Star Cat: Pink Symphony

by Andrew Mackay

  "He and his friend may have tried to kill us, but Tor Klyce is the only one who can operate Manuel."

  Jaycee hulked his K-SPARK in both arms as he clanged down the corridor alongside his superior. "What makes you think they’ll play ball?"

  "Nothing."

  "Nothing?" Wool asked, hesitantly. "What do you mean nothing?"

  "I don’t think Tor Klyce or Baldron Landaker are going to play ball. We’ll have to persuade them, or we’re stuck here."

  "Don’t worry," Jaycee moved ahead of the group, determined to destroy something, "I’ve got just the thing to make them agree. I’ll meet you at N-Carcerate."

  "Where are you going?"

  Jaycee stopped and looked at his glove. "Weapons and Armory. Unless they want to lose their heads, I’m sure they’ll behave themselves."

  "Okay, be quick," Tripp waved Wool and Jelly up the corridor, "I’ll go and speak to them."

  "Good. If they say anything, don’t believe a word." Jaycee stormed off, his giant titanium boots thundering across the gantry toward a room full of heavy artillery and torture devices.

  "I keep forgetting just how much of a behemoth Jaycee is," Tripp said to no one in particular.

  "I wouldn’t want to get on his wrong side," Wool turned to Jelly. "Come on, girl. Let’s go see the bad guys."

  "Meowww-aaar…"

  "Huh?" Wool shrugged her shoulders at Jelly’s somewhat humanistic tone. "Whatever, let’s go."

  USARIC Weapons & Armory

  Space Opera Beta - Level Four

  Jaycee’s titanium fist slammed against the fourth bay. The door slid open to reveal an array of lethal-looking gadgets.

  Not firearms or grenades - or dumb bombs or smart bombs - but a selection of unusual devices. Sword-shaped slabs of metal. Oblong units of something one wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of. Plastic sheets, gauze, and lengths of good old fashioned rope.

  And then, the item Jaycee was looking for.

  "Bingo."

  A cylindrical disc with a ten-inch hole in the middle. It resembled a twelve-inch vinyl record, only made of metal. A fierce-looking piece of equipment weighing at least fifteen pounds.

  He opened the disc apart from the side and scanned the room with a terrific impatience. "Come on, what can I test this on?"

  A spent, battered dumb bomb sat on the service counter. "Ah, good. Let’s see if you’re working."

  Jaycee placed the opened hole of the disc around the bomb and clamped it shut. The bomb’s fifteen-inch width held the contraption in place. Jaycee tilted his head and blinked a couple of times. The disc surrounding the bomb sort of resembled Saturn, "Huh. Ironic."

  He lifted his glove and hit a button on the wrist strap. "Calibrate one-one-eight, Decapidisc."

  A light flashed on his glove. A corresponding white light sprang to life on the Decapidisc, followed be a second and third light, indicating that it had been armed.

  The metal device began to vibrate, along with a repetitive set of beeps.

  "Five… four…" Jaycee whispered, keeping an eye on the disc. The beeps grew quicker and quicker, threatening to form one, prolonged flat line effect.

  "Three… two… and…"

  Beep-beep-beep… beeeeeeeeep.

  "One."

  SCHWIPP!

  The grenade toppled around. The top half slid from the bottom and crashed to the counter, releasing the Decapidisc. It clanged onto the surface of the desk.

  The blades whirred around within the central hole and slowed down, eventually fanning out and back inside the metal.

  "Good ol’ Decapidisc," Jaycee picked it up and planted a kiss on the shiny surface. "Now if that doesn’t get them to comply, nothing will."

  N-Carcerate

  "Wakey-wakey, numb nuts," Tripp entered the cell and swung the keys in his hand.

  Tor Klyce and Baldron Landaker lay across the bench, shackled together by an ankle chain. The chunky iron bolts streaked along the floor, clamped to the wall.

  Wool could barely stand to look at the men - Tor in particular. She held her jaw and thought of the time Tor knocked her out.

  "Kick them like the mules they are," she said. "Kick them real hard between the legs so they can’t procreate. No grandchildren for them to tell how painful it was."

  "No, Wool. We’re better than that. We’re not Neanderthals, unlike them," Tripp clapped his hands, "Hey, cretins. I said wake up."

