The Simpleton QUEST Page 3

The other beasts became still. Their eyes leveled on the dead spinktroll. In unison, they scampered away—disappearing into the trees without so much as a peep.

  Kyle and Tony high-fived one another, hollering insults and obscenities toward the now eerily quiet jungle as Cuddy stood nearby, uselessly watching.

  Jackie was still on the ground—her clothes in tatters. Becoming aware of her condition, she adjusted the torn fabric on her shirt to better cover her now-exposed chest. As they turned to face Cuddy, no one spoke.

  Jackie glared at him and asked, “So how far are you going to go with this pacifist bullshit, Cuddy? Would you let the monkeys rape me…kill me? I thought I was more important to you than that.”

  “No…you have it wrong. I tried, honestly I tried…but…“ his words spilled out, sounding hollow even to himself. He could see in her face that she didn’t believe him and he felt ashamed. I knew it…Tow chose the wrong person. What am I even doing here?

  Kyle offered Jackie a hand up, but ignoring it, she rose on her own, staring down in disgust first at her bloody hands, then at her ripped, soiled clothing.

  Embarrassed, Cuddy turned his attention to the heritage pod. He noticed it was still pretty much in one piece—even after falling the ten or twelve feet. Like the other pods they’d recovered, the thing was roughly bell-shaped. Mostly in varying shades of brown, it was composed of large overlapping leaf fronds. Like it did the first time he ever saw one, back in the sub-deck of the Evermore, it reminded him of some kind of ginormous hive.

  It figured, only now was he able to inwardly get centered—to concentrate—with apparent little effort. Using his outstretched hands, he mentally coaxed the pod upward —watching it slowly rise into the air as Jackie, standing nearby, clucked her tongue.

  Bob said, “We better get moving. We have less than seven minutes before the Howsh ship arrives at these coordinates.”

  Bob helped him guide the pod as they headed toward their not-so-distant awaiting spacecraft.

  Chapter 5

  Using their shared Pashire telepathy, Bob updated Cuddy almost continuously with data—providing spatial coordinates, velocity numbers, minute directional alterations—all of it. There was little doubt that the approaching Howsh ship’s bridge crew, pinpointing them with their sensors, knew exactly where the Evermore sat, just outside the jungle they’d emerged from. The enemy would be equally aware there were four travelers, plus the orb, as they hurried along over the rough terrain toward the ship. They also would observe the heritage pod they were doing their best to transport quickly.

  Above and beyond what the orb was informing him, Cuddy had done his own rough mental calculations. Determining the time frame necessary for the alien vessel—once it entered the atmosphere—to make a full descent to the surface and reach them before they took off, heading back into space. Hopefully, they could lose them with the Evermore’s superior propulsion system, but it would be a race against time—one still too close to call.

  Bob hovered out in front, guiding the pod using its two articulating arms.

  “We’re almost there…I got this, Bob. Go ahead and prepare the ship,” Cuddy ordered. “Open the sublevel access hatch…power-up the emersion drive!”

  “Yes, Captain. Note, the Howsh ship will be upon us in less than three minutes.”

  “Then best you hurry it up,” he told the orb.

  While Tony and Kyle still seemed to be on a macho-high from vanquishing the spinktrolls, Jackie remained quiet. She hadn’t once looked at Cuddy. He felt her total disgust for the whole situation— for him. He contemplated trying to explain what had happened, but he knew it would come out like he was making excuses—sounding totally lame. A part of him wondered if his inaction was due to something other than not being able to concentrate. Maybe it really was a hidden reluctance to use violence. He didn’t think so but didn’t know for sure.

  They reached the ship in two minutes. It took Cuddy another minute to get the heritage pod positioned onto the sub-level lift platform then elevate it up into the ship’s underbelly.

  The others were already seated, strapping in by the time Cuddy entered the bridge. Bob was at the forward console. He took in the viewscape display and saw the quickly-approaching Howsh ship. Realizing, unfortunately, that the alien ship was right on time.

  Cuddy pulled up on the controls, raising the Evermore off the ground. Three consecutive plasma strikes struck the ship’s outer hull, violently jolting those in the bridge to the point he had to reach out to the nearest bulkhead to steady himself.

