by

Yanick Champoux (38%)

Lee Watts (18%)

Josip Nað (17%)

Michel Lacombe (16%)

Dorian (4%)

goldkngt55 (3%)

Andrew Avila (2%)

Marten (1%)

Oliver (1%)

Part 32

Lee Watts (14/2/2002)

As the shuttle continued to rise up into the atmosphere, Skull's single particle scan came back. 8 rows back, aisle seat. His nephew was there. Glancing at the chrome-plated panel in front of him, he fixed his eyes on his target. Skull had only seen his nephew once, just after he was born and in similar anonymity. Since his transformation, he did not dare show himself. To his family, he was dead. And that was how it was to be, except with his sister.

The boy's resemblance to his sister was notable. The reading from his enhanced senses picked up the minute details. Obviously, her husband's gene had been dominated by hers. The boy was suffering from something. His pulse rate and reaction times were slowed. What had happened to the boy?

The stewardesses, shortly after the "remain seated" sign has gone out, begin passing out dinner trays. Some fruit, a meat stew, bread and cheese, and a desert pastry. Skull looks at these and moves them around on his tray but does not eat. Recovering his tray, he handed it back to the stewardess.

Skull rose from his chair as the captain's voice comes over the speakers, "Hello, this is Captain Milan. Welcome aboard the shuttle Andrea. We will be docking with the Hazat Comet in a little over three hours. My entire staff and I hope that your stay with us will be pleasant and memorable. If there is anything what we can do to make your experience more enjoyable, please let us know and we will do everything in our means to satisfy your request. So, please set back and enjoy your ride."

Skull walked down the aisle toward the aft of the shuttle. He walks slowly by the three oddly matched passengers with his nephew. His scans show that the boy is suffering from trauma due to explosive decompression. But there is something else wrong. His brain patterns are scrambled, jumbled together, irregular. Demuel noticed that the old man passing by them let his eyes linger of all three of them for just a bit too long for just a passing glance. But the old fart didn't even measure up to a minimal threat level. Demuel returned his attention to Lima.

The image of an old man in his 60's sat down at one of the recreational tables in the aft common room. Verities of entertainment options present themselves to him: chess, cards, music jack and 3D holo-dramas. Just a few feathers each. They all disappear from view, leaving him a clear vantage point to watch his nephew and his captors.

Byran fumed. The Demuel/Maddie combination was busy trying to arouse the new found twinkie named Lima. His only other companion to speak with was the brain dead boy sitting next to him. And that was no good. Byran was entering stage 2 of grief. He had lost his greatest possession, the Baboon. 14 years of slaving away to pay her off. He should have known better then to take the Vau contract. He knew that it would be troublesome. But he had no idea that they would blow her up to cover their tracks. He was sitting in a passenger seat and they called this food?

Unable to amuse himself by looking out a window without any control of where he was going was beginning to annoy him. Unable to stand being trapped in the small passenger space by a brain dead boy, Byran shoved his way into the aisle and walked to the aft stewardess station. He needed a drink.

"Hello, Sir. What can I get you?"

"Alcohol. What's de strongest dat you got?"

'I'm sorry, Sir. We do not serve mixed drinks on this flight. Can I offer you a Makta Ale?"

"Ya mean ya do't serve mixed drinks in dis section, ah? Only in da Nobles' section? I'm a wheeler, ya see," showing his ring of keys. "We be like brother and sister, you and me. Yea?"

The stewardess's expression showed the shock of acknowledgement. "I'll see what I can do, Sir," she said as she decanted the amber contents of a bottle into a frosted mug. "In the mean time, please have this ale. On the house."

"Thank ya." Byran scanned the aft area for an unoccupied table, but found none. He didn't want to share a table with kids playing games and couples or larger groups occupied most of the others.

"Dis seat taken?" he said the old man sitting at a table by himself.

"No," grunted the old man, not even taking the time to looking at Byran as he sat down. 26 different methods of kill the black pilot passed through his brain. And those were just using the glass of ale in his hands.

The ale was a good one, not one of the cheap Makta she had offered. Byran smiled as he drained the last of the ale form the mug, setting the mug on the table. His beer finished, he motioned for another and turned his attention to the old man sitting across from him. The old eyes seemed sharp, and they focused out into the nothingness of space, through the window beside Demuel.

"So. Where ya head'n?"

"Not far. Just to the next system," muttered the old man not turning his attention from the window. He could use the pilot's tongue in at least 4 methods to kill him. A stewardess brought over another ale in a frosted mug.

"You's a pilot?"

"Have been," lied the old man. "But I'm retired."

"Ah, I can see dat. You look at space with a pilot's eye." Byran drank half the mug of ale before returning it to the table. "Ya look with dat want. To take control. To be in charge once more." The old man's eyes left the window and turned to Byran. This pilot was more observant then he looked. Skull was going to need to divert the pilot's attention away from himself.

