by Tom Dublin
"I can't believe you did that!" exclaimed Adina. "Jack and I might have been poisoned because you're happily using any old crap you stumble across as ingredients..."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" blurted Draven. "While I agree that everyone should be able to have their say in what they're eating..."
Callis stood near the entrance to the bridge, looking from one person to the next—and then at the viewscreens, which still showed the same stunning close-up view of the vast circular gate.
"Excuse me," she interrupted as firmly as she dared.
The row continued unabated.
She tried again a little louder.
"Excuse me!"
The crew kept arguing, oblivious to the teenager's attempt to catch their attention.
Finally, Callis sighed and issued a whistle so loud and shrill that everyone immediately stopped fighting and covered their ears.
SKORRRR! shrieked Mist.
Everyone turned to look at Callis.
The young girl smiled. "Has anyone else noticed that we're not moving?"
The Shadows looked at each other, then at the viewscreens.
"She's right," confirmed Jack. "Solo, why haven't you passed through the gate yet? Wait, why am I even asking that question?"
He sighed as the ship's EI frowned on the center screen.
"It's because we're not wearing our safety belts, isn't it?" asked Jack.
"The welfare of the passengers is my highest priority, Captain," explained Solo.
"Everyone buckle up or we'll be going nowhere fast," grumbled Jack, reaching for his seatbelt.
Draven stood, gesturing for Adina to return to her chair.
"Wait a minute," she exclaimed as she sat down and clicked her safety harness into place. "We're a seat short now."
Jack looked around the bridge. "We are?"
"Yes," replied Adina. "Draven had the flip-down seat earlier, but that leaves nowhere for Callis to sit."
"She can take it," Draven offered the teen the temporary chair and held it for her as she sat down. "I'll be fine."
"No," countered Tc'aarlat. "Solo won't budge unless you're strapped in."
"I will be," insisted Draven heading for the exit. "I'll sit in the pilot's seat of the Pegasus."
The Yollin blinked. "What?"
"The Pegasus," repeated Draven. "It's got seats, seatbelts—everything I need."
"Wait!" Tc'aarlat cried, trying to unbuckle his harness. "There's no need for you to go all the way down there. Here, take my seat. I'll sit in the Pegasus instead."
"No, it's fine," replied Draven. "I don't mind. Besides, the copilot's chair is yours."
"But you're the guest!" declared Tc'aarlat, finally unclasping the buckle and jumping up.
"And you belong on the bridge!" insisted Draven, turning to leave.
Tc'aarlat chased him. "I'm not needed up here! Really, I hardly do anything at all."
"It's still better if you're there, in case of an emergency."
"Jack can handle anything that comes up."
"Yes, but..."
Their voices faded as their footsteps rang faster and faster. It was clear to the trio on the bridge that they were both running toward the rear hangar and the sleek shuttle.
After a moment's silence Adina asked, "How long did you say the flight was on the other side of the gate?"
"Under an hour," Jack replied.
Adina turned to face the navigation control panel. "It's going to feel like an eternity."
11
Moon of Hann, Blue Diamond Casino, Main Entrance
Sergeant Randy Barber pulled his police cruiser up to the entrance of the Blue Diamond Casino and snatched up the handset of his radio.
"Dispatch, this is 5502. Arrived at the Blue Diamond Casino on Victory Boulevard. No sign of the reported disturbance, over."
The speaker set into the car's dashboard hissed static for a second, then a tinny voice responded, "Roger, 5502. The caller stated the disturbance was inside the casino at one of the Make Twenty-Eight tables, over."
Sergeant Barber smiled as he pressed the button on his handset. "Make Twenty-Eight? That was my game of choice back when I was known to place a wager or three. Tough to beat the bank, but when you did? Oh boy, over."
The dispatcher chuckled as he replied. "Well, try to control yourself when you're inside, Sarge. I don't want to have to send a second unit over to drag you out of there as well, over."
"I'll be good, Mike. Have to leave the car double-parked, so I'm going to light ‘er up before I head in, over."
