Space Team: The Wrath of Vajazzle Read online

  Mech’s feet clanked on the floor as he turned to Mizette. “You OK?”

  Miz blinked, surprised by the question. “What? Why are you asking?”

  Mech scowled and began turning back just as the screen was filled with a wispy whiteness. “Forget I asked. Just trying to be friendly.”

  “I think she was just kind of taken aback that you cared,” said Cal. “You know, you being a soulless robot, and everything.”

  Mech shook his head. “Know what? I don’t. Forget I said anything.”

  Cal and Miz exchanged a glance. Cal shrugged.

  “I’m OK,” Miz said. “Thanks for asking.”

  Mech grunted. “Whatever.”

  “Breaking cloud cover in four… three… two… one,” Loren announced. On screen, the image remained steadfastly white. “Er… half… quarter…”

  The cloud cleared, revealing a world that was both terrifyingly bleak and terrifying close. An alarm began to squeal as Loren’s hands and feet all flew to different controls, frantically trying to slow the ship’s descent.

  “Shizz! Didn’t realize it was so low,” Loren muttered. The Greyx ship was on a landing pad below them, directly in the Shatner’s path.

  “Pull up, pull up, pull up!” Cal cried, hooking his fingertips around the edges of his arm rests.

  “I’m trying!” Loren yelped. She leaned back and to the left, dragging the stick with her. The Shatner’s nose swung upwards, then a harsh metallic screech vibrated through the ship, like the world’s sharpest fingernails on the world’s squeakiest blackboard.

  The ship shuddered until the screeching stopped, then shot forwards, smashed through the top of a rock formation, and slid sideways down the slope on the other side.

  With a final crunch, the ship slammed to an abrupt stop. “Everyone OK?” asked Cal.

  “Oh, what, have we landed?” Miz said. “It was so smooth I didn’t notice.” She shot Loren a scowl. “That was--”

  “Yes! I get it!” said Loren. “How was I supposed to know the cloud levels were so low?”

  Mech pointed silently to several lines of data that filled the bottom right of the viewscreen.

  “Well, yes, I mean… obviously I could have looked there,” Loren admitted, her blueish-white skin blushing a shade of lavender.

  Cal unclipped his seat belt. “Still, no harm done,” he said. “You know, apart from the extensive ship damage and that mountain now being two hundred feet shorter. Oh, and I may have shizzed my pants, but aside from all that? Textbook.”

  Loren’s blush darkened further. “It’ll be fine. If there’s any damage, I’ll fix it. Mech, I may need you for some of the more complex stuff. Can I turn you up if I need you?”

  Mech glanced down at the dial fixed in the center of his chest. He used it to redirect his power supply to where he needed it most. Turning it to his right diverted the energy to his hydraulics, making him stronger, but with the side-effect of dropping his IQ a few dozen points.

  Twist the dial to his left, and his processing power went through the roof, but at the expense of his ability to punch things, lift things, or – if turned up all the way – move around.

  “If it means we ain’t stuck here, you got it,” Mech said. He looked at the dark, desolate terrain on the viewscreen and his hydraulics rattled as he gave an involuntary shudder. “This place gives me the creeps.”

  “OK, you guys do that,” said Cal, giving them a thumbs up. He stood and extended a hand to Miz. “Shall we?”

  Mizette stared at his hand for a long time, like she couldn’t quite figure out what it was for. At last, she took it, and allowed herself to be pulled gently to her feet.

  The ship was tilted at an awkward angle, and they had to support themselves on the corridor wall as they made their way to the landing ramp. Splurt pulsed excitedly in front of it, his eyes shining with slime and hope. But mostly slime.

  “Hey buddy, how’s it going?” Cal grinned. “You OK? Loren took a somewhat unorthodox approach to landing. Didn’t shake you up too much, did it?”

  Splurt bobbed up and down, then turned his eyes very deliberately towards the closed landing ramp. Cal understood right away. “Ah, yeah, see here’s the thing, buddy. I’m not sure now’s the best time for you to come outside. The Greyx aren’t happy that we’re here, and if they see a slimy green blob – fonking adorable as it may be – they might freak out.”