  Jelly snaked through Wool’s legs and approached the sleeping men. She sniffed around Baldron’s battered chest. He’d taken quite the kicking from Bonnie during the fight before the dumb bomb went off in Botanix.

  "Jelly, no. Stay away from him. He’s a bad, bad man," Wool crouched to her knees and patted her legs. "Come here, girl."

  Jelly wouldn’t follow her instructions. She turned to the men and let out a nasty, loud hiss.

  Tor opened his eyes and instinctively kicked his chain.

  "Hello, Tor," Tripp said with a venomous grin, "Glad you could join us."

  "Hissss…" Jelly roared in Tor’s face.

  "Gah!" Tor climbed back along the bench and grabbed at his shackled ankle. His eyes followed the chain over to the sleeping Baldron. "What the hell? What’s going on?"

  "You don’t remember?"

  "No, no," Tor rubbed his face and grabbed the bench, frightened for his life. "No, I don’t remember anything."

  Wool placed her hands on her hips in anger. "Liar. Stand up."

  Tripp laughed at Tor’s anxiety. "Oh dear. You’ve upset her, now."

  "What?"

  "I said stand up," Wool stomped her foot to the ground and demanded satisfaction. "Do it."

  "Okay, okay, I’m standing. Jeez," Tor stood up, eye level with the extremely furious woman.

  "You don’t remember a thing?" Wool stared him dead in the eyes.

  "No, no, I don’t. What’s happened? Where are we—"

  SMACK.

  Wool punched Tor across the face, sending him crashing ass-first back to the bench. "Maybe that will jog your memory."

  "Oww, she hit me," Tor held his jaw in his hand.

  "Like I said. You upset her, comrade."

  A clunking of heavy footsteps rumbled down the corridor from behind the N-Carcerate door.

  "God damn Yanks," Tor kicked his heels along the floor with frustration, "I should have put a bullet in you when I had the chance."

  "So you do remember?" Tripp left a deliberate pause for drama, "Of course you remember. You jeopardized my crew’s safety. You sabotaged Opera Beta’s mission. I ought to put a bullet in the back of your—"

  "—Screw you, American," Tor spat a lump of phlegm at Tripp and snorted.

  Jaycee pushed through the cell door, deliberately slamming it against the tough wall. The impact made Tor jump from the bench in utter horror.

  "Hey, Jaycee," Tripp winked at Wool. "Glad you could join us. We were just talking about you."

  Jaycee held up the two metal discs on his hands. "Really?”

  "Wh-what are those?" Tor asked, fearing for his life.

  "Oh, these?" Jaycee grunted and clanged to the two Decapidiscs together, "I’m glad you asked. Some people call them compliance units."

  He lifted one of the discs and unlatched the housing. An imprint displayed the company logo on the side in black writing: Priestly Enterprises.

  "I prefer their actual name. Decapidisc. Sounds more frightening, don’t you think?"

  "What… what are you doing?" Tor backed up a few inches as Jaycee approached him. He shoved the half crescent mid-section around Tor’s neck and clamped the disc shut, nicking the skin over his Adam’s Apple.

  "Aww, doesn’t he look cute wearing it?" Jaycee bumped fists with Tripp.

  "Yeah, it suits him.”

  "Looks a bit like one of those things the Victorians used to wear. What were they called?"

  "A ruff, I think?" Tripp thoroughly enjoyed the ceremonious torment with his colleague.

  Tor fumbled around the disc and p
ulled the flap of skin on his neck free, “Oww.” A futile effort to a man. Locked into place and humming with life, the Decapidisc would render even the most hardened madman perpetrator beg for their mommy - and Tor was no exception.

  "Wh-what is this? What are you d-doing?"

  "It’s called a Decapidisc, Tor," Jaycee lifted his right hand and showed him the white button on his glove. "We need to know you’re going to play ball. If I press this button, those three lights on your new collar light up and your head comes clean off."

  "Oh, sh-shi—"

  "—Hey!" Tripp snapped, showing Tor that he wasn’t playing games. "Don’t curse on my ship, you pathetic excuse for a human being."

  Jelly moved back and hissed at Tor once again.

  No matter where the man looked, he was surrounded by people wanting his blood.