  “Shields are down to sixty percent, Captain.”

  “You better find something to hold onto, Bob,” he yelled over his shoulder to the hovering orb. Cuddy increased their ascent—nearly redlining the Evermore’s lift thrusters. Plasma strikes coincided with bright-red flashes of light being cast in through the windows.

  Kyle, craning his neck to see out the starboard-side window, yelled, “I see it! They’re coming around to take another pass at us…another strike.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re not waiting around for that.” Cuddy jammed the controls forward as far as they would go, engaging the Evermore’s big emersion drive. The sudden acceleration of g-forces forced him to tighten his grip on the controls. Feeling his feet start to slide backward on the deck, he heard a series of loud clanging noises coming from somewhere aft.

  Kyle said, “There goes, Bob. You told it to hold on…guess it didn’t listen.”

  Cuddy’s attention was focused on the viewscape display. Represented as icons, he noted the Evermore, quickly moving up through the planet’s atmosphere, and the Howsh ship still in pursuit—though steadily losing ground. He knew once they hit open space it would be all over for them—they’d never be able to keep up.

  Cuddy’s thoughts drifted to what their mission was really about. It wasn’t about what was, or was not, going on between Jackie and himself. It wasn’t about arrogant Brian back on Primara. Nor was it about one more interstellar chase—evading one more Howsh spaceship. No…what it should—must be about was the heritage pod secured down on the sub-deck. About those hundreds, perhaps thousands, of life forces residing within that vulnerable pod. It was about bringing a race of people back from the brink of extinction. That was the mission they’d all signed up for. To accomplish what Tow and the others on Primara were incapable of completing themselves. To venture out into distant space and find all the hundreds of similar heritage pods—each strategically hidden where the Howsh, hopefully, could not easily locate them.

  “Why are we slowing down?” Tony asked.

  Cuddy refocused his attention on the viewscape display. Tony was partially right. “We’re not slowing down, Tony…they’re picking up speed.”

  “Then go faster, man!” Tony exclaimed.

  Bob entered the bridge at that moment, hovering at Cuddy’s side. There was a good-sized dent, clearly visible on one side of the orb.

  “We’re pretty much throttled-up all the way, Tony. They shouldn’t be gaining on us. We have the faster ship.”

  Bob said, “My sensors tell me this craft has not the same configuration that’s found on other Howsh vessels we have encountered in the past, such as the Arm of Lia. This Howsh ship, the Mannia Han, is a later generation scout ship. Faster. More powerful weaponry…far better armaments.”

  They watched as the enemy vessel moved closer yet. Although still not within range to fire off its big plasma guns, an attack was mere moments from happening—Cuddy was certain of that.

  “So…we’re sitting ducks? Waiting to be picked off?” Jackie asked, now also standing at the forward console.

  Cuddy hadn’t noticed her getting up. He didn’t answer her—didn’t have an answer.

  “Is there anything I can do?” she asked. There was a note of kindness in her voice he hadn’t heard of late.

  The Mannia Han was now close enough for Bob to put her image up on the viewscape display. All sharp edges and angular design, the ship certainly gave the impression of
swiftness. The aft backside of the vessel appeared thick and substantial—a robust propulsion system obviously evident.

  “Fuck,” Tony said. “We’re like…in trouble here…aren’t we? This could be it. Lights-out time.”

  “Shut up, Tony,” Jackie said, without looking at him.

  The Evermore wobbled as several bright-red energy bolts sliced through space in front of them.

  “The enemy is firing,” Bob said. “Shields holding.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wizard,” Tony said.

  Cuddy stared at the viewscape image of the Mannia Han for a long moment—then closed his eyes. He mentally pictured the vessel’s bridge—one not so different in size from the Evermore’s. He pictured the Howsh helmsman, hairy and brutish, standing there—working the controls. Telepathically, Cuddy scanned the alien’s thoughts. This Howsh didn’t like being there. He felt nauseous. Was aware of a foul taste—perhaps something he’d eaten for lunch.

  “They’re gaining on us,” Tony said.

