Dysfunctional Space Quest

  If I had a credit note for every time we’ve barreled out of some exploding structure with two shot engines and fire on our tails, I wouldn’t need to be on this ship. If I had a second note for every time we then got chased all the way to the next warp gate, I would be living like His Scaly Highness. I’ll tell you what’s supposed to happen. We’re supposed to get to the warp gate, navigate the currents of the highrealm to the correct exit gate, and pop back into outer space a few light-days from home. On paper, it seems simple. But no! The universe can never, not once, let things go as they’re supposed to!

  “Hey Captain Gnash, if by some teeny tiny microscopic chance we happened to get followed by two mosquito ships that are charging their blasters at us, what should I do?” Clover asks nervously.

  There. Do you see what I mean?

  I groan, leap into the pilot’s seat, and seize the controls. “You charge our blasters at them!” I shout, pushing the ship into a barrel roll to avoid the first enemy shots. We are dead, dead, dead, I tell you. “And for goodness sake, find out if Vin’s got the coordinates for the warp gate yet!”

  Clover scampers off while I shift all my focus to evasive maneuvers. Later, when the blasters stop firing and we can all take a minute to breathe, I’ll probably feel sorry for yelling at her. She’s proven her value when it comes to mechanical repairs, and that’s saying a lot, especially since humans are so new at space travel. I have very little doubt that she’ll be able to fix our engines once we land. Unfortunately, I have a whole lot of doubt that we’ll land, or even make it to the highrealm, if the mosquitofolk score another hit on us.

  “Captain?” Clover’s back. “Vin looks like he’s taking care of the blasters right now, which is a really good thing because about five more mosquito ships just started chasing us, but I got the coordinates from the computer and I—”

  “Coordinates. Give. Now,” I croak.

  “I was saying I put them in,” she chirps. “The warp gate is just up ahead.”

  The ship lurches forward violently and I see it, a hole in the empty darkness of space. I ask all I can out of the remaining engine and angle us toward the gate just as the mosquito ships fire. There is a bright flash, way too bright, and suddenly red warnings are lighting up all over the dashboard. The next moment, the gate is closing behind us and we’re as safe as anyone can be in the middle of the highrealm.

  I look over at Clover. She’s clutching the chair for support, her knuckles as white as stardust. She manages a smile. “Hey, we made it, right?” Behind her, a computerized voice cheerfully announces that our remaining engine has stopped running.

  “Why does this always happen to us?” I sigh, pressing a claw to the side of my face. “Clover, since we’re likely about to die here, I want to thank you for being a mostly- competent crew member. You’ve been—”

  “Gnash, you are wasting valuable time whining,” Vin states, standing in the hallway. Both pairs of his arms are folded, and he looks just as dour as the other mosquitofolk we’ve been spending the day evading. “Come on. We have to get at least one of the engines fixed.”

  “Well, I guess I’ve got my work cut out for me,” Clover says happily. “Vin, mind standing guard for me?”

  “No,” he replies. Two hands instinctively reach for the pair of pistols in his belt. As our muscle, Vin’s helped us out of a fair share of scrapes, be it against mosquitofolk mercenaries, squamatan soldiers, or whatever insanity the highrealm decides to throw at us. Of course, he’s not nearly as good as a larger, stronger female mosquitoperson would have been, but at least he doesn’t drink blood.

  Well, they’re out there and I’m in here, and since I can’t exactly pilot a ship with no functioning engines, I’m left twiddling my claws. Absentmindedly, I head to the cargo room and check on the stuff we just risked our lives smuggling. The barrels of fine capsaicin powder are all intact, although the rope tying them together has started to come loose. I quickly secure it. Genuine Earth peppers are hard to come by, especially since humans own the only planet that grows them. Oh, and one of the mosquitofolk empires is still sore on losing that war with them so it’s shooting down their trade ships. My proud and ancient race will get around to stopping them eventually, but it’s tough work keeping the galaxy on an even keel.

  It’s also tough keeping a moral compass when the alternatives are so much more lucrative.

