“I’m Mr. Skeem, Director of Interplanetary.” He advanced wearing an aura of vast congeniality that somehow seemed sinister on his vaguely reptilian face. “I’m so glad Dr. Marina was able to locate you for our little journey.”
Risole had never much liked Madons. It was said if you get in a turbolift with one it was wise to move your wallet from the back pocket to the front. Taking in the duo before him he decided he liked them even less. “Yeah, I suppose the makes two of us. Or three.” He eyed Skeem’s companion.
“Oh, let me introduce Mr. Skoff, my assistant and pilot.”
“Stgfrijh eb shyebf.” Skoff’s lizard face remained impassive.
“As you can see, Mr. Skoff is not familiar with Terran.”
This was not good. “Really? A starship pilot that can’t speak Terran?” he asked, acidly. “Any idea how he can communicate with the Interworld Controllers?”
“Are you a pilot, Mr. Risole?”
“Matter of fact, yes, although my Class V license has expired—”
“Then I think Mr. Skoff will do quite well,” said Skeem, slamming the door on further discussion. The amphibian smile ratcheted up a notch. “Are you planning on returning to Kloak after the plague has ended?”
“Huh?”
“Madon Interplanetary Realty has just acquired a starship repair facility. We could offer you any number of subprime loans, zero percent interest the first thirty cycles, compounded on the descending lateral index featuring an attractive hourly interest recalibration,” he declared, rubbing his hands together. Risole was reminded of a hungry fly.
“Mr. Skeem,” he said with a sigh, “I wouldn’t drag my sorry ass back here if all the honeys on Radnor’s Pleasure Asteroid arrived, passing out all the free beer I could swill.” He looped the toolbelt over his shoulder. “Wanna take me around to your problem child so I can get my mitts into it?”
~*~
It was like making love to an amorous woman. Knowing which place to caress, moving into position, finding the right level of touch. Timephase engineering wasn’t just tech manuals and computer diagnostics. It was more of an instinct, acquired over years of experience. What worked and where. Risole slid a memory disc into place and was rewarded by a line of green lights and a contented hum. He allowed himself a satisfied grunt, leaned back against a bulkhead and pulled out a cigar.
“Excuse me, but I could smell that all the way from my cabin.” Dr. Marina crossed her arms before him, exuding disapproval like spines. The lab coat had been replaced by a sleek jumpsuit that snugged her curves nicely. “And where did you get that thing? I thought tobacco was illegal?”
He leisurely blew a cloud at the ceiling. “I have my sources.” He was somehow becoming fond of pulling her chain. “Haven’t you heard the old expression, a good cigar to a man is like a good cry to a woman?”
She looked ready to unload for a moment but settled for a toxic glare. “Mr. Skeem would like an update on the repairs I might assume you’re working on.”
He nodded agreeably. “The repairs are done.”
“Thank you. I’ll pass that information to him right now.”
“Speaking of information…”
She paused, half turned and eyed him. “Yes?”
“You haven’t mentioned to me how we’re gonna get this ship off the planet without an evacuation permit,” he said. “It’s kind of been on my mind since I found out how painful it is to be vaporized by the quarantine fleet.”
She seemed to ponder an answer in some private space of her being. “Very well. I’m treating the wife of Ghak, the Kloakan High Counselor. She has the plague. He’s willing to allow us to slip away from Kloak on the chance my research material reaching Earth can save her. Happy now?” She favored him with a pale smile and headed up the corridor.
Risole frowned to himself. Things were starting to look a little flaky around the edges. There was a big picture somewhere and they were letting him take little peeks at it. There was a lot going on he didn’t know. And that was starting to worry him.
~*~
The hatch cover atop the silo grated open raining dust and night shadows on the ship squatting below. Inside the command deck Risole eased himself into his seat and watched Skoff key in the liftoff sequence. Dr. Marina was gazing absent-mindedly at the forward viewscreen while Skeem lounged next to Skoff with his customary ‘lizard that ate the canary’ expression.
“You sure your little friend won’t need a tiny bit of help with this thing?” Risole asked.
The smirk remained fixed. “Oh, Mr. Skoff is doing just splendid. He’s made the trip from Madon to Kloak quite a few times with only a few mishaps.”
