Krikk Vraz: Assignment Earth

by Matthew P. Ankney

“For the first time in human history, one generation literally has the power to destroy the past, the present, and the future. The power to bring time to an end.”

-Hubert Humphrey

The Atoll - part 1

Bikini Atoll - Marshall Islands

March 27, 1954

Krikk Vraz hovered his sleek craft high above the solitary sliver of land in the Pacific. He had been to this planet before many times, feeling somewhat at home in its formidable host galaxy the Milky Way.

Krikk’s advanced race of pseudo-enlightened, ultra-realistic beings though typically despised humans on a good day, using them for target practice on bad ones. It wasn’t Earthlings’ pathetic ambition of an unprepared species exploring the stars they particularly abhorred, but more the constant expectation that somehow his kind and others like them would accept Homo sapien as equal.

The thought of sitting down at a diplomatic meal celebrating human-gabran relations, feigning interest at boorish Earth customs with backwater history, is surprisingly what many aliens detested most, and an event where they might say or do anything to avoid entirely. Yet, despite all their infantile demand for attention and validation in the greater cosmos, there was something oddly familiar about these primitives and where they lived that nuanced gabrans found interesting.

A vivid turquoise ocean shimmered far below the silent Quasar Ferocious, a deep space ship manufactured on Krikk’s homeworld Gabra Beta Nine. The indigo skinned humanoid turned a knob and a telescreen materialized. A U.S. Navy armada could be seen anchored off the island chain many miles away.

Krikk yawned, flipping a switch. His spaceship scanned the Navy’s Operation Castle Task Force command vessel. Mimicking the Americans’ communication device, a teletype machine materialized and began loudly printing out a message on a roll of paper.

...WIND WILL REMAIN WESTWARD UNTIL EARLY TOMORROW MORNING. JTF-7 BRAVO TX-21 UNIT IN PLACE AT LAGOON SITE. READY FOR 06:30 HOURS COUNTDOWN.

Sipping an ice cold space martini, he raised a curious eyebrow and sighed. The holographic teletype machine disappeared as two F-J3 Fury fighter jets closed-in on his uncloaked u.f.o., each locking on to his exotic vessel, launching several rockets.

Krikk rose from his chair and strode across the spacious area to the wet bar to make another drink. He gazed through the transparent hull at the oncoming threat as rays of golden sunlight beamed in.

Tilting back his head, rolling his eyes, “Evade,” he commanded, disgust palpable; the ship responded with a dull bell tone. Incoming rockets passed right through the alien craft and turned into each other, exploding at a safe distance.

“Countermeasures,” Krikk belched, gulping the last of his martini, slamming the empty crystal glass down on his wide desk. The telescreen zoomed in on the Furies’ steel rivets popping off all at once. The jet fighters disassembled themselves around stunned pilots left holding nothing but a detached control stick.

Krikk smiled wide at the two tiny little parachutes below drifting downward. Gabrans enjoy the thrill of battle, it validates their ego. For all the hassle his difficult journey inflicted so far, he reveled in the thought of the two terrified pilots’ stories of their precious airplanes falling apart piece-by-piece.

The Visitor - part 2

Pacific Proving Grounds, Marshall Islands

Commander Stetson “Buck” Majors IV, peering through huge binoculars slack-jawed, spilled piping hot coffee all over his starched uniform as the Quasar Ferocious evaporated high above. Scanning the wide horizon in vain for more enemy bogies, he slipped on the wet deck, tearing the seat of his standard issue pants.

An H-19 Chickasaw rescue helicopter roared overhead. Across the calm water, an angry squadron of F-J3 Furies took off from the U.S.S. Bairoko aircraft carrier in quick succession. Buck ducked back inside the ship’s animated bridge.

“Commander, this just came in over teletype!” the baby-faced Radio Officer shouted above klanging battlestation klaxons, handing Buck a fresh printout.

HOWDY, PARTNERS! DON’T WANT TO RUFFLE YOUR FEATHERS. SHALL WE CHAT ABOUT YOUR PLANS FOR NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST? BE DOWN IN A JIFF.

5TH DIMENSIONALLY YOURS,

THE VISITOR

Sweat pouring from his brow, Buck crumpled the paper message in one fist, blinking his bulging eyes, staring far out at the flotilla on high alert. It was H minus 16 hours until countdown.

