When I regained consciousness, three people stood around me,
with guns pointed at me. The red box still sat on the ground, as did I.
Apparently the effect was something of a paralyzing hypnosis, for as long as
the red box flashed I was incapable of voluntary movement. The men standing
over me wore plain grey uniforms with some foreign badge on the right shoulder.
Their guns were large, silver, and something told me they were not loaded with
bullets.
“What
is going on here?” A woman wearing a better-looking version of the grey uniform
approached us. One of the men faced her and saluted.
“Captain
Gayle, sir! Sentry bot detected this unauthorized life form and issued a
Stowaway Alert! We were just following protocol, sir!”
The
captain bent down and peered at me. “She looks human,” she pronounced, “stand
her up.”
The
two men on either side lowered their guns and each grasped my elbows and raised
me to my feet. Captain Gayle glanced over my jersey top, jeans, and sneakers,
all covered in the muck of my last adventure (having been swiped in slime,
spread with dust, and submerged in water). Her face twisted into a sneer.
“Bring
her to the Medical Bay. I want her decontaminated, examined, immunized—and get
her some proper clothing,” she ordered. “I will send Cher to collect her and
bring her to the Commander. Dismissed!”
The
men led me away, and I could hear the security-bot puttering away after me. We
entered an elevator and the two men swiped keycards over the scanner at the
entrance, one of them swiping twice, I assume to account for the third person
who would be in the elevator. We descended a few floors, and exited in a
narrow, white hallway. Every so often, I could hear an explosion, feel its
vibrations through the floor, but I had no idea what it all meant, or where I
actually was. Was this a space station or simply a futuristic bunker? Oh, why
had I convinced myself to do this? I could only hope that, should the situation
grow too dire, the typewriter (if all this was really happening, and it really
had come to life and shown me the door that started it all) would act as
promised and remove me from the situation.
Now
the men led me through a door into an even narrower hallway, where briefly we
had to walk single-file until it opened up into a large room, much like a small
doctor’s office.
A
grey-haired man in a white frock smiled and approached the men.
“What
have we here?” he asked pleasantly, extending a hand toward me. I could only
move my eyes; if I could move my body, I would have jumped in fright. The man
had three eyes, and six fingers on both hands! One eye fixed on one of the men,
a second on me, and the third glanced at the glowing red box behind me.
“Stowaway
of unknown origin,” one of the guards stated. “Captain Gayle requests that she
be decontaminated, immunized, and examined.”
The
doctor nodded. His third eye swiveled from the box to the guard. “Is that
really necessary?” he asked with a frown.
The
guard nodded briskly. “Stowaway must remain connected to the security-bot
unless completely restrained or unless released by the Commander.”
The
third eye rolled back in his head, “Oh, very well.” He waved a nurse forward. I
was relieved to see that this woman appeared normal as she led me into a small
closet and handed me a white, sterile gown. I slipped my arms into it, and the
fabric immediately closed around behind me. I felt a tingling sensation all
over my body. Something within the fabric of the gown was slowly working into
my skin and spreading all over it. A bell rang, and a digital screen read,
“DECONTAMINATION COMPLETE.” The nurse dropped my clothes into an incinerator.
The shoes she sealed in a transparent box and sent down a chute to some other
area. We exited the closet just as another explosion rocked the doctor’s lab.
He gripped a nearby handle till the floor righted itself.
“Those
beetle-nosed Barabbians!” he cursed. “Why can’t they leave us alone?”
He
smiled and accepted my hand from the nurse. “Jee-too,” he instructed her, “set
the protocols on the security-bot to mute.”
“Yes,
sir.” I felt the numbness leave my body—all except my tongue. That remained
useless in my mouth.
The
doctor led me to a white chair with many silver restraint cuffs around it, and
once I sat in it, he fastened the bars around my neck, forehead, chest, wrists,
elbows, waist, knees, and ankles. He then proceeded to scan, prod, poke,
inject, and inspect every inch of me. None of it was comfortable, but only a
few were slightly painful at all. He measured my limbs and my digits, he
recorded body mass and bone density, he carefully scanned my tongue, blasting
my mouth with a brilliant light that left a numb, burning sensation for several
minutes afterwards. He pulled hairs from my head and examined those thoroughly.