"Roger that. Do you need backup, over?"
"Nah! It'll just be some sore loser they want to eject from the premises before he upsets the other gamblers. I'll have a word with the guy, make sure he's sober enough to get back to his hotel, then head on back. Make sure you got that coffee machine on, you hear, over?"
"Will do, Sarge. Dispatch out."
Flicking the switch that would light up the blue flashing lights fixed to the roof of his vehicle, Barber climbed out of his car, pulling on his cap and tugging it down to ensure the fit was snug.
While he wasn't exactly embarrassed by his rapidly expanding bald spot, he didn't want to advertise the fact that he was increasingly follically challenged either.
There could be any number of middle-aged females in there in dire need of a little R&R after a hard evening's gambling.
Nodding politely to the sequin-clad dancers dressing the casino's main entrance, he absent-mindedly tapped his fingers against the pistol secured in the holster on his belt as he made his way inside.
Barber had been working as a cop on the Moon of Hann for over sixteen years. He'd trained at the academy and spent his first few years as a rookie on Taglen, transferring to Hann when the Temple of Persha had designated the moon as the only place in the system where the normal rules of decency didn't apply.
With hundreds of pleasure-seekers taking the short trip in search of their personal form of gratification, the need for competent officers ballooned.
Policing revelers in search of anything from home-brewed liquor and mind-bending drugs to pornographic pastimes of pure perversion required something of a gentle touch.
No good kicking down the door of a brothel specializing in providing realistic corpses in varying states of decay if you want anyone with a boner for the buried to give you their real name and home address.
Necrophiliacs, along with all other sexual deviants, had to be handled with care.
More often than not the incidents Barber was called to required only a firm hand, a pocketful of good advice, and a night in the tank to sleep off whatever was making that particular perp scream obscenities at the terrifying figments of their medicated imagination.
He enjoyed his work.
As he strode across the casino floor, he swept the gaming tables with the gaze of an experienced former gambler. He could instantly tell which customers were winning, which were losing, and which—aha!—which were vainly arguing that they have been both cheated and mistreated.
Barber's eyes narrowed as he spotted the troublemaker struggling to free himself from the grip of the venue's in-house security guards and he turned in that direction.
And that was when he felt the barrel of the gun against his temple.
Planet Taglen, Lymak City, Temple of Persha
Jack led the Shadows across a tree-lined courtyard to the steps leading up to the arched entrance of a vast white marble temple.
The flight between the gate and Taglen had been mostly uneventful, although the crew had been at a loss for words when Solo had explained that the airspace control computer on the ground had insisted they each declare their religious beliefs before it would grant permission for the Fortitude to land.
Both Adina and Jack professed to be lapsed followers of their respective faiths—Christianity and Hinduism, while Callis claimed to have lost all belief in a higher power after her family had sold her into slavery.
The only real shock had
come when Draven openly declared himself to be a devoted disciple of a relatively new and abstract religion known as 'Transcendental Space-Buddhism,' an assertion which had led the staunchly atheistic Tc'aarlat to mutter "Now there's a fucking surprise!"
Once everyone's belief systems had been logged the Taglen airspace control computer had passed on the necessary flight permissions, along with precise coordinates for where Solo was to land.
A short journey on public transport later, the extended crew found themselves climbing the stairs to Lymak City's ultimate seat of power—the Temple of Persha.
"The head honcho is a guy named Jolio Phisk," Jack explained, reading from his tablet.
"Who's he, then?" inquired Tc'aarlat. "The President? Prime Minister?"
"High priest," replied Jack. "By all accounts, he's been in power ever since the planet switched from politics to religion as a means of governance."
The Yollin scowled as he gazed at the temple's towering spire. "The more I hear about this place, the less I like it."
"You can't judge other peoples' cultures," warned Draven.
"Yes I can," Tc'aarlat countered. "I did it just then. Weren't you listening, or couldn't you hear me because of your long hair?"