  Still, as far as I’m concerned, the demand for capsaicin powder is high enough that smuggling it can turn a pretty good profit. Hopefully, it’ll at least cover the cost of repairing the ship. I’m still doubtful that we’ll last long enough to sell anything, though.

  With the smuggled goods secure, I head back to the front of the ship. I can see Clover through the window. She’s upside down and smiling, but since she’s facing the wrong way it sort of looks like a frown. “Good news, Captain!” she calls through the ship’s radio once she sees me. “Two of the engines are totally busted and we’re gonna have to replace them. On the third, one of the pistons was pretty badly cracked, which is usually a really bad problem—”

  “How is that good news?” I exclaim.

  Clover frowns. Upside down, it sort of looks like a smile. “I was about to say I was able to replace it.”

  Well, one of our many problems has been solved, at least. “Great,” I sigh. “At least we’re only mostly crippled, instead of completely screwed.”

  “Right you are, Captain!” the cheerful Clover replies. She heads back into the ship with Vin close behind. I pull up a map of the highrealm, searching for a suitable exit gate. Clover migrates over to my shoulder to read it too, no doubt mesmerized by the currents pushing everything around and the gates opening and closing. I shoo the easily-distracted mammal away. She takes a seat next to Vin. “So, what do you all wanna do after we get this stuff sold?”

  Vin shrugs noncommittally. “Make repairs. Stock up on supplies. Get paid.” “That’s very practical of you, Vinny,” Clover nods.

  “My name identification is Vin-05-rqx-433, not Vinny.”

  “Oops, my bad!” says Clover. “I can call you Vin, though, right?”

  Vin watches her silently. “Yes. I answer to that,” he says.

  “Okay!” Clover crosses her legs. “Anyway, once we land, I think I’ll do that too. Oh, and I can’t wait to write back to my family! And I’d like to start figuring out how that plasma blaster we came across a few missions back works.” She turns to me. “How about you, Captain Gnash? What are your plans?”

  My plan at the moment is to continue driving with as few distractions as possible. “Well, at this rate, we’re not going to get home,” I grumble. “Limping along like this, we’re easy prey for any ship or highrealm beast that cruises along. And even if, by some small chance, they don’t see us, we’ll still never make it to the right exit gate in time. We’re dead, I tell you. Dead.”

  She gets up and pats my shoulder. “Come on, Captain, you say that about everything! You have to start thinking positively for once!”

  “No I don’t. Especially not here, in the middle of the highrealm, with one working engine.”

  “There’s no better place to start! Come on, Vin, back me up! Our captain needs some sunshine in his life!”

  “Letting your negative emotions distract you has decreased our chances of survival by a significant percentage.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “I’m not letting my emotions distract me! I’m telling the truth!” I shout.

  “Oh, Captain Gnash, I’m sorry you’re so upset! Do you want to take a break from driving and talk about it?”

  “No!” I yell. “Look! Your happy delusions don’t change the fact that we’re completely doomed! They don’t make the universe less out to get us, and they don’t fix our engines! Heck, I bet you a credit note that we’ll never make it out of here alive, and even if we do, we won’t be able to sell a thing! Just watch it happen!”

  Since my luck is terrible, we not only make it there in one piece, but the capsaicin goes for triple its expected price. See how the universe hates me?

  Repairs Needed

  You know what would be great? If we could factor in the cost of repairs at the start of the mission and auto-deduct it from the paycheck as a sunk cost. Actually, you know what would be even better? If we didn’t have to finish every mission with half the ship in the repair shop. Actually, come to think of it, that would be absolutely flipping fantastic!

  “Were you able to fix the engine?” I mutter to Clover, seeing her approach. She’s holding a wrench and her head-fur is a frizzy mess, and as usual, she’s smiling.

  She nudges a wisp of hair off of her greasy forehead. “Well, twelve of the hyper-pistons were cracked and the O-ring was totally melted, and you wouldn’t believe what happened to the head gasket—”

  “Clover. I don’t need to hear the technical details on how the poor thing was mutilated. I need to know if you and your father were able to fix it.”