Once all this was done, he allowed me to sit up, restored the paralyzing protocols
on the red box, sent me once more with the nurse to receive a plain grey
uniform like the others (only without the insignia), and as soon as I emerged,
feeling like someone completely other than myself, a nurse escorted me out of
the medical bay and into the custody of a tall, graceful woman with
bright-yellow hair and large violet eyes. She wore a blue shift in the same
style as the uniforms everyone else wore, the first spot of color I’d seen yet.
“Cher,”
the nurse Jee-too (actually, her designation was “G2”, but it was a while
before I realized that) greeted the woman, “Escort the human girl to the bridge
and notify Commander Gerald.”
“Commander
Gerald has been notified,” Cher replied, “Please
follow me.” She turned and began walking
back toward the elevators. I followed her, mostly because I had no other
choice. Just before the doors closed, I could see another door open, and a
group of guards escorted a bloody body on a gurney into the medical bay. A
second one began to follow just before the doors closed completely and Cher and
I rode upwards.
The
elevator had a window in the back. Out of it, at regular intervals, I was able
to glimpse the world outside. It was completely dark, nothing but
stars…ships…lasers…and explosions. Great! Not only had I landed in outer space,
but I was on a space station in the midst of a battle. I wondered what sort of
forces were the enemies; I was lucky to end up on the ship with the humans, for
certain! What would I have done if the adventure had landed me in the midst of
some alien species? I wouldn’t have gotten such gentle treatment, probably.
Cher
escorted me (or rather, my security-bot; I still remained under its influence)
into the bridge of the ship. Several officers stood before strange monitors,
which were a mix of digital and holographic displays. I saw one officer with
three arms controlling an entire board at once. A woman with a large headset
was speaking a strange language into a tube of some sort.
The
Commander, seated at the desk in the front, turned as Cher approached.
“Ah,”
he said, peering at me with keen blue eyes, “this is the stowaway you informed
me about, Cher?”
“Yes,
sir,” Cher replied in that same strange,
hollow voice.
Commander
Gerald pressed a button on his console, and immediately we were enclosed within
silvery walls.
“Disengage
security bot,” he commanded, and the red box darkened as movement returned to
my body. “Now,” he continued, “Where did you come from and how did you arrive
on this ship?”
There
was no straight way to deliver the truth, so I decided I would try to encourage
the idea that I had stowed away somehow.
“I
snuck aboard your ship at the last port,” I explained. “I hid behind some
crates in the docking bay until the coast was clear, then when I tried to sneak
further onto the ship, the security-bot apprehended me.”
The
commander stared at me for a long time; I wondered how far my story was going
to fly. “The last port…” he mused, “You are from Neogratia, then?”
I
nodded, “Yes, sir.”
“I
pride myself in having a secure ship. The only time when you would have been
able to sneak on without detection is during the changing of the guard; I
assume you waited until then to make your move?”
I
was surprised at his convincing manner; he had so thoroughly believed my story
that he was unwittingly supplying me with additional details! “Yes, I did,” I
answered, “I waited until the first guard left, and slipped in before the
relief shift arrived.”
Commander
Gerald leaned back in his chair, smiling in admiration. He leaned forward and
stared me straight in the eye. “You’re lying,” he said.
“Pardon?”
How on earth did he know?
The
commander grinned at me, like a cat with a trapped mouse. “You’re lying, and I
know… because everything I’ve just submitted to you for verification is a load
of nardall-droppings.”
I
was so shocked and embarrassed that I said nothing as my whole face burned.
Commander
Gerald turned to Cher. “Bring up the security footage in the hall where the
stowaway was found.”
Cher
turned to the console next to her and entered a pass-code on the screen. Video
footage of the catwalk I had landed on appeared.
“Archived
footage,” Gerald directed, “At five minutes before the security-bot apprehended
the stowaway.”