"Does it show that much? And what about you? I take it that you don't own your own ship since you a passenger?" Skull saw the pain of that statement as it stung the pilot through the ale. "Don't worry. You're young. Your ship will come in one day." The old man smiled at Byran. That should be enough to make the pilot move along. A sensor registered that his neurotoxin reservoir was full.

"She's gone." Byran put his head in his hands. "My ship, she's da one that blowed up as we was a leavin'." Byran had found kindred soul. This old pilot would understand the loss of the Baboon. Or so he had thought. The eyes staring back at him were not filled with compassion as he had expected. They seemed rather cold. Like they were cutting through him. Byran slow stood up. The smile on the old man's face never changed.

"Ah, then you'll be claiming the insurance? What was she, a rust bucket? Won't be the first time a down and out pilot tried to cut his losses."

"Ya don't know what ya talkin' about. Won't me who blowed her up." Byran finished his ale. But he set the mug down a little too hard, shattering it on the table top. "Why am I wasting my time with you, old man? A real pilot don't retire. It's in the blood. We fly." Byran tried to return to his seat, but found himself falling face forward onto the deck. His knees had buckled under him, like a grav-plate had malfunctioned for an instance thus doubling the force being applied. But to everyone else, a drunken pilot had tripped over his own feet, falling on his face.

The old man got up, looking disgusted at the young pilot lying on the floor. He returned to his seat in the front row. The stewardess came over to assist Byran to his feet and helped into his seat.

"If you promise to stay in your seat, Sir, you can have this," the stewardess said as she presented a hip flask.

"Yea, yea. I'll not be leaving my seat for the rest of the trip." Byran accepted the flask, tucking it away in his coat as she walked away.

"What was that all about?" Maddie asked, leaning close to Byran's ear.

'Never you mind, Dem. Go back to ya woman talk."

The Comet sat in orbit between Vera Cruz and its moon. She was a big liner. The shuttles landing and leaving looked like flies on the carcass of a dead brute. The Andrea landed in one of the upper bays. Maddie and Byran helped the boy off the shuttle. The old man, no where to be seen, must have already departed. Stepping out of the shuttle, the group falls in line behind a group of priests at the check-in counter.

"Excuse me," came a deep, rough voice from behind them. Turning back to see who was now assaulting them, Byran faced gray robes with four arms. In each of the four arms were traveling cases, emblazoned with the words "Temple Mai Entertainers". Maddie shrieked as she turned to face the 8' tall vorox, as her last experience with a vorox had not gone well. Only Ben seemed glad to see the four-armed beast. Memories of childhood priests dancing and acting out plays begin to surface out of the maelstrom of his brain.

Maddie, switching into combat mode, grabs a hand as it lands on her shoulder. The priest is mid-way through the throw when Demuel realizes that she is about to crush the head of a priest on the landing bay's decking. He turns her body slightly and applies rotational pressure to the priest's arm, sacrificing her body as he bringing the priest down gently. Applause breaks out from the surrounding passengers. Surprisingly, the priest is smiling.

"Very Good. You must have heard of us," he says to the other passengers while helping Maddie up from the decking. "We will be performing each night in the main common room. Please join us as we share stories from the Omega Gospels in a style unique to our order." More applause resounds and then the crowd begins to thin as the excitement is finished.

"Very impressive maneuvers. For a moment there, I thought that you were trying to kill me," he says to Maddie. "I am Brother Mi Tou Chi.

"Sorry. I've had bad experiences with Vorox," said Maddie as she massaged her arm and shoulder.

"Ah, yes. This is Arguggath," said Brother Chi. "But we all call him Brother Garth."

"Sorry to have startled you, Miss…" moaned Arguggath, his head sagging low.

"That's alright."

"You will come and attend one of our shows?" inquired Brother Chi. "I insist. As special guests."

"Yea," said Ben as he clapped his hands together. It was the first word that Ben had spoken in weeks, since his trip through the gate without the Sathra dampenner. He was beginning to recover, his brain rewiring itself to compensate for the damage caused by unshielded exposure.

"It is agreed then, my lord," said Brother Chi, bowing to the young Li Halan. "I will leave word about your attendance. Until then." The half dozen priests bowed to Ben and the others as they made their way into the liner.

"What was that all about," asked Lima.

"Never mind," said Maddie. "Let's get onboard before something else happens."

"Welcome aboard the Hazat Comet. May I have your tickets, please?" The name tag read "Gwen". She was just as vocabulary challenged as Lima. Maddie handed her the tickets, but she did not respond to the charm as Lima had.

"You are on Desk 6, Suite 623. Follow the yellow line to the stairs, go up two flights. Your suite is mid-ship. Here is a guide to the resort areas. Levels 1 and 2 are restricted to Nobles and their invited guests only. Level 4 is the restaurant level. Levels 7 and 8 are recreational levels. All dueling is restricted to level 7. Please note that all weapons must be check at this time. Do you have anything to claim at this time?"

"Man, she has some lungs. Wonder if…" thought Demuel.

"Don't go there," replied Maddie.