll try your other skill set. Diplomacy.”
Rosalie snorted. “Your last Recon Team ended in a colossal firefight on Adao-2.”
“Think positively.” Tyler took a deep breath, lowered the ramp, and waited for Demarcus to secure their deck access. Tyler smiled grimly. “Let’s see how joyful and advantageous this day really is.”
Two
Demarcus Platte strolled down the Patrick Henry gangway and sprang onto the hangar deck. He crossed thick black arms and sneered at the phalanx of helmeted troops in full-body protection who had wrapped around the ship. Platte’s muscles bulged along half-rolled sleeves, and his broad shoulders stretched the Matthews Company jumpsuit menacingly. He carried two heavy blasters on his hips but made no threatening moves.
Tyler had told him, “Stand there and perform your best ‘I’m a bad mother-fucker’ impersonation.” Which wasn’t hard for Demarcus, because he was a bad mother-fucker. And a brilliant detective, too.
Next came lanky, blond Tyler, the younger brother, head-and-shoulders taller than dark-haired, burly Jeremiah Berechiah Matthews, firstborn of their generation. Red-fox Rosalie sauntered down the ramp behind them, wearing her sunniest smile. It always amazed Tyler how Baby Sis—diplomat, linguist, total sweetheart—could warm an ectothermic alien and turn a predator into a pussycat. She made new friends everywhere they went. Unless she was dropping by for a cozy, midnight murder.
As soon as Tyler and J.B. confirmed her alter-ego as Daddy’s little dispatcher, they issued an immediate cease and desist order as an absolute condition of employment in the new Matthews Family spin-off business, Star Lawyers. Rosalie reluctantly agreed, and the brothers demanded the same contract with cousin Dr. Julieta Solorio, who specialized in acquiring medical technology for M-double-I. On a number of occasions, when required by Tyler’s father, Julieta stepped beyond the “do no harm” rule of her profession to become Rosalie’s associate dispatcher.
Although scandalized by the secret vocations of sister Rosalie and cousin Julieta, Tyler and J.B. had benefited from their fearsome accuracy in more than one violent clash with bad guys during their recent mission to the Suryadivan Sacred Protectorate. Damned if you do; dead if you don’t.
The Recon Team halted at the foot of the ramp, guarded by Inspector Platte, who rose from the hangar deck like an ebony obelisk. In the distance transports shuttled workers and passengers past rows of parked starships. No signs of battle damage appeared on the nearer vessel
s. So far, so good.
Tyler patted Demarcus on the shoulder and the Security Chief moved aside, allowing Tyler direct access to the soldiers. And vice-versa.
“Rosalie?” he called without turning his head. “Translate, please?”
“Go.” She tapped an activation unit in her jumpsuit’s waistband. Everything she said would be heard clearly by anyone within a hundred meters.
“My name is Tyler Matthews, and I’m here by request of Captain Gertzel—Rosalie, give them her short-form name. And Mr. Blue.”
She offered both alien monikers in perfect Pharmaadoodil. Like a manual-of-arms movement on the parade grounds, the soldiers raised their weapons in one smooth motion. Hundreds of barrels aimed at Tyler’s head.
“Sis, are you sure you didn’t tell them to kiss my ass?”
A loud yelp broke above the armed force. Tyler flinched, and they fired. Blazing colors washed the four humans.
Platte drew his blasters, but Tyler shouted. “Stand down, Inspector!”
Tyler felt no impact save a light breeze brushing his cheeks. Behind and around them, other uniformed troops hosed the Patrick Henry with orange, yellow, and blue clouds of pressurized light.
Damn. They ain’t military, they’re deck crew! It’s a decon spray. He blew out a huge sigh of relief. The workers finished quickly and opened their visors. Some removed helmets entirely.
“Rosalie, tell them, ‘Thank you for debugging our ship and personnel.’ And ask when the next mealtime begins. We would be honored to join them for good-good food.”
She translated his message, and smiles broke out among the decon workers. At a signal from the group leader, the deck crew shouted, “Toorlazimbaa!”
Rosalie kissed her brother’s cheek. “You’ve been reading my briefing files.”
“Just remembering Indigo.”
QT life centered around mealtimes. They ate six times a day, plus snacks and beverages at all hours. Their metabolism required it. Tyler wondered if they were related to the tree-dwelling blue apes who foraged continuously in the double canopy of the Tleone homeworld where the explorer Brian Brightstar grew up.
Two young Quirt-Thymeans, male and female, asked Rosalie a question. She spun three fingers in the air and told Demarcus to let them come forward. He moved aside, but kept a hand on his sidearm. The young QTs bowed to Tyler, removed protective gloves, and gently touched his arms with blue fingers.