Cher
obediently brought up the footage. There were several security-bots patrolling
the area. The walkway stood empty. Then—a blink, and there I was, clutching the
bar for dear life, wearing my old mucked-up clothes.
Gerald
turned to me with a severe expression. “Explain this, if you wouldn’t mind!”
Before I could answer (not like I was going to come up with something
reasonable in that short a time!), he demanded of me, “Civilian use of
teleportation is illegal according to the High Command, of course; how did you
come to use it?”
I
hung my head as if in shame, but inwardly, I was relieved. Teleportation
existed! I could do something with that, certainly. “It wasn’t mine,” I
admitted.
“I
gathered; either you stole it from a diplomat’s ship or you obtained it on the
black market. Your clothes—“
“Were
borrowed from my mistress, a diplomatic emissary from the planet Garramon.”
“Confound
it!” Gerald burst out, “You are lying again! I am the Supreme Commander of the
Galactic forces of The High Council at Phantessa, I know all the planets, and
yours, stranger, is not among them!”
“Of
course not!” I shot back, “The Barabbians destroyed it! We were the last
survivors, trying to reach this station, and we were set upon by their ships.
Surely you saw the explosion just before this time?” I pointed to the time
stamp from the moment I appeared.
Gerald
was recalling that time. I figured that, if he did not remember at least one
explosion during that time, I could maintain that it happened on the other side
of the ship. Finally, he nodded, accepting this. “All right, but that still
does not explain—“
“It
was my mistress,” I said, anxious to get my story out before I forgot certain
key details. “She gave me a strange device and told me to press the button, to
escape. I did so, and ended up where you found me. My name is Laura, and I am
the last of the Garramonians.”
Gerald
shook his head as an alarm beeped on his console. He was too preoccupied with
war against the said Barabbians to be bothered with my drama.
“Very
well,” he sighed, lowering the partitions. “Cher, give her a berth and explain
our situation to her, since obviously she is only aware of her own personal
predicaments,” he almost glared at me, “and cares nothing for the position
she’s thrust us into.”
Cher
maintained a blank expression and replied, “Yes, sir.” She turned to me. “Please follow me,
Laura.”
Before
departing down a narrow tunnel to the Crews Quarters, Cher led me to a small,
dark room with a screen on one side. It almost looked like a theater, but I
didn’t see any projector. I soon discovered why, as Cher herself stood at the
back of the room and projected the screen from her eyes. It hadn’t really
occurred to me (beyond her bland demeanor) that she would not be human, but an
android. She played for me a quick video outlining the current state of the
galaxy, with Phantessa serving as the ruling planet, and the Barabbians a band
of rebel aliens—fierce-looking things, with red scaly skin and long
claws—sought to forcibly wrest power by attacking the other planets. They had
been fighting for some time, the Phantessan forces able to repel the
Barabbians, but they had not yet managed to completely eradicate them.
After
the film, Cher proceeded down one particularly spectacular tunnel encased in a
transparent window of sorts, yet not without protection, as evidenced by the
spidery network of electric tendrils wavering over its perimeter.
We
entered the bay of berths, and Cher passed by several doors before stopping in
front of one. She gave me a key card similar to the ones I’d seen the officers
using.
“This
is your room key,” she explained, “It
must remain on your person at all times.”
She demonstrated how to swipe it over the scanner at the entrance, which
automatically opened the door. I accepted the key and stuck it in the pocket of
my uniform. I entered the room, but beyond a cabinet of extra linens, a bed, a
window, a table, a small chair, and a narrow bathroom with a shower, toilet,
sink, and mirror, there was nothing interesting at all. I approached the door
of my room, and it slid open automatically. I stepped out into the hall to see
what else I could discover. There was a digital map displayed on the wall, with
a flashing light to designate “YOU ARE HERE.” Further down the hall, I saw
rooms labeled the Recreation Hall and the Mess Hall. I decided that there would
be more people to talk to in that direction.