"I meant that you shouldn't judge other cultures," Draven asserted. "Just because they’re not the same as yours doesn't mean they’re wrong."
"Don't judge me, Draven," warned Tc'aarlat. "You know absolutely nothing about my culture."
"Yeah," scoffed Adina with a sly wink to Jack and Callis. "Tc'aarlat isn't cultured at all, are you?"
"Not in the slightest!" boasted the Yollin. "And that's exactly the way it's going to—” He stopped as the group reached the top of the stone steps, mandibles twitching as he thought back through the conversation. "Wait a second..."
As the others began to laugh, a thin man dressed in a white shirt and smart trousers ran out of the temple with an expression of anguish etched on his features.
"Please!" he cried, reaching pleadingly toward Jack. "Can you help me? They won't let me take her or even see her. I can't let them cast her into the fire; it's not right. It's my fault she's in there in the first place. I need to get her back!"
"Whoa, whoa!" Jack raised his hands in an attempt to calm the clearly-distraught man. "It's okay. We'll help you if we can, I promise."
"What's your name?" asked Draven.
"And what's wrong?" added Adina. "You can trust us."
The teary-eyed man looked from one crew member to the next, trembling.
"I'm Corlon Strumm," he croaked, pointing to the temple entrance, "and they're about to feed my wife to the poor."
Moon of Hann, Blue Diamond Casino, Main Entrance
"Don't fucking move!" snarled Vimor Malfic.
Sergeant Barber's years of police training kicked in, so rather than turn he searched in the opposite direction, hoping to find a reflective surface in which to get a look at his aggressor.
He was in just the right spot for whoever was threatening him to be clearly visible in the glass surface of a slot machine themed after a popular brand of cheap and cheerful liquor. Barber studied him.
Oh, shit!
The man if you could call someone of that size a mere man holding a gun to his head was tall, wide, and crammed into a cheap suit that had clearly seen much better days.
The weapon appeared to be some form of blaster. If this mountain of fury were to pull the trigger it wouldn't just kill him; they'd be vacuuming fragments of his skull out of the casino's carpet for days.
Unless he could somehow wrestle it from the monster's hands.
However, the hip-level bulge under the many creases and folds in the guy's already lumpy jacket suggested he had another piece ready to go if such a miracle happened.
He was going to have to attempt to talk this bastard down.
"Hey, it's okay, buddy!" he said in as confident a voice as he could muster. "There's no need to lose your temper."
"I'll do whatever the fuck I want!" growled Malfic, thumbing off the gun's safety with a surprisingly loud click. With his other hand, he snatched Randy's gun from its holster.
"Get over there!" the felon barked, grabbing the sergeant's arm and pushing him toward the bar.
"Yeah, yeah. Sure. Whatever you say."
The cop stopped beside Nerk Wassel, taking a moment to look the kidnapped guard's lime-green rubber gimp-suit up and down.
"Hi!" said Wassel pleasantly.
By now everyone in the casino had stopped to watch the confrontation. The constant chatter had stopped, leaving only the random buzzes and bings from the various gambling machines.
Customers stared with wide eyes, their wagers temporarily forgotten.
Croupiers leaned as nonchalantly as they could against their tables, fingers searching for the panic buttons hidden underneath.
Behind the bar, the woman in a corset failed to realize the glass of wine she was pouring for a customer was already full and the extra alcohol was now spilling over the side and pooling on the wooden surface.
Malfic trained Barber’s stolen weapon in his direction and swung his gun toward the bikini-clad females at the casino's main entrance.
"Close the doors!" he roared.
Two of the girls sprang into action, kicking the floor-level pads that cut the electrical current from the magnets holding the bulletproof-glass doors open.
The third bikini babe remained rooted to the spot, too scared to move. A thin trickle of urine ran down the glittering surface of her show tights.
"Lock them!" ordered Malfic. "No one gets in or out!"
One of the dancers patted the insanely small amount of her body not on view. "I don't got no keys!" she protested as bravely as she dared. "Where do you think I'd keep them, huh?"