  "Here, Wool," Jaycee tossed the second Decapidisc to her. "Sort Baldron out with this special necklace, yeah?"

  "My pleasure."

  Wool moved over to the unconscious Baldron and clamped the disc around his neck.

  Tripp stepped forward and folded his arms. "Now, listen very carefully to me, Tor. Are you listening?"

  "Y-Yes, I’m listening."

  "Jaycee, here, wants to press the button and mount your severed head on his souvenir desk. Do you know why?"

  Tor looked at Jaycee playfully teasing the white button on his glove.

  "Yes," Tor whispered as a tear of pink effluence dribbled away from his eye duct. "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry."

  "It’s too late for any of that, now," Jaycee said.

  "He’s right, what’s done is done," Tripp added. "You and Baldron are responsible for the death of Opera Beta’s captain and my friend, Daryl Katz. You’re also responsible for Haloo. In fact, I hold you responsible for absolutely everything that has happened to us. Do you understand what I’ve said?"

  "Yes."

  "Now, we find ourselves at a bit of an impasse. None of us know how to fix Manuel. But you do."

  Tor finally lifted his head - his face solemn and remorseful - he knew what was about to be asked of him. "Ask me."

  "Am I going to regret this?" Tripp nodded at Jaycee and his fabulous white button of death.

  "No, ask me."

  "We don’t know where we are. We went through Enceladus, thanks to Jelly. We don’t know Beta’s current state. We don’t know how much oxygen we have. We don’t know if anything works, apart from the back-up generator that’s giving us power and light. But we don’t know how much longer that will last. We don’t know where we are. We take a look outside and see nothing. We look at any of the screens, and all we see is black. We could be anywhere. In fact, we probably are anywhere and, as Beta’s captain, anywhere just isn’t good enough."

  "How is Manuel?" Tor asked.

  "Not well is probably quite apt given the circumstances. He’s talking crap and can’t be trusted and needs professional help,’ Tripp thought of a perfect put-down mid-sentence, “which is why I thought of you to help us.”

  "Or else what?"

  "Or else you lose your head, and all of us will probably die out here. Alone. Undiscovered. It would have all been for nothing.”

  "I need some sort of guarantee," Tor looked at Baldron laying across the bench.

  "Guarantee?" Tripp asked. "What, that Jaycee won’t push the button?"

  "That, and you promise not to kill me or my comrade after we do what you need me to do."

  Tripp clenched his fists, taking Tor’s sincerity literally. "We’re not killers. Unlike you and your boyfriend. I’ll rip your damn head off with my own hands. Forget the Decapidisc."

  "Aww," Jaycee played up to Tripp’s taunting of their captive. "Tch."

  "P-Please, don’t hurt me."

  Tripp squared up to Tor and stared him out. "Is that what you told my captain before you blew the connecting bridge between Alpha and Beta?"

  "I’m sorry! It was nothing personal, I was only following ord--"

  "—Sorry? You’re sorry?" Tripp screamed in the man’s face, blowing the hair on his head back a few millimeters. "How about Haloo, eh? Try telling her you’re sorry. She’s not even around anymore to argue with you!"

  Tor burst into tears as Tripp closed his eyes and calmed down. The tips of their noses practically touched.

  Jaycee found the argument between the two men somewhat comical. "Are you two going to kiss?"

  "Shut up," Tripp spat and lifted Tor’s crying face up by his chin. "So, what’s it to be, Tor? Instant death? Or a sliver of a possibility that you, and all of us, survive?"

  Tor took a deep breath and glanced at Jaycee taunting him with the white button on his glove. Jelly’s sneering didn’t help matters much, either.

  The decision was inevitable.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  South Texas, USA

  A hideout somewhere on the South-Eastern Peninsula

  Handax Skill unfolded a piece of black cloth and held it at arm’s length. Two eye holes stretched out across the soft material. "Perfect."

  He looked around the hideout, refusing to let the grim interior warehouse walls get to him. The People Against Animal Cruelty placards lined most of the right-hand wall. It filled him with vigor.

  Leif, a petite woman in her twenties, approached the central table. She unclipped her thumbnail on her right hand and set it onto the central table. "Two hours to show time."

  "Display Individimedia. Put it on Dreenagh Remix’s channel."