“Only a few mishaps?”
“Well, I feel entitled to point out any pilot can end up in the wrong star system from time to time.”
“Soirnvtht bgeui en brbht.” Skoff nodded to Skeem.
“He says he’s ready for liftoff.”
Risole was slammed into the plushness of his seat as the shuttle vomited skywards. He caught a glimpse of city lights strung out like bright scattered beads before vanishing into the smog blanket. They climbed steadily, the pressure of liftoff easing.
A buzzer sounded in the cabin. Dr. Marina pulled a comm disk from a pocket and held it to her ear. “Yes, this is Dr. Marina. From whom? She did what? When?” Her face paled. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Councilor. But she was quite…hello? Hello?” She looked from Skeem to Risole. “That was Ghak from the Kloakan High Council. His wife just died from the plague.”
A red lightbar came to life above the main control board. “This is Blockade Control contacting Madon Interplanetary Realty shuttle,” a metallic voice blared. “Your evacuation permit has been revoked. Return to launchport at once.”
“Damn!” Risole felt his protoflesh testicles retract. “There goes the plan, Doc. We gotta abort!”
Dr. Marina bit her lower lip. “We can’t go back now. We’ll never get a second chance in time.” She looked at Skeem. “Tell Skoff to engage timephase.”
“You’re totally cycled!” Risole clawed himself up. “There’s a good chance we’ll burn up this deep in the atmosphere!”
“This is Blockade Control to unauthorized shuttle. You are hereby ordered vaporized under quarantine directive sixty-five—”
“Timephase engaged.”
“Not yet! Not y—”
~*~
“Ah, here it is. Risole, Jay. Corporal in the 12th Support Unit, Terran Army. Body terminally wounded in the invasion of T’loplasia.” Bovus took a long pull from his flask and belched reflectively. “What’s the storage date on the casket tag, Pete? Can’t make it out.”
Pete brushed his glove over the dusty plate and squinted in the gloom. “Brain pattern transfer to cybernetic andrex, Zarday 9, 80-16A. Yep, he’s long gone and what’s left is overdue for disposal.”
“End of the line for the mortal remains of poor old Jay Risole. Out with the old and in with the new, eh, Pete?”
They deftly slid the stasis tube onto a cart and began rolling it up the aisle, past long rows of the frozen.
Inside the tube Risole felt the vibration of wheels and caught the outline of a gloved hand against the plexiglass. His arms were icicles by his sides, his tongue a frozen strip of meat holding back the scream. Red heat bathed his feet and the maw of the oven yawned to receive him.
“And into the astral toilet for old Corporal Risole,” Bovus sniggered and shoved the tube down the ramp toward the plasma vortex.
“Risole?” The bellow of an ion furnace became a husky feminine voice. His eyes opened to the ceiling of his cabin. To his right was the viewport, white with drifting stars. A hand moved over his forehead with a soft cool touch. Dark eyes moved into his vision.
“Are you quite back with us, Mr. Risole?” Dr. Marina asked. “You’ve been out for over an hour.”
Risole blinked. His head hammered away the anvil chorus. “Yeah, just terrific.” He eased himself to a sitting position on the bed. “A
ndrexes are as tough as hell but they can’t take too much timephase shock. I take it we’re all in one piece.”
“Mr. Skeem says there’s some hull damage and we lost the port qualifiers, whatever that is.”
He rubbed his eyes. “Serious hull damage would have shut down the engines. But we’ll need those qualifiers for landing. I’ll check it out.”
“Well, since you’re obviously going to live, I’ll get back to the command deck and see about our arrival time.” She smoothed the seat of her jumpsuit and eyed a pile of cases on the cabin table. “What’s all that?”
“My luggage, dear.”
“That’s not luggage, those are cases of beer!” Sparks seemed to radiate from behind the antique glasses to the ends of her pageboy hair. “Have you any idea of all the files and priority equipment we were forced to leave behind on Kloak? Five cases of beer!”
Risole messaged a knot in his neck. “Look Doc, in your luggage you have makeup, shoes, clothes and undies, I hope from Victoria’s Secret. I have beer.”