Snorting, Malfic looked at the barmaid, who was now holding an empty wine bottle above the overflowing glass. "Who's got the keys?"
"I do," came a voice from the far end of the bar. Zalah Gilt stepped forward, unclipping a bunch of keys from his belt. "I'm the manager."
"You Gilt?" asked Malfic.
"Yeah," the manager replied, his brow furrowing. "How do you know my name?" He tossed his keys across the room and one of the dancers scurried over to where they landed in her silver high heels, returning to lock the doors as commanded.
The flashing blue lights of Sergeant Barber's car strobed against them.
"Mildew Fester told me to find you," growled Malfic to Gilt, waving the stolen gun at the cop near the bar. "But that was before dickless here turned up to arrest me."
"What?" said Sergeant Barber. "Why would I come here to arrest you, huh? I don't even know who you are."
Malfic's finger tightened on the trigger. "Don't fucking lie!"
"I'm not!" insisted Barber. "I was called here to evict some drunken guy who was refusing to leave."
Malfic's already furious expression darkened. "Fucking liar!"
Barber raised his hands. "No, no, wait!"
Closing one eye, Vimor Malfic stiffened his arm and took aim directly at Sergeant Barber's forehead.
"It's true!" called a voice from behind the gunman.
Malfic paused and stared at Nat, who was standing behind one of the gaming tables. "It was me. I called the police to help get this guy home..."
One of the security guards lifted the obviously hammered Lowlon Quell from the carpet by the scruff of his neck, then dropped him again.
Malfic took a deep, rasping breath as he ran the situation through his mind. This pig of a cop hadn't tracked him down as an escaped prisoner at all; he'd been summoned by the casino staff to deal with a drunken customer they were having trouble ejecting.
By pulling his gun on the cop he'd given himself away, and now he was locked inside a fucking casino with dozens more hostages than just that whiny, annoying prison guard he'd grabbed to aid his getaway.
It would only be a matter of minutes before someone came looking for the cop, then the authorities would surround this
place.
And it was his own fault.
"Hey, Malfic," began the kidnapped guard, the rubber suit squeaking noisily as he took a step toward the increasingly angry escapee, "how 'bout we all sit down and work out—"
Swinging the gun in his original captive's direction, Vimor Malfic shot Nerk Wassel in the face.
12
Planet Taglen, Lymak City, Temple of Persha
Jack stared open mouthed at the trembling figure of Corlon Strumm. "Someone is going to feed your wife to the poor?! Does she get to have any say in this?"
Corlon shook his head. "She's dead!" he exclaimed. "She self-sacrificed in the temple this morning."
Adina raised her palms to calm the agitated man, "Just when you think things can't get any weirder... Why don't you back up a little and tell us everything from the beginning?"
Strumm took a deep breath and explained how his wife had been accused of blasphemy against the Goddess Persha, and as was the church's rule, had self-sacrificed in front of the entire congregation as a result.
"Wait!" said Draven. "Self-sacrificed?!"
Corlon Strumm nodded. "She plunged the dagger of Persha into her heart, as she was expected to do."
"Gott Verdammt!" cursed Tc'aarlat. "I'm the first to say 'each to his own' when it comes to religious choice, but this Persha bitch sounds like a right piss-stain!"
"WHAT!" Corlon Strumm's eyes rolled back in his head at Tc'aarlat's statement and he thrust out his arms in an effort to retain his balance."
"I've got you!" Jack assured him, catching the man before he fell and helping him sit down on the temple steps.
Adina sat next to him. "After your wife—"
"Merfel," said Strumm, his head in his hands.
"Merfel." Adina smiled. "After Merfel did this, what happened to her?"
Corlon wiped away his tears. "The wardens dragged her into the vestry," he explained. "Normal temple-goers aren't allowed back there, and anyone who is taken back there is never seen again. At least, not until they have been prepared for cooking."
The man's body was wracked with sobs.