  Breathing in, relaxing, Cuddy stayed with the mental connection—but doubts were trying to infiltrate his thoughts. Then he picked up on another scent. It was Jackie’s shampoo—strawberry. She was there, next to him. He felt her upper arm contacting his own. It was warm. He felt her eyes on him.

  Cuddy said, “Okay…I can see them…the Howsh. There are six of them within the compartment. Looks like they’re ready to fire off another round of energy bolts.”

  No one spoke.

  Cuddy personally experienced the helmsman as he reached for the firing trigger at the top of the navigation control mechanism. Telepathically, Cuddy willed his furry arm in an alternate direction—knocking it off to the left. Then he mentally persuaded the alien to take a firm grasp of the throttle controls. He felt the alien’s hesitation. His rising fear. Cuddy jammed the helmsman’s arm all the way forward, nearly yanking the appendage out of the socket. The Howsh pilot cried out in pain as the alien ship lurched forward. Angry, the bridge officer behind started barking off loud commands. Scanning the unfamiliar control board, Cuddy found what he was looking for—a collection of touchpad controls that both configured and engaged the ship’s Faster Than Light (FTL) Nav System. With a series of quick taps, still using the now highly distressed helmsman’s right index finger, Cuddy set a new, light years away, course destination. With one final tap of a finger and one blink of an eye later, the Mannia Han was gone.

  Cuddy opened his eyes. Peering down to his left, he found Jackie staring back at him.

  “Now that’s how you impress a girl. Not sure what just did…but it worked. Keep it up, Cuddy, and I’ll forgive you for being such an ass earlier.” She spun on her heals and left the bridge.

  “Bob…set a course for Primara. I’ll be down in the hold, checking on our cargo.”

  Chapter 6

  Howsh Command Ship, the Pintial

  Lorgue Prime Eminence Norsh tuned out the chatter and noise—obligatory cheers from the rowdy crew and fellow Pintial officers, standing three-deep around the small arena’s perimeter. This was stupid—was this the day he’d meet his match? Be killed? Surprised by a worthy opponent?

  He circled the quadzone mat clockwise, never taking his eyes from his four scraggly, long-haired opponents. Filthy cave dwellers, he mused. His broad nostrils flared wider once he got a strong whiff of the foul-smelling foursome. He’d specifically chosen these four lowly, unrefined, scout ship pilots, because they were undoubtedly unaware of his exalted combat reputation within the quadzone. And although they too were like him—all equally Howsh, at least from a genetic perspective—all visual similarities stopped there. Lorgue Prime Eminence Norsh kept his furry skin trimmed to a ¼ inch nap. His physique was highly muscular and toned and he stood more erect than the four barbarian street brawlers. He’d been told that they were more than scrappy; that they were devious—ruthless killers. He was surprised he actually remembered their names: Gramal was the tallest. Sealth had something wrong with one eye—milky and it strayed off to the side. Banhown was thick and strong—and could be a problem. And then there was Topsen, the dominant leader, who showed some semblance of intelligence in his cold eyes.

  The four had each done time within a constable’s brig for one fighting infraction or another. Feared among their peers, each jumped at the chance to spar with the fleet’s highest-ranking officer. He took pride knowing that not since Lorgue Supreme Eminence Calph himself, a known brilliant combatant, presumed dead by many after his disappearance some ten years earlier—had a Howsh officer so mastered the fighting arts of the ancients.

  The four combatants circled in relative unison to Norsh’s own footwork; each looking for that microsecond opportunity to make a move. Norsh hadn’t expected to be so annoyed by their constant gnashing. A foul habit, they each chewed what was called their galk—a coughed-up phlegm cud secretion mixed with hair. Norsh watched as Sealth, the one with the straying-eye, hucked up a galk, then spewed it right smack into the center of the quadzone’s pristine mat. Norsh angrily glared down at the disgusting globule, which was all they needed to wage their attack.

  Two came at him fast from both flanks—while the other two came at him head-on—all charging in at once.

  From an early age, Howsh cubs were taught how best to use their four sets of claws for self-protection from those that would do them harm. When extended, their claws were two-and-a-half to three inches long. The Howsh, those prone to fighting, spent long periods honing their individual claws to fine, almost needle-like, points. Norsh expected no less from the brutish foursome. He too took his nail-honing regime seriously—actually to a whole other level. Instead of simply filing his claws to fine points, he used a special powered apparatus, called a Klish, to add both posterior and interior razor-sharp edges that ran along the entirety of each claw. That often time-consuming and laborious process had saved his life on several occasions.