  "That blood-hungry piece of crap in heels?" Leif chuckled as she swiped the ink on her forearm.

  Handax ran his fingers through his bright blue hair, contemplating the plan they were about to carry out. He saw his team having second thoughts about the forthcoming event. "Yeah, let’s see how she’s spun the story."

  Dreenagh’s name appeared on Leif’s arm. Seconds later, the thumbnail threw a giant holographic live feed above the table.

  An empty podium outside USARIC headquarters with dozens microphones waiting to be utilized.

  "We’re on.”

  "Guys, come and take a look at this," Handax turned to the two men.

  One of them stared down the barrel of a long-range rifle.

  "Denny, man," Handax said. "Pay attention."

  "Yeah," Denny stood up and walked over to the table. "What’s good?"

  "Pay attention."

  Dreenagh commentated off-camera on the non-event. "As you can see, USARIC is preparing to make an official statement of affairs. In a couple of hours from now we’re expecting USARIC’s Deputy CEO, Dimitri Vasilov, to respond to allegations of sabotage."

  "Just shut up and get to the good stuff," Handax muttered as he paced around the bench. "Look at her, spinning the story. I bet she doesn’t even mention the twenty-three Russian delegates who were forced out of—"

  "—Tensions are high after the expulsion of twenty-three Russian delegates from the United States shortly after the last communication of Space Opera Beta. An allegation from the captain of the ship suggests that the mission had been deliberately sabotaged by Russians. Stay with me for USARIC’s official reaction."

  Leif ducked her head and sighed. "She’s just killing time, now."

  "Put her on mute," Handax said. "I can’t stand her voice."

  Leif held out her pinkie and index finger and threw her hand through the image, cutting off the volume. "There, that’s better."

  Denny placed his rifle on the table. "So, we’re still on?"

  "Of course we’re still on." Handax turned to the fourth member of the crew. "Moses?"

  The man looked up from his lap, halting his work on a opened drone. "Yeah, we’re still on."

  "Gather round the table, we don’t have much time."

  Moses placed the drone on the seat of his chair and joined the trip. "Do I get a mask, too?"

  "Everyone gets one."

  Handax threw a balaclava each to Leif, Moses, and Denny. "Make sure you wear them the right way round."

  Denny chuckled s
arcastically. "Yeah, thanks."

  Handax pressed his thumb to his forearm, enabling a rotating vector image of the USARIC’s complex to appear above the table.

  The west side of the building flashed drawing their attention to the main entrance. A vast complex stood north-west - an area of interest to all concerned.

  "The compound," Handax said. "Leif and I will be on point to infiltrate thirty seconds before Denny takes the shot."

  "Yeah. What if he misses, though?" Leif asked.

  Denny picked up the rifle and looked down the sight. "With firepower like this? I never miss."

  "Don’t point that thing at me," Leif pushed the end of the barrel away from her.

  "Don’t worry. It’s not charged, yet."

  "I don’t care. Just don’t point it at me."

  Handax cleared his throat. "Denny?"

  "What?"

  "Behave."

  "My bad."

  “My bad?” Handax quipped. “What is this, twenty-twenty-five? Have you been watching those old movies again?”

  “Sorry.”

  "Just concentrate, for heaven’s sake," Handax continued. “We need everyone on point. We’re about to make history."

  Moses slipped on his balaclava and punched his fists together. Somehow, with this spurious mask, his near seven-foot frame seemed all the more threatening. "They won’t know what hit them."

  “No, they must know what hit them. That’s the whole idea,” Leif reached into her belt and retrieved her handgun, "We better load up if we’re going to hit our markers."

  Handax took a deep breath. The severity of what they were about to do socked him in the gut. "How are we all feeling?"

  "It needs to be done, man," Moses clocked Handax’s anxiety instantly. "Hey! You’re not chickening out now, are you? This was your idea."

  "Yeah, I know. It’s just that…"

  He never finished his sentence, which caused consternation for the others. Handax knew he had to remain in control for their sake. He lifted his head, angrily.

  "Guys, we can’t allow these murderous, corporate scumbags to get away with what they’ve done—"

  "—I’d say bastards is about right," Leif said, inspecting her handgun. "Let’s hit them where it hurts.”