At the moment, most JTF-7 personnel were being evacuated from the atoll. A 40,000 pound experimental dry fuel hydrogen device designed in New Mexico sat alone on a small dirt platform in the quiet, shallow lagoon connected to the rim of the atoll by a man made causeway; an ominous, solitary red light on a nearby pole blinking on and off.

Originally scheduled for March 1, the Castle Bravo test had been delayed 26 straight days due to unfavorable winds. Now, the shot was finally set for the next morning. The Navy man from Dodge City swallowed hard at the prospect of more delays.

A sudden flash on the deck outside caused Buck to shield his eyes, as the rest of the busy crew on the Estes froze in place.

Krikk slowly took shape on the sea-sprayed deck of the naval ship wearing a bright, confident smile, smart looking wire rim sunglasses, a cream-colored fedora hat, and a glittery, silver cape over his favorite seersucker suit, sipping from a crystal martini glass.

Gabrans do not prefer fashion accessories when travelling off-world, but they understand their first contact audience’s expectations and these moments often call for dramatic flair. The tall, dark alien gave this same command performance dozens of times before; the sparkly high collar cape and lapel carnation made it a little more fun.

Buck’s fragile mind was a kaleidoscopic torrent of panicked thought. No longer in control of his own body, he found himself striding out onto the ship’s deck with a muscular arm extended.

The Commander saw the visitor’s alien features and grimaced.

Krikk, noticing his host’s discomfort, turned a knob on his belt, altering his outlandish visage to an ordinary human variety, as the two shook hands.

“I can’t feel anything. Something is moving me. Are you doing this?” Buck grunted through locked jaws.

“Why, yes! Yes, I am, old boy,” Krikk chirped. “We can’t have you Navy chaps have a go at yours truly right off the bat. Now, can we?” he laughed, sipping the ice cold space martini.

“We need to talk inside,” Buck whispered, still shaking hands.

“Speak, we must,” Krikk replied in a soft voice. The gabran’s piercing eyes focused on Commander Majors temples Lead the way, partner he beamed into Buck’s mind winking a sparkling eye.

The Briefing - part 3

U.S.S. Estes JTF-7 Naval Command Vessel

“May I smoke?” the alien asked, seated inside the Commander’s quarters. A large color map of Bikini Atoll hung on the wall behind him.

“You people smoke?” Buck queried.

Krikk, wearing his seersucker suit, hologram necktie, sunglasses, fedora, and the high-collared silver cape he saves for special occasions outstretched his long arm. A Chesterfield cigarette materialized, hovering a few inches above his open gloved-hand.

“We gabrans cured what your species calls cancer millennia ago,” said the charismatic visitor. “Do you know, Buck? May I call you Buck? Anyway, are you aware of what is inside tobacco causing such hideous cellular mutations leading to preventable disease and death?”

“No.”

“Radioactive isotopes,” Krikk answered, blowing curls of thick blue smoke in his host’s tense face.

“Are my people okay?” Buck coughed.

Krikk finished his space martini, stuck the silver cigarette holder in the side of his mouth, and again turned the red bakelite knob on his black leather belt, altering the u.f.o. pilot’s appearance. He was now a khaki-clad Navy officer with brass nameplate reading Vraz. The statuesque crew of the U.S.S. Estes unfroze, resuming their urgent duties, unaware of the ship’s fashionable visitor from a faraway galaxy.

“I assume you are,” adjusting in his seat, “friendly?”

“Oh, quite,” replied Krikk, waving a gloved-hand around. “We don’t find humans a threat. You amuse us. Not unlike your view of pets. No offense, my good fellow.”

“You seem to have been on Earth for a while. Are you? Um, you sound British.”

Krikk chuckled, “My name is Krikk Vraz, at your service. I’ve been employed at The Gate Cinema in Sausalito since 1946 as a projectionist, learning much about Earth culture, watching movies, and performing simple tasks under a human leader.”

“And up there? Up there, that was your, your ship?” Buck asked, pointing upward. “You call it a ship, is that correct?”

“Look, old boy. Dear, sweet chap. About this nuclear test business. The Bravo device cannot be detonated tomorrow. This is why I am here. These wicked catastrophes must cease. Humanity knows not what demons lurk.”

“Well, you see, the uh, the Communists,” an intense Buck explained, quick hands gesturing like startled birds.

“Yes, yes, we know all about the Communists. But, you see,” Krikk pointed behind himself at the map, “this is a paradise. People live here,” raising an eyebrow.

Buck’s broad shoulders sunk, “You’d have to speak with President Eisenhower about matters of national security,” hunching forward, eyes down.