  Splurt shuddered and squidged around, quickly taking the form of a small ginger kitten. The tiny cat sat on the floor, its wide green eyes gazing hopefully up at Cal. “Man, that’s cute,” Cal whispered. “But we’re on a planet filled with alien dog people. That’s literally the worst thing you could have turned yourself into. You’ve basically disguised yourself as a between-meals snack.”

  Splurt’s whiskers drooped as Cal and Miz stepped over him. “But we’ll hang out later, OK?” Cal called back over his shoulder, as he hit the button that lowered the ramp. “I can teach you guitar. I’ve had an idea for a new song I’m going to call Rocket Man. You’ll love it.”

  Flashing one final smile at the sad little kitten, Cal stepped out of the ramp, let out a panicky, “Wah!” and immediately plunged several feet to the ground. The hillside was slippery gravel beneath him. He made a futile attempt to claw at it to slow his fall, but then just surrendered to gravity and let it roll him all the way to the bottom.

  Coughing in a cloud of gravel dust, Cal wiped the grime from his face. A towering wolf-like figure loomed above him, its teeth and claws both bared.

  “Who dares tread upon Kifo soil without the blessing of the Greyx?” the figure snarled, its hot breath rolling over Cal and filling his nose with the smell of raw meat.

  Cal spat out a chunk of grit and tried his best to smile. “OK, firstly, I didn’t technically tread on Kifo soil, I sort of bounced on it on my face and upper body.”

  The Greyx’s growled all the way at the back of its throat. “Whoa, whoa, and secondly, I’m here with Mizette! She asked me to come.”

  The wolf-creature’s eyes widened in surprise. “Mizette brought you? Mizette is here?”

  “Yeah. I’m here.”

  The Greyx’s head snapped up at the sound of Miz’s voice. Mizette had her arms folded across her chest, and her weight slumped on one hip. She glanced at the other wolf-creature, but didn’t hold its eye.

  “Oh thank God, you know each other,” Cal sighed, letting his head sink back into the gravel.

  “Yeah, you could say that,” said Miz. “This is my friend, Cal,” she explained, gesturing to him. Cal waved.

  “Hey.”

  “Cal… this is my mom.”

  With some effort, Cal stood up. He tried to brush the dust off, but as 95% of him was covered in the stuff, he quickly gave up. “Cal Carver,” he said, offering her a hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  Mizette’s mom clearly had no clue why Cal was holding his hand out, and made a deliberate effort to ignore it. “Sorshi of the Greyx,” she said, bowing her head just a fraction. “Friend of my daughter or not, you are not welcome here. Non-Greyx are not permitted on Kofi.”

  Miz huffed out a sigh. “Oh, give me a break, mom. If Cal goes, I go, too.” She held her mother’s gaze for several seconds, then raised her bushy eyebrows. “So, are you going to take us to see Dad, or what?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  President Sinclair sat behind his desk, typing on a holographic keyboard projected onto the wood, and savoring the smell of carpet disinfectant. He could’ve moved to another office while the cleaners took care of Legate Filson, of course, but he’d told them he had too much work to be getting on with, and assured them their presence wasn’t causing him any problems.

  The truth of it was, seeing Filson’s body being folded into the bag and carried away brought a pleasing finality to the situation. Sinclair was no stranger to taking a life, and while he’d sometimes had cause to kill-and-run, he always felt somehow deflated afterwards, like he
hadn’t quite seen the act through to completion.

  Now, though, with Filson’s body already on the way to the incinerators, and the dark, clinically-clean smelling stain still drying on the carpet, Sinclair allowed himself to bask in the feeling of a job well done.

  There was still the matter of promoting a replacement, of course, and there may well be a wife and children to offer his heartfelt condolences to, but those were minor details that could be attended to later.

  For now, there was the matter of the assassin materializing in the center of the room, just to the left of Legate Filson’s stain. Sinclair waved a hand over the keyboard, which became a line of light, then vanished. He clasped his hands on the desktop and smiled as the shimmering lightshow solidified into the shape of a woman in a flowing black robe.

  She had a face that had known beauty, but wanted very little to do with it. The ravages of time were drawn like a roadmap across her skin. A puckered scar surrounded her left eye-socket, the eye itself replaced by something red and mechanical.