  “You’ve gotta let me finish sometimes, Captain Gnash,” she chirps. “Yes, we were able to get the engine fixed. Dad also replaced the other two, and recalibrated the navigator, all with the usual discount. No need to tear your scales out, see?”

  “Discount or no, I’m still paying for it,” I mutter as Clover’s father hobbles over. His head-fur is grey, a mammalian sign of aging, and below his shorts I can see where his real leg ends and the bionic one begins. He’d gotten the replacement after the war that shouldn’t have happened in the first place, seeing as His Scaly Highness had specifically told the mosquitofolk that new intelligent species were to welcomed as potential business partners and not eliminated so their planets could be turned into swampworld breeding pits. If humans like Clover’s dad hadn’t put up so much of a resistance until my species arrived, we might have been stuck with genocidal bugs as our only neighbors until the heat death of the universe. I try to keep that respect in mind as he lapses into a rapid Humish—or whatever their human language is called—conversation with his daughter over what I suspect is my piloting skills. Whatever. At least I have my genocidal bug neighbor to check in with. Vin is casually polishing one of his four pistols, not taking notice of the wide-eyed human young who are watching him. They’re kind of cute, in a mammalian sort of way. One of the braver ones creeps closer, and Vin, not even looking up, raises his wings. The children scatter. “Hey, Vin!” I wave. “How’re the guns looking?”

  Not taking his eyes off the pistol, Vin asks, “Do you pay me to participate in banal conversations?”

  “You know what, Vin? I don’t pay myself to put up with antisocial mercenaries, but I tend to find myself doing it anyway.”

  “That’s your fault, then.” He lowers his wings and finally looks up. “What do you require?”

  I shrug. “I dunno, I just figured we could talk. I mean, we’re on the same crew and spend a lot of time together, so it’s kind of weird that we’re still such strangers.”

  Vin stares blankly. “We’re not strangers. I am already aware of your shortcomings and faults. You demonstrate them on an almost daily basis and talk about them at length on the days you do not.”

  I close my eyes and count to eight, and when that’s finished I count to eight again. “You know what, Vin? I’ve changed my mind about talking to you.”

  “Thank you,” he replies, returning to his polishing.

  Mumbling some half-finished insults in his direction, I sit down on a rock and sulk. “All right, galaxy, you can stop laughing at any time, because I fail to see the humor in this.” Whatever. At least the rock is warm. I could use a sunny nap.

  The next time I open my eyes, the children are hovering around me. “I’m not giving you any food, so you should probably just leave,” I grumble. They do not, proving that not even alien kids are willing to respect me. Whatever. I am just going to mope around with the kiddies until the ship is ready. And teach them about warp gates since they’re so insistent on hearing about them. And regale them with stories about my interstellar adventures. I’ve got quite a surplus of those, actually.

  ———

  “Aww, look at Captain Gnash playing with the kids,” Clover giggles. She turned to Vin. “Come on, even you can’t call that not adorable.”

  Vin hums noncommittally. “He does have a way of keeping their attention, and of putting up with their annoyances. Admittedly, he is reasonably good at it.” His gaze returns to Clover. “If you ever inform him of this compliment, his ego will never be a manageable size again.”

  “Duly noted.”

  Taverns are Better in Space

  If I had a credit note for every time a job ended me up on a freezing snowball of a planet...actually, wait a minute. I respect myself more than that. If I had a hundred credit notes for every time a job ended me up on a freezing snowball of a planet, I’d still feel like it wasn’t worth freezing my tail off.

  “How many more to go?” I say, fangs chattering as I carry another barrel off of the ship.

  “Significantly more than if you put most of your energy towards working rather than complaints,” says Vin, snippy as always.

  “Four more, Captain Gnash,” chimes in Clover, much more helpfully. “Oh, and then we just need to refuel, and check the ship, and make sure that our client doesn’t try to double cross us with another concealed laser gun, but that’s about it before we can leave.” She unloads another barrel, leaving me to fumble with my bulky heated jacket of pure misery. It’s one of those rare, rare times that I envy her for being a warm-blooded mammal.