It looked for a moment that she was contemplating slugging him but settled instead for a scathing glare. “You really are a dinosaur, Mr. Risole,” she said slowly. “Two hundred years ago men like you drove old pickup trucks, married first cousins and broke wind in church.”
“Oh yeah? Two hundred years ago wedges like you walked around barefoot, wore flowers in their hair and sported a butterfly tattoo on their ass.”
“As a matter of fact, I do have a butterfly tattoo, but not on my ass.” She spun about in feminine fury, slamming the cabin door leaving Risole speechless. He stared at the door for a moment then gathered up his tools.
“Port qualifiers. Yeah. Better go check them out,” he muttered. So where in hell was that damned tattoo, anyway?
He walked down the corridor toward engineering. From a viewport he could see the blue disc of approaching Earth, a crescent moon on her left. He felt relief wash over him. Relief to be off Kloak, to be out of timephase, to carry on his life such as it was inside an andrex body. Still, he mused, better than extra crispy in the plasma vortex.
He stopped. A storage bin on the far wall had cracked open, probably due to the rough liftoff. Risole grabbed the lid and tried to close it. A broken hinge fell to the floor. He squinted sideways into the locker. There was some kind of open case holding a row of glass vials, Madon hieroglyphics printed on the labels. The vials held what looked to be a grey pus, swirling with an evil malevolence. He contemplated them for a moment before stepping to a comm box on the corridor wall.
“Dr. Marina, this is your former patient,” he announced. “What’s your location?”
A tired voice. “I’m in my cabin, trying to get some sleep.”
“Could you stroll down towards engineering. I think there’s something you should look at.”
“No, Mr. Risole, I don’t want to come down there and have a beer with you,” she replied wearily.
“I’m not talking about happy hour, Doc. I found something really weird in a cabinet.”
The comm box was in silent debate. “Very well, I’m on my way.”
“This is strange.” Dr. Marina studied the vials. “New York, Chicago, Seattle, Los Angeles,” she murmured, reading off the labels. “These are major cities on Earth.” She peered up at him. “When did you find these?”
“Just a few minutes ago. Any idea of what they are?”
“This can’t be what it looks like. It just can’t be.” She slipped a test pen from her shirt and passed it over the vials. Immediately the end of the tester glowed red, emitting a harsh shriek. She backed away from the cabinet, eyes wide, fixed.
“Well, what’s your prognosis, doctor?”
She straightened, pocketed the test pen. “These vials are filled with a liquid carrying the Kloakan plague.”
“Aren’t these the samples you were taking back to research a vaccine?”
She shook her head. “No! These are enough to infect an entire world.”
“Actually they are samples. Sales samples, you might say.” Skeem and Skoff were standing by the viewport, the former wearing his brightest smirk, the latter holding a pulse gun on them. “Sorry to have eavesdropped on your private cabin line, Doctor.”
“I’m not getting this right. These vials of plague are yours?” Dr. Marina demanded, incredulous. “You’re planning on turning the Kloakan Plague loose on Earth?”
“Such righteous indignation about a simple business transaction.” Skeem idly tapped the viewport window and smiled. “Madon Interplanetary Realty made record real estate profits on that unfortunate situation on Kloak. It occurred to our directors what a splendid investment opportunity it would be if something similar were to happen on Earth.”
If Risole thought he was good at pulling Dr. Marina’s chain it was nothing to the look she gave Skeem. “You are talking about mass murder here, Mr. Skeem, not a business transaction!”
Skeem shrugged. “We Madons tend to be more practical and less philosophical on such matters. Will you excuse me?”
He reached past Risole and pulled out the case of vials, cradling it like a baby. “There’s so much I admire about you, Dr. Marina, such a pity. But business must take precedence.”
“Fnmntujr db ndhjtnn nfntnt.” Skoff lifted the pulse gun, clicking off the safety.
“Mr. Skoff suggests that if you two humans would like to bid each other farewell, now is the time.”
Moving closer to Dr. Marina, Risole put his arm about her waist. She looked at him, surprised. “You know the best thing about being a cybernetic andrex, Skeem?” he asked. “Those turds at the army medlab gave me the niftiest model too. I’m finally starting to appreciate it.”