“Oh, yes, of course!” Krikk laughed, “rules and regulations, and so forth. Everything on the ol’ up-and-up. I see why they picked you. Good man. Good, man! Righto! Well, We, I mean Ike and I, we played golf yesterday in Palm Springs. Nice fellow, decent chap, and he said, well, it was an election year, it’s complicated, and see what,” sweeping an arm in a wide arc with open hand as if describing a cinema’s marquee, “Commander Stetson ‘Buck’ Majors IV thought. You handsome devil!” Krikk shook a triumphant fist in the air, clenching the cigarette holder in his teeth.

“Me?”

“Come, now. Don’t be shy. Remember the Alamo and all that,” Krikk grinned wide, his space martini refilling itself. “You can just call this whole thing off and I’ll be in the Virgo Constellation by breakfast.”

“Oh,” swallowing hard, “I, I can’t do that.”

“Ike said you would say that,” Krikk chuckled, swigging back his martini.

“We’re all here for the greater good. The greater good of mankind,” Buck stammered.

Krikk stiffened, his smile vanished. He put his drink down. “You disappoint me, Buck. That’s what many of them say. It’s so easy. Easy to say, ‘no’. ‘Yes’ means the end, Buck. The end of everything, old boy.”

“Them?”

“Yes, you are the next ‘them’, congratulations. The last ‘them’ incinerated their entire atmosphere, consuming it in a planetary firestorm,” Krikk exhaled the sentence in futility, gazing down. He always felt vaguely like a physician in these moments, resenting the helplessness of being the bearer of bad news, but it was his duty as a gabran to be bold, brave, and honest. “This nonsense, in which you so desperately seek,” looking up, “could consume yours as well,” raising an eyebrow, looking deep into Buck’s captivated eyes, “I need you to hear me, Buck. Take heed, old boy. Take heed.”

“You know Earth’s future?”

“Not entirely, but my ship, the Quasar Ferocious, has the ability to make certain predictions with extreme accuracy.”

“What’s going to happen?”

“This Castle Bravo device is a new design using lithium-6 and deuterium, correct? There is a 99.99% to the 13th power chance you will emit a significant amount of gamma rays upon detonation. This will disrupt the quantum field, tearing a hole in spacetime, allowing Churduu’an-ko-val, transdimensional beings, to feed.”

“Feed?”

“Yes, like moths to flame. Ruminating on delicious spectrum energy. Your warm ferric blood streams produce electromagnetic fields, specific to each human. Frequencies bleeding through the reality-brane. On the flipside of this world, in an awfully scary and depressing place, I must say, your vibrant human signatures, flowing through life’s tragic and triumphant symphony, are bright lighthouses attracting demonic parasites lurking invisible on the rockiest of shores. They, perhaps, might even fully enter this dimension, rewriting the laws of metaphysics, wreaking enough chaos that everything, well,” clearing his throat, “collapses.”

“Collapses?”

“Dear God, man. Get a hold of yourself. Yes, the Milky Way Galaxy collapses into a giant supermassive black hole!”

A small wet stain appeared in the crotch of the Commander’s pants, blanking into a thousand yard stare, teetering on the verge of a complete mental breakdown.

Krikk’s visage returned to his normal alien features, dressed again in his festive arrival outfit, “Buck. Buck, look at me. Hey, think of somebody, someone you knew back in Wichita Falls.”

“Dodge City,” a catatonic Buck vacantly responded.

Squinting, “Yes, you had an Aunt Bee or something in Dodge City,” Krikk removed a glove, gently stroking the back of his neck behind his streamlined gabran ear.

“M-Maimee?”

“Ah, yes. Sweet Aunt Maimee. Let’s see. Now, Buck. Look at me, Buck.”

Commander Majors saw a familiar old woman. Steaming floral pattern porcelain tea cup sitting on the table before her, hard at work solving the Dodge City Daily Globe’s crossword puzzle.

“Buckie, dear,” she said, eyes on her puzzle.

“Y-yes, Maimee?”

Daintily licking her pencil tip, “We can’t have any more of this nuclear test malarkey. You know how much your father hates malarkey. His heart can’t take anymore stress. He needs rest,” filling in another word.

Buck glanced around dazed, no longer on the Estes. Somehow, he was back in Maimee’s quaint kitchen on Walnut Street. He felt himself shaking his head up and down in a compliant manner, leaving the Navy man awash in nauseating cognitive dissonance.