  At any rate, we manage to get lucky and not get double crossed, which is unexpected but appreciated. I’m counting our credit notes and feeling uncharacteristically generous, so I find myself offering to treat the crew to a night at the tavern. “Got any suggestions?” I ask.

  “Oh!” squeals Clover. “There’s this new bar on Earth Two that my cousin was raving to me about the other day. We should totally check it out!”

  Internally I groan. Earth Two is one of a dozen planets that my species gave to humanity as a ‘welcome to the greater galactic community’ present, as while we don’t expect them to forge a massive empire anytime soon, it’s always good to have some backups in case a nearby star goes supernova. Of course, all the planets we gave them were too cold for my reptilian species to live on without a significant cost in terraforming and our scans had already determined that they had no valuable resources so they were pretty much useless to us, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

  Seeing that Vin is also shaking his head, I say, “Look, I’m sure your cousin has good taste, but I think we’ve had enough sub-zero temperatures for one day.”

  “Fair enough,” she shrugs. “Vin, do you have any places in mind?”

  His wings flutter slightly as he reaches over to punch a location into our ship’s navigation system. “Vin,” I warn, “this place better not have any fighting rings.”

  “It does not.”

  “And I mean animal fighting rings as well! This has to be strictly legal and safe if you want me to treat you two to anything.”

  “Gnash, you may wish to remind yourself that we are all smugglers, which is neither a strictly legal nor safe profession.” He steers the ship into the upcoming warp gate and I see the stars twist around us out the window. “Nevertheless, I assure you that this is indeed legal. In spite of your best efforts toward the contrary, you may actually enjoy yourself.”

  The ship flies through a warp gate close to our destination and we touch down. Most of the people at the tavern are squamatans like me, but there are also a fair few mosquitofolk and even a couple of adventurous humans scattered around. We take a seat and place our orders.

  The selection of music isn’t what I’d call fine art, but it’s above passable. The chatter is pleasant, and when we finally get our drinks, they’re actually pretty good. Aside from starting the morning on that icebox of a world, I don’t think that anything has gone wrong today. “A toast,” I say, “to a day free of double crossings, explosions, and general mishaps!”

  Obviously, the moment I say this, the door of the tavern is blown apart by an explosion. When the dust clears, a female mosquitoperson of obvious rank and her accompaniment of armed soldiers are standing in the hole. Her face is uncovered, but all the soldiers are wearing helmets and thick visors, making them the textbook definition of faceless goons. “Greetings lifeforms,” the lead mosquitoperson says, “I am Pel-58-edk-907, the new regent-general of this sector. We have severed communications with the outside galaxy, so resistance is futile. Surrender your blood and credit notes promptly.”

  I sink down into my chair, trying to remain out of sight. My glass got knocked over and my clothes are now drenched with the stuff, which is a bit of a shame since I’d really liked that drink. As everyone is now hiding underneath the tables, I crawl over to Clover and ask, “So, what’s the situation?”

  “Well, you and I didn’t bring any weapons, I can’t get any comms out so Pel did manage to cut them off, and we’re really outnumbered.”

  “And?” I press.

  “And what?”

  “Well, this is the part where you typically follow up your string of bad news with something useful. What’s the upside?”

  Clover frowns. “Sorry, Captain, I don’t actually have any good news this time.”

  “Of course,” I groan. Turning to Vin, I ask, “Happen to have any bright ideas?” Vin responds by shooting the lead mosquitoperson. Everyone stares at him, including the faceless goons. “I do not suppose we need to continue our employment if our leader is deceased,” one of them finally says.

  “Agreed. I am joyful that I negotiated to be payed in advance,” another replies. She heads off, likely to look for her next job on the mercenary forums.

  I sigh at Vin. “Strictly legal and safe, eh?”

  “You’re welcome,” he replies.

  I wish I could have told Vin that he could buy his own drinks for getting us into this mess, but the bartender gives all three of us a free round for saving everyone. I hate how things work out sometimes.