Skeem made a bored face. “If it’s something not profit-oriented, I can’t find myself too interested. What is it?”
“Strength.” Risole wrapped his free hand around a support beam and tore it from the deckplates. He hefted it and before the two Madons could blink reptilian eyelids he threw it at the viewport behind them.
A typhoon exploded in the corridor. Dr. Marina’s cry was obliterated by a rush of air howling through the broken plexglass. Skoff and Skeem, the latter minus his smirk and clutching the case of plague vials was plucked from the deck and sucked into oblivion. Alarms shrieked and lights flashed up and down the corridor. Abruptly, emergency shutters clanged down over the broken viewport. Air roared from vents, building up cabin pressure. Silence settled around them. Her arms were wrapped tightly about his waist, her glasses askew. He could feel her heart thundering against his chest. He looked down into her upturned face. “Shall we dance?” he offered.
~*~
He hadn’t lost the touch. His hands moved over the controls, feeling the vast bulk of the ship respond, dropping toward the cloud-wreathed blue world in the forward viewscreen.
“Orbit achieved, Control Center,” he said into the throat mic. “Awaiting landing confirmation.”
“Roger that. Maintain position until clearance schedule is approved. Cleveland Space Center out.”
“Copy that, shuttle out.”
A heavy case was dropped beside him and Dr. Marina settled herself into the opposite chair. She was wearing her best enigmatic expression and he couldn’t detect much of what was behind it. “Looks like you’re the bearer of tidings,” he ventured. “Good or bad?”
“That would depend on which planet you happen to be on,” she replied smugly. “I just finished speaking to Counselor Ghak on Kloak regarding that little episode we had with Mr. Skeem and Skoff. They’ve put a freeze on all Madon Interplanetary Realty dealings on Kloak and are planning a full investigation into their activities.”
“Now that’s good news. I can just picture a Kloakan lynch mob heading down to their office right now.”
She nodded. “It might come to that. The plague seems to have initiated about the time the Madons started arriving on Kloak.”
Risole made a wry face and turned back to the controls. “Gimme a minute, time to i
nput the landing sequence.”
She watched him work the controls, adjusting minor inputs, scanning the readouts. “You really love this ship, don’t you,” she observed.
Risole grinned. “Yeah. I started out in orbit scows, moved up to starfreighters and piloted troopships in the war. Nothing as Gucci as this, though.”
“It’s yours, you know.”
“How’s that?” He looked up, startled.
“That’s the really good news.” She savored the expression on his face. “This ship has Kloakan registry. Since her owners are now floating in space you can file a salvage claim.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Not at all. I would guess a cruiser of this type has a net worth of two point five million creds.”
The enormity of the situation flooded over him. He swallowed hard.
“Of course, that’s after decontamination and a period in quarantine. I also suspect we’ll find a sizeable stack of creds tucked away in Skeem’s cabin.”
He shifted his gaze from her amused and slightly mocking expression to the case sitting on the deck. “So what’s in the steamer trunk?”
“My research information on the Kloakan plague, case histories, data discs, vaccine prototypes.” The sky beyond the viewport lightened as the ship dropped. Clouds floated past, painted by a westering sun.
His eyebrows raised. “I hope that plague sample you mentioned isn’t in there,” he mused. “I noticed you dropped it kind of hard.”
Dr. Marina pondered this, watching him. “Oh, you can rest assured it’s in quite a safe—” The tester in her breast pocket began to pulse red. Slowly, then gathering speed.
“Hey, your little widget must have a short,” Risole observed. “Either that, or one of us is a candidate for a body bag.”
She gazed at him and her eyes darkened, filled. This was a side of her he had never seen, somehow vulnerable, almost frightened. A tear slid down one cheek.
He cleared his throat, aware of a sudden foreboding. “What is it?” he demanded.
“I’m the sample.”
~*~
The isolation ward was a dismal copy of the one he had seen on Kloak. Antiseptic white walls, floor; spectral figures in white atmosphere suits moving among the machines and dangling cords. The difference here was there was only one patient on the sheeted bed.
“You must be Mr. Risole,” said a voice at his elbow. “I’m Doctor Bell.”
Residential Aliens - Issue 4.11 Page 5