P Hillard - The Knower of Truths

The alien on the screen was all double chins and rolls, his fat chunky fingers resting on his chest. He was wearing what looked like a maroon velvet robe. He grunted a series of long low drones. Mellok turned to Michael. “He is… not pleased to see Aileena, it would seem.”

“That’s ancient history! Come on, Greddog, let us dock. We need supplies and the Council is on our arse.” The alien on the screen spluttered, his voice becoming raised, a thunderous shout.

“Oh,” Mellok said. “The idea of the council following us seems to have enraged him.”

“Come on, remember that time in Nervock? You owe me, Greddog,” Aileena said. The alien stroked one of his many chins thoughtfully, before grunting a single word.

“He says fine,” Mellok said.

“Yeah,” Aileena said, turning to face them. “It’s not fine. Greddog is an arsehole. He’s going to want something from us. And it’s going to be something dangerous, you mark my words.”

The ship shuddered slightly as its claw-like form burst forth into real space, engines burning hard in its pursuit. Time was strange in the half-reality of the jump, the scant gap between ships could translate from anywhere between being five minutes behind to five hours. It careened through the stars, plumes of blue fire erupting from the rear, a grasping self-propelled hand seeking its target. Within the ship, the crew felt nothing, sophisticated Council technologies dampening all motion. It was an odd feeling, of almost total stillness, making it seem as though they were remaining stationery.

The Council vessel was not alone. Around it swarmed a bewildering array of ships, each ramshackle Frankenstein’s forged from a hundred different styles. Upon their lumped hulls weapons swivelled, bringing themselves to bear on the much smaller patrol vessel. The cage of vessels closed in, still thousands of miles from the Gallant, but point-blank for space combat.

Commander Orson paced his bridge, muttering under his breath. They had been so close, their shot sliding just past the fleeing vessel, a miracle of evasion. Around him the two other bridge officers looked pensive, each burrowing their eyes into their respective consoles trying to avoid their commander’s gaze.

“Sir,” said Corporal Nguyen, turning around in her chair. Her face twisted into a grimace. “We’re being hailed, the signal is coming from the planet ahead. At least I think it’s a planet, maybe?”

“Maybe?” Orson snapped. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Well, sir, take a look,” Nguyen said. She slid a finger across the panel before her, digital touch buttons lighting up. A hologram span to life in the centre of the chamber, a floating transparent image of the world before them. It was shattered, sections of the planet spiralling into space. Every surface, every smashed chunk, was covered with garish neon lights.

“And I thought Caesar’s Palace was bad. Are we still being hailed?”

“Yes, sir.”

Orson sighed. “Put it through I guess.” He slumped into his seat, before sitting bolt upright, trying his hardest to project an aura of command. This was going to be the first contact between humans operating on behalf of the Council and an outside force, he should at least look like he belonged.

The holographic planet vanished, replaced by the incoming message. The face of a massive alien hovered before Orson. Rolls of fat sloshed over his expensive-looking clothing and he seemed to wobble as he moved. His face was a scowl, an angry glare overcoming any differences in body language.

“Council vessels are not welcome here!” said the alien, his voice booming through the ship’s speakers, the computers automatically translating his words. “Ossiark is outside of your control lapdog. Turn around and leave now.”

“I am sorry, but we are in pursuit of wanted fugitives. We had no intention of encroaching on your territory. I am Commander Orson, of the Council ship Gallant. The ship in question would have entered the system on the same coordinates as ourselves. I’m sure you’re aware of their entry seeing as you seem so on the ball.”

“Leave immediately. Orson was it? You are vastly outgunned here. I will order my ships to fire upon you.”

“Listen, uh, I’m sorry I didn’t get your name?” Orson wasn’t sure that the alien was true to his word, but he had already overstepped the spirit, if not the letter of his orders. Getting blasted into atoms might be preferable to the chewing out he was due to receive.

“I am Lord Greddog the magnificent, first of his name! Lord of the coin! Owner and operator of Ossiark.” A fat thumb tapped to Greddog’s chest proudly, his rolls rippling in response.

“Well then, Lord Greddog, I do apologise for our appearance here, it was unexpected. If you could so kindly point us in the direction of the fugitives, then we will be swiftly on our way.” Orson gritted his teeth. The alien seemed belligerent in the extreme, so over-politeness was the order of the day.

“I will give you fifteen point three eight minutes to leave,” Greddog said, the ship’s translation algorithm swapping the alien time measurements into the exact human time. “Wait.” Greddog seemed to pull himself closer to the camera on his end, his already grotesque swollen frame enlarging on the hologram further. “Come closer to the camera.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I—”

“Just do it!” The speakers squealed as Greddog yelled, reverberating from the sudden change in volume. Orson stood up, walking forwards a little, towards the projector that was mounted in the centre of the bridge’s ceiling. “Well, I never.” Greddog began to laugh, a huge booming chuckle.

“I’m not sure I get the joke,” Orson said, crossing his arms. The tight Council uniform pulled at the edges, squeezing as it did. The sharp cut grey tunic wasn’t designed for humans, and whilst they had done their best at altering it, the tunic still pinched in all the wrong places.

“I tell you what, I grant you and your crew permission to land.” Greddog’s demeanour had changed. He had become almost jovial, smiling wide to reveal a collection of gnarled yellow stumps. “You will be the first Council members to visit Ossiark in, well, ever! A most auspicious day. My guests of honour you’ll be.”

“And you’ll let us track down out fugitives?”

“Maybe, if the mood takes me. It depends on how accommodating you are as guests.”

“Fine,” Orson said. “You can transmit landing instructions to us. I… look forward to meeting you in person.” The hologram vanished, flickering for a second as it did.

“Sir, I hope you don’t mind me speaking out of turn,” said Trooper Johnson, “but that guy, he seemed like well…”

“Come on Todd, speak you can speak freely.”

“He seemed like a massive sleazebag, sir.”

Orson chuckled. “That he does. Still, we aren’t a nuclear cloud, and we might have a chance at catching that ship now. Plus, we score ourselves a little diplomatic first to notch into our belts. It’s a win-win.”

“Ah, but sir, look at this place. It looks like Reno at night. And you know what they say about Casinos, sir. The house always wins.”

Michael stood at the front of the control room, hand resting against the glass. Before him, a million lights shimmered, a bewildering array of clashing colours and battling lights. The ship slid past them, searching for a safe landing place, twisting past signs, dodging under walkways and bridges.

“Confirmed, landing control,” Aileena said, her attention grabbed by a small hologram before her. It lacked the image of the earlier transmission, a simple oscillating wave showing the speaking voice at the other end. “This is the… uh… what’s the ship called, Mellok?”