  Norsh dropped to one knee just as one of the charging opponents, Gramal, the tallest one, swung for his head. Even before Gramal retracted his arm back—Norsh, with minimal effort, waved his extended clawed digits over his head in an almost backhand- waving motion. Now four thin almost imperceptible red lines trailed up Gramal’s underarm, from elbow to armpit, then blood began seeping out. It was a strategically- placed attack by Norsh. With his tendons, muscle sinews, and two arterial blood vessels slashed, Gramal’s arm was suddenly less than useless—it had become a hindrance.

  Immediately, Norsh dove into a forward handstand, driving his powerful legs both up and backward. Years of fighting had taught him to gauge not only his opponent’s relative stance positioning but their specific anatomical reference points, as well. In a reverse-scissor motion, he used both sets of his lower claws to rake across the exposed throats of his two flanking attackers. Far more violent—deeper—than his previous strike, the gaping fissures nearly decapitated both Sealth and Banhown. They were dead before dropping to the mat.

  That left only one still-healthy opponent, Topsen, plus severely injured Gramal. Norsh had learned early on in life not to underestimate anyone in a match such as this one—especially not an injured foe. Desperation bred unpredictability. And while Norsh was weighing this bit of insight, at just seven point three seconds into the match, he instantly felt the piercing sensation of honed claws being dragged down the middle of his back. Fucking Gramal! The four, white-hot, agonizing gouges brought tears to his eyes, a strike that nearly rendered him unconscious. He rallied by doing the unexpected. He threw his arms up, while extending his legs downward, then did a high, up in the air, backflip, right over the head of the injured Gramal. Landing behind him, readying his right claw to strike, Norsh suddenly lost his footing—skidding on the copious amounts of blood and gore pooling in that section of the mat. Down he went. But Gramal was already staggering away. Norsh watched as he teetered, then flopped over sideways. He’d evidently lost too much blood to continue on.

  Still flat on his back, Norsh, gazing upward, caught a blur of motion. Topsen
was making his move. Norsh instinctively blocked the incoming blow—one coming as a downward strike from his left; and then, noting a second incoming blur on his right, he blocked that blow, as well. Suddenly, the tough street brawler was positioned directly atop Norsh, straddling him. A smart Calinth-Rian-move that almost always resulted in a win for the one who executed it. Norsh, not used to playing defense, was unaccustomed to being in such a vulnerable position. Mounted like a Howshian bitch. Perhaps this foul ingrate was the exception—a worthy opponent, he thought. He estimated the match was now at the twelve-second mark.

  Calinth-Rian was immanent—dual deathblows driven into the top of his head—into his brain. Norsh’s timing would be everything. At the precise second Topsen’s extended open claws were hurling inward, right toward his cranium, Norsh made his move—a mid-flight spearing motion—his claws piercing both of Topsen’s inside forearms. Bloodied, his claws now protruded out the tops of his enemy’s arms. Both combatants stayed motionless for several moments—the two foes stared into each other’s eyes. While Norsh was still on his back, his attacker’s snarling face loomed inches above him. Still, Prime Eminence Norsh managed to jockey his legs beneath him, then maneuver them into a kneeling position. He slowly rose up. Topsen’s harpooned claws—pierced four per side—were tightly constrained in Norsh’s excruciating and unrelenting hold, rendering further movement impossible. At this point, they both knew the match was over. The reversal of power was complete. Sixteen seconds.

  Forcing his arms out even wider yet only added to Topsen’s agony. Norsh said, “You fought with cunning and spirit, scout pilot. But now you know what must come next…yes?” In one fluid motion, Norsh raised his clawed foot and drove it deep into Topsen’s underbelly. Pulling it straight down, then out, he emptied the contents of Topsen’s abdomen. Norsh retracted his claws and stepped back from the slithering mess of entrails on the ruined quadzone mat. He watched with total detachment as Topsen toppled over dead. Twenty-one seconds—start to finish.