I
had not gone twenty paces before I heard that familiar whine, and I stopped
dead in my tracks. I knew if I could turn around, I would see a security-bot
right behind me, glowing red and freezing me where I stood. I could not
understand it; had I not been accepted on the ship like a normal person? Was I
not wearing proper clothes, did I not hold a keycard in my pocket that granted
me access to all areas of the ship?
“Disable
protocols,” a voice commanded behind me, and I could move again. I turned to
thank my hero.
Behind
me, grinning, stood a man in that same grey uniform, though the insignia was
much plainer than the ones I had seen, for example on Captain Gayle’s or
Commander Gerald’s uniform. He had sandy-colored hair and bright hazel eyes. He
extended a hand.
“Private
Marks,” he introduced himself, “and you are?”
“Laura,”
I replied, shaking his hand, “I am Laura of—“
“Never
mind, you’re on the ship now,” Marks waved a hand dismissively. “We’re all from
somewhere else here; at the rate the Barabbians are at it, a lot of us might
not have homeworlds when this is done.”
“Thank
you for saving me from that security-bot,” I said as the small box in question
scuttled past us. “I don’t know why I keep getting caught in that thing!”
Marks
grinned and reached into my pocket. He pulled out the keycard. “This is why.
Security-bots are trained to sense anyone who doesn’t have a keycard showing outside
the uniform, like this.” He held the
keycard against my sleeve, and it automatically attached itself. “It goes on,
it comes off, but you’ve got to put it on the outside. The pockets are for
things that you want to keep out of sight. The security systems on this ship
can’t sense through clothing.” He winked at my furious blush. “Are you hungry?
Have you eaten yet?”
The
truth was, I could not remember the last time I had eaten. It felt like weeks
ago. “Yes, I am very hungry,” I said.
Marks
took my hand, “Come with me; I was just en route to the mess hall myself.”
We
received our trays of food at the mess hall counter, served by amiable droids.
Marks was very kind to explain what everything was, and how it tasted; he
seemed to accept that I must be from a planet that never had these things.
Furthermore, he was very curious to find out what we ate on my planet; he’d
never imagined fruit like ours; the one thing that blew his mind when I
described it was grain.
“You
mean to tell me that food on your world grows on stalks?”
I
nodded, “Yes.”
“And
the little tufts at the top, you eat them?”
I
had to bite back laughter at his incredulity, “Of course. The remainder, we
feed to our animals.”
He
seemed to be fine with that one, but he pursued the idea of grain a bit
further, “How does it taste?”
I
glanced over my tray; all fresh fruits and vegetables, nearly no starches at
all. The closest thing on my plate to the taste of grain was probably a starchy
root Marks told me was called nebbin. I
held it up.
“It’s
kind of like this, only more dry, and not as sweet.”
Marks
grimaced, “How on earth can such a thing be in any way appetizing?”
I
sighed, “We grind it up, mix it with water and sugar—“
“Pardon;
sugar?”
I
glanced at the condiment section of the cafeteria counter. “Granulated
sucrose,” I explained it as near as I could to something he would recognize.
Marks
nodded, “Ah, I see. So you mix it with other things to make it palatable?”
I
nodded, “Yes. Mix it up and bake it, and it becomes a dish we call bread.”
“Fascinating!”
Marks dug into his meal, his mind spinning with the newfangled notion of bread.
“So, Marks,” I continued, changing
the subject, “What do you do on this ship? Are you a soldier?”
Marks
shook his head, “No, I’m only a private; privates don’t fight. I’m the
station’s handyman, a man-of-all-work, if you will. If something breaks,
someone calls me and I fix it; if something needs doing, someone calls me and I
do it; if someone needs something, they call me and I get it for them.”
I
found this young man very fascinating. Most of the people had eaten and left
the hall, but we remained, among cleaning droids and empty tables.
“Do
you think you might have to fight eventually?”
“Goodness,
I hope not, actually,” he admitted with a laugh, “though there have been many
casualties.”
The
largest explosion I’d experienced yet rocked the ship, and an ear-piercing
alarm forestalled any further conversation. Marks took one glance at the
flashing red lights and gasped, “Lockdown!"
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