Beginning to unravel, Buck’s head swam. He welded his eyes shut at the Bravo device’s unbearable bright red flashing light shining in his face like the fiery pits of Hell itself, soon to be forever unleashed. Now somehow, in his hallucination, the hulking cylindrical bomb was resting on Maimee’s kitchen table before him, bright red light flashing lazily on and off.

Nearly losing all sense of himself, “No!” he shouted, fists pounding the table.

Startled, Krikk lost hold of the soothing aunt projection in Buck’s mind, “The choice is yours,” rising to his feet, “I will not interfere, regardless of the consequences,” even though he internally deduced something else might have already begun to meddle.

Krikk tapped his wristwatch, disappearing in a bright flash.

The Experiment - part 4

March 28, 1954

Fiery dawn streaked across a pristine ocean, misty whitecaps framing glowing concertos of tangerine and crimson.

Krikk Vraz strolled barefoot through foamy surf on a solitary beach under an early morning lavender sky. The gabran felt the tiny island grow quiet, time itself seemed to slow. An alarm on his wristwatch purred. He took a deep breath gazing far out and sighed, as a pod of dolphins frolicked in the gentle tide.

The starship Quasar Ferocious, cloaked in stealth mode, hovered invisible high above the narrow strip of sand. Dim electronic flicker of a telescreen the only activity inside the motionless cabin.

What’s Out There? Let’s Find Out! with Flamsteed Phraxx, the highly rated news and travel show was spacecasting live on-the-air. The popular host introduced the program’s next segment. Ninety-two billion curious gabrans across seventeen planets alone had tuned in, not to mention millions of modest djeeks, their intergalactic cultural cousins of almost a space Canadian quality.

A small, marble-sized drone detached from Krikk’s belt, hovering at eye level. The alien t.v. show’s audio echoed in his ear.

“It is my pleasure to present intrepid Krikk Vraz beaming to you from the distant Milky Way Galaxy,” introduced a posh and polished Flamsteed lounging in his glamorous white hover-sofa back at the studio on planet GB-9.

Krikk held a slim microphone up to his mouth. Speaking to several known galaxies at once excited him; everything grew silent.

“Past the Hollowfang Photon Cascades, across the Dwarf Fields of Prizmos, around Gorgotron the Gargantuan Mechaplanet, beyond the infamous Spaceprison Scorpio lies humanity at a naive and dangerous technological crossroads. I’m Krikk Vraz, assignment Earth.”

Pleasant theme music played over a montage of past Krikk dispatches. Holovid clips featured him riding a giant dragonfly, fencing a werewolf, stilt-walking through lava, parallel parking in a crowded alien metropolis, and furiously baking in a chef hat on various, strange planets.

“4.5 billion years has led Homo sapien, a species in its infancy, and the natural realm it commands to this final crucial moment. A crude weapon, they were warned. The yield will have devastating consequences for all mankind and their fragile homeworld. The Quasar’s computer predicts the cataclysmic arrival of atomic ghosts upon detonation.”

“It all comes down to one man,” a black and white glossy image from Buck’s naval academy days was shown on the spacecast, “Commander Stetson Majors IV. Earth’s leader, President Eisenhower, deferred responsibility to a fellow Kansan from Dodge City. Now, Buck is the de facto leader of the entire planet. Does he alone have the guts to stop this insanity?”

The highly educated, impressively patient, intensely curious, and extremely intelligent audience, comfortable at home in all twelve of the sprawling gabran homeworlds and outer rim asteroid colonies, viewed the human’s photograph on their holovision sets with an honest appraisal. Equipped with an extrasensory optical organ, these natural observers, living lie detectors, saw an honest, duty bound individual, gleaning a cornucopia of data from Buck’s neat combed locks, piercing eyes, clean shave, square jaw, and friendly disarming smile.

Krikk sipped his martini off-camera, as a pre-packaged reel described Kansas in further detail, enticing viewers with exotic tall grass prairie scenes, images of covered wagons, railroads, gas stations, diners, church houses, farm equipment, and cattle grazing. Expert travellers in every sense, many gabrans considered an extended itinerary to the Sunflower State, if it was somehow still standing by the end of the program.

“War. Here on Earth, it is used to control and reduce the population. World leaders are so committed to new ways of instant death and destruction, it may be the end of everything.”

Krikk took a long drag from a Chesterfield nestled into a silver cigarette holder, as the next video played. The informative segment began showing the riveted faraway audience cavemen fighting with sticks and stones, ending high above Hiroshima.