  Her hood was back, revealing a head that was largely bald, but with the occasional wisp of thin gray hair.

  When it came to the career choice most likely to result in your prolonged, agonizing death, ‘professional assassin’ was up there near the top of the list. The fact the woman who had appeared in Sinclair’s office had lived long enough to acquire her wrinkles and graying wisps, was perhaps the greatest testament of all to her remarkable skills.

  “Lady Vajazzle,” said Sinclair, bowing his head in a rare gesture of deference. “I’m honored you have agreed to see me.”

  Vajazzle’s expression remained impassive, her thin frame motionless beneath the folds of her midnight-colored robe.

  “I mean, anyone else, I’d ask them to use the door, but it’s always impressive to see your… teleporting thing in action. You really must share the secret some time. We could make a lot of money together. A lot of money.”

  “I was informed you had a job for me,” Vajazzle said. Her voice was as smooth as velvet, but with a sandpaper roughness around the edges. It was as if two voices were saying the same words at the same time, and neither one was particularly fond of the other. The way she said the words made them sound like the beginning of a sentence, but she left the end just hanging there, waiting for Sinclair to fill it in.

  “I did. I do,” he said. “But first, can I get you anything? A drink, or…?”

  “The job. Explain.”

  Sinclair smile broadened. “Straight down to business. Of course.” He leaned back in his chair. “I believe you’ve had dealings with Graxan of the Greyx.”

  Beneath her robe, Vajazzle’s body stiffened. A thin, frail arm emerged from the folds of the garment. She tapped a spindly gloved finger against the metal of her artificial eye. “He gave me this.”

  “I had heard that rumor,” Sinclair said, wiping his smile away and replacing it with something that was a bit like concern, but wasn’t. “So I guess it’s safe to say that you’re not his biggest fan?”

  “I cannot kill Graxan, if that is why you summoned me,” Vajazzle said in her dual-tone voice. “After our last encounter, we reached… an agreement. I am free to work within Greyx space, but in return the Greyx themselves are off-limits, as long as Graxan lives.”

  “Aha! Then you are going to love what I’m about to tell you,” said Sinclair, leaning forward and tapping his fingers on the edge of his desk like a tiny drumroll. “Graxan is on Kifo. He’s dying.”

  Vajazzle’s mouth drew tight, the wrinkled skin puckering around her lips, but she didn’t seem to have anything to say on the matter. “And you force me to ask you again. It will be the final time. The job. Explain.”

  Sinclair nodded his apology. “Of course. We’ve worked together before, of course, and your reputation speaks for itself, but tell me, Lady Vajazzle,” the president said. “Have you ever hunted an Earthling?”

  Vajazzle raised a graying eyebrow. “No,” she admitted. “But there’s a first time for everything.”

  * * *

  Several billion miles away, the Earthling in question was standing at an unassuming-looking wooden door in a cramped room, flanked on both sides by towering wolf-people. Mizette stood on his left, shuffling from foot to foot like she desperately needed to go to the bathroom, but was trying to not let anyone know.

  Her mother, Sorshi, was on his right, angling her body in a way that suggested there was no way he was getting through the door.

  “You will wait here while Mizette and I go inside,” said Sorshi.

  Cal nodded. “OK. That’s fair.”

  “No, Cal comes with me,” Miz said.

  “Apparently I spoke too soon,” Cal said. “If Miz wants me to go in, I’m going in.”

  Sorshi flinched like she’d been struck across the face. “Miz?” she said, spitting the word out. “You will address her as ‘Mizette’ or, preferably, ‘your highness.’”

  “My friends call me ‘Miz,’” said Miz. “And Cal’s my friend.”

  “I sure am,” Cal agreed.

  “We’re practically lovers,” Miz added.

  Cal coughed. “Well, I’m not sure I’d go that far.” He smiled at the suddenly even more furious-looking Sorshi. “But we’re all very fond of her back on the ship.”

  “Your father will not approve of this.”

  Miz shrugged. “So what’s new?”

  Sorshi raised her eyes to the ceiling, just a few inches above her head. Like the door, it was made of simple, rough wood, although there was a yellowish tint to it unlike any Cal had ever seen on Earth.

