Lissa turned a little green.
“We’re serving sentient aliens in sushi restaurants??” Stephanie gulped, horrified. One hand went to her mouth and she looked like she was trying not to listen to her gurgling stomach.
“Yup,” he chuckled indifferently, “Well I say, if they’re dumb enough to vacation on a planet where they’re low on the food chain...” He grinned.
“Is that why you caught him?” Lissa asked, never taking her eyes off the small creature.
“Exploding suns, no!” He swore, looking surprised, “I’d never eat an Europan. These little guys are the best mathematicians in the Universe. Make darn-good navigators, they do. I just gotta persuade him to mind me.”
His eyebrows wiggled evilly, and Lissa swallowed hard—not wanting to think what this cruel Captain might do to the poor alien octopus in order to “persuade” him. Did Nask have a torture chamber on this ship?
“What’s a Europan?” Stephanie interjected.
“Europa is the Earth name for the sixth moon of Jupiter. As that is where this species originated, their genus is best translated as ‘Europan’—or, ‘inhabitant of Europa’.” The translator bot explained, his hover jets tilted forward in a quick bow.
Just at that moment, a shudder seemed to run through the hull, making their feet quake. Lissa saw a rippling wave slosh water against the glass wall of the sea tank. The octopus bobbed up and down in reaction and his eyes grew wide for an instant.
“What was that?” Lissa cried, turning to Nask. A second shudder made her stumble sideways and a crackle came over Nask’s short-wave. The Translator bot, having no orders to the contrary, continued to translate for Lissa, “Space Patrol, Captain! You better get up here!”
“By the exploding suns!” Nask cursed, “Why are they firing on us?”
He seemed to forget all about the two girls. Waving his ray gun in the direction of the upper deck, he led the guards back toward the ladder, his lumbering gait full of stomping frustration, “Don’t they know we have a contract to be in this sector?” He growled, “Why would they…” the rest was lost as he rose above the upper hatch.
Invitation
Bilderbus considered himself a fair man. He knew many called him cruel; some would say he was a ruthless man, but Mr. Bilderbus knew he really had others’ best interests at heart. And if his plans meant the demise of small children and lapdogs, well—the world was safer without so many people in it anyway. It was hard to control billions of people; Earth would be much better off, he was convinced, if there were only a few thousand or so on the planet…or just him.
Seated in one of his many sumptuous offices, this one in the heart of Los Angeles on the coast of what was once the United States of America, he sighed and relaxed back against his leather easy chair. The rumbling massage balls slowly rolled out the kinks in his upper back while he contemplated his own ingenious. A small pile of grapes, exotic cheeses and mini scones sat to his left within striking distance of his chubby fingers and he occasionally selected one to taste. He liked food, did Bilderbus.
The World Security forces had quelled much of the fighting that had erupted over the election some months ago, and he and his fellow Jesters had devised a neat trick to distract the masses from the colossal civil unrest. Bilderbus thumbed through the reports. Yes, the giveaways of free virtual reality games had indeed allayed public concern. Commerce was at an all-time low, and suicides tripled in the last four months, but ah, well. You couldn’t please everybody.
He was just dozing off when a whoop sounded over the alarm klaxon above his view screen. Bilderbus started quite violently, sloshing red wine on his jiggling belly which he blotted at hastily with a silk napkin before pressing a fat forefinger to the communications toggle.
“What is happening out there?” he demanded irritably. He thought he had rather earned his rest today, having just come through delivering a speech on the importance of the Jester educational programs. Hard work, speeches.
“Unidentified craft,” came the tense reply of a defense analyst, “Bearing 30-degrees north. They’re closing in,” the sexless voice added emotionlessly.
“Well, blow it up, or something,” he snapped crossly, “I’m trying to nap!”
“How primitive,” an amused voice said from behind Mr. Bilderbus. He started again, this time sloshing a good portion of the red wine down his front. With a muttered curse, he turned to survey the room.
Standing on the hearthrug was a werewolf. Or at least, that was Bilderbus’ first impression when he turned to look. The creature stood there looking very peculiar indeed—a long snout full of sharp teeth, dark beady eyes and two long ears pointing up completed the appearance of a man with the head of a jackal. Below his collar he was humanoid, although his skin all over was an odd steel gray. He wore a long white pleated skirt that left his torso bare and his strong muscular legs ended in hind paws. He bore a striking resemblance, in fact, to a statue Mr. Bilderbus had once seen in Egypt.
He fumbled with the arm of his easy chair for the toggle that would alert Security, “Help!” he gulped, “There’s an Egyptian god in my bedroom!”
That done, Mr. Bilderbus faced the werewolf squarely, feeling inadequately prepared for whatever attack might be forthcoming after his panicked call to Security. Yet no attack came and after a moment he relaxed enough to notice an air of regret in those canine features.
In fact, the jackal-headed man standing on his hearthrug seemed so truly disappointed in him that Mr. Bilderbus slipped unconsciously into that frame of mind he always assumed when dealing with hostile press. The paparazzi in particular could be absolutely devastating on a hesitant response, so Mr. Bilderbus seized control of the conversation with a positively cheerful, “Ah! It is you!”
The creature looked not unpleasantly surprised at having been recognized, which Bilderbus took as encouragement to go on, “My dear sir, please forgive me—I was a tad distracted when you arrived. Secretary must have forgotten your appointment,” he made a show of frowning in the direction of the door, simultaneously tapping a large calendar screen on his desk.
“What was our appointment for…again? Here,” he added, gesturing, “Do sit! Can I get you a glass of sherry?”
He followed up with a poured glass and a cheerful nod of encouragement to “drink up”, absently hoping this would occupy the fellow long enough for Security to save him.
“That will not be nethethary,” The werewolf had a distinct lisp, which took Mr. Bilderbus aback. It was so at odds with his otherwise powerful appearance that the President stuttered a hasty, “I…I’m sorry?”
“I am here to dithcuth termth for your planetary inclusion in the Galactic Trade Company clientele,” the werewolf lisped.
His air was a tad bit snooty, Mr. Bilderbus thought, especially for someone with rather too much tongue in their voice.
“Indeed?” he inquired, having as of yet still no idea what the creature was talking about. He pretended great interest—that being the art of politics after all.
“Yes,” the werewolf affirmed, “I believe you are now the ruler of this planet?” he gave a small nod of respect—one sovereign to another, which Bilderbus did not overlook in spite of his very great confusion.
“Ah, yes well,” he hemmed for a moment, stalling for time. It did not seem prudent to admit to holding office before a jackal-headed body builder. Who knew what the creature’s intentions