  “Very well,” she said. She nodded, but it was reluctant. Anxious, even. Her eyes went to Cal as she edged open the door. “But on your own head be it.”

  * * *

  Mech and Loren jumped down from the Shatner’s airlock hatch and hit the ground heavily and lightly, in that order. The landing ramp, as Cal had discovered, was tilted at the same angle as the rest of the ship and overhanging a steep drop, so coming and going via the airlock hatch was the best approach, for now.

  The first thing they’d checked on had been the Warp Disk. Without it, the ship could only run on back-up power supplies, and faster than light travel was impossible. Faster than 150MPH travel was pretty tricky to achieve, in fact, and they’d both been relieved to find the disk undamaged.

  Outside, the news was less good. “Aw man, that thing looks fonked,” said Mech, gesturing to a big sticky-out part he’d forgotten both the name and purpose of. “Is it meant to be hanging off like that?”

  “No,” Loren sighed.

  “Great. Can you fix it?”

  “I can’t.” Loren pointed her eyes very deliberately at the dial on Mech’s chest.

  “OK, OK. I got this,” Mech said, turning the control knob a few notches to the left. His hulking metal frame seemed to sag. There was a high-pitched drone, like the sound of a motor that had previously been running too fast to hear slowing down. The scowl which was a near-constant fixture on Mech’s face became something much lighter and less aggressive.

  “Oh, my,” said Mech, his voice raising a full octave and a half. “The aft shield generator is in terrible shape. I fear it is quite beyond even my capabilities to repair.”

  Loren threw up her hands. “Great. Awesome. Way to go, Teela.”

  “I’m sorry, I am not familiar with a ‘Teela,’” said Mech.

  “Uh, it’s me. I’m Teela. Didn’t I ever tell you my first name before?”

  Mech shook his head. The movement was slow, like a toy whose batteries were on the verge of running out. “I do not believe so. From this position, I can access all 99% of my memory banks, and I can find no knowledge of your first name in there.”

  “Uh, all 99%?” said Loren.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, it’s just… wouldn’t ‘all’ suggest 100%?”

  Mech’s metal jaw opened, as if he were about to speak. He hesitated, a b
rief look of confusion flashing across his face. “I… do not understand,” he said. “According to my processors, I have full and complete access to my memory banks, and yet statistical analysis of the data shows it represents 99% of all data stored.”

  Loren frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I have a secret,” said Mech. “One that even I do not know.”

  “What kind of secret?” asked Loren.

  “You will recall, perhaps, the statement: ‘One that even I do not know,’ which I made but a moment ago,” said Mech. “The nature of the data is unknown to me at this time, and I suggest we have more pressing matters to attend to at the moment. We know the aft shield generator is in disrepair, but we are yet to ascertain the extent of the rest of the damage, I recommend we focus our efforts on that.”

  “Makes sense,” agreed Loren, but before Mech could move off, she put a hand on his shoulder. “And I’m sorry. You know, that I never even told you my name.”

  “Do not concern yourself,” said Mech. “My metal chassis makes it common for people to assume I am emotionless and detached, and that I therefore have no interest in the lives of those around me. It is something I have come not only to accept, but to expect.”

  “Right,” said Loren. Suddenly feeling like the worst person alive. “Well, it’s Teela. My name’s Teela. Use it whenever you want.”

  “I shall. Thank you, Loren,” Mech said. “Now, let us continue our investigation, that we may begin repairs in earnest.”

  * * *

  Since his first meeting with the rest of the crew in President Sinclair’s office, Cal had grown used to the feeling of being dwarfed. Miz towered over him, and Cal couldn’t stand close to Mech without risking some sort of neck injury brought on by too much looking up.

  Despite that – despite the size difference between him and his two crewmates, he’d never truly felt small before. Short, yes. But not small. Never small.

  Until now.

  Graxan of the Greyx stood in the center of the room. Hell, he was the center of the room. He wasn’t as tall or as broad as Mech, yet he somehow seemed bigger in every way. It was as if physics had taken one look at his teeth and claws, announced the normal rules didn’t apply, then backed hastily out of the room while apologizing for any inconvenience caused.