“In only five Earth minutes, a decision will be made. We’ll be right back.”

The show cut to a commercial. Krikk tapped his wristwatch. In a split second, he was back on the Quasar Ferocious undoing his hologram tie, giving the ship verbal commands, quick-changing into gabran space wear.

Far below on the U.S.S. Estes, Buck snatched a handset with an iron grip. Drenched in sweat, he radioed the Firing Station crew bunker on the far side of Bikini Atoll.

What’s Out There? Let’s Find Out? with Flamsteed Phrax returned from its break. The Quasar Ferocious monitored the military radio channel, transmitting its audio signal back to the gabran holovid station on GB-9.

Buck took a deep breath, thinking of his beloved Aunt Maimee, “Firing Station Enyu Island, this is JTF-7 Commander Majors, Do you copy?” the audience in several known galaxies heard raw discord, tectonic tension in this modest organic vessel’s dominant human baritones.

It was two minutes until countdown. A palpable hush fell across several populated galaxies at once.

“Roger, Commander. Firing Station Castle Bravo Enyu, copy. Over.”

“You think he might actually do it?” a particularly avid fan of the show wondered aloud to her flatmate on Gabra Beta Prime (GB-1) in between polite munches of pink space popcorn.

“Terminate countdown. I repeat, terminate countdown. Disarm the TX-21. Authorization code: foxtrot, x-ray, romeo, delta, niner...,” Buck relayed, cut-off mid sentence.

Seated hawk-eyed at the Quasar Ferocious’s elaborate tactical controls, Krikk observed a triangular spaceship materialize above the Estes on his telescreen.

“A Zed-type Dagger Midnight starship just uncloaked, invading the United States Navy’s airspace,” an alarmed Krikk commented into a microphone mounted to his seat. White hair standing up on the back of his thin neck, he jammed a lever down on the controls. The ship shot up into orbit.

The riveted intergalactic holovision audience watched Commander Majors curse his frightened radio crew, but the dead signal was jammed. A shadowy u.f.o. circled the U.S.S. Estes slow and menacing. Only one minute left, the countdown still a go.

Floating silent across the air, the Dagger Midnight unloaded its full bank of plasma cannons down the Estes’s starboard side SKREE SKREE SKREE SKREE SKREE!

Explosions rocked the command ship. Deafening alarms shrieked. Scorched sailors were tossed limp overboard, uniforms blackened and smoldering. Grabbing a life preserver and helmet, Buck sprinted outside onto the ship’s chaotic deck to assess damage and render aid.

High above, Krikk pulled out a pair of flight gloves, while watching the carnage below with a familiar disgust. Left eye covered by a tech enhanced glass monocle, he slung back a healthy swig of ice cold space martini, “Activate Dark Side, Mark 5.”

On the far side of the desolate Moon, heavy concealed doors scraped open across the lithic surface revealing a hanger occupied by a Quasar Ferocious replica rising up on a thin metallic platform into the permanent evening’s billion blazing stars. The streamlined gabran craft with mirror-like exterior launched from its pedestal into the cold lunar sky, streaking towards a radiant blue pearl Earth floating in a black ocean of shimmering stars.

Buck stood frozen near the Estes’s bow unable to move his body, as the sharp-angled Dagger Midnight faced him, hovering a mere fifty yards away. Instinctively scanning the enemy u.f.o. in search of valuable information, for a moment, he thought he made out a slit for a cockpit window and a shadowy lone figure inside.

Piercing pain rippled through Buck’s pounding head. Stout legs buckling, he caught himself, collapsing over the nearby deck rail.

Unable to breathe, feeling like he was going to die, Commander Majors found himself praying, “Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle; be our protection.”

Buck suddenly stopped, holding out a brawny hand in a state of shock. Tsunamis of nausea swept over the ailing sailor. Incredulous, he watched himself disappear into thin air.

“Five, four, three, two, one,” the Castle Bravo Firing Station’s Radio Operator announced the Countdown, triggering the world’s first hydrogen bomb.

Silent, a bright flash was followed by a deafening fifteen megaton concussive shockwave. Millions of tons of soil vaporized in an instant, rising with the blinding fireball. A nightmarish hellstorm four miles wide erupted ten horrifying miles into the apocalyptic orange sky. Spider-webbed electromagnetic lightning danced across a shattered ionosphere, as colossal concentric circles, devilish halos, ascended the towering mushroom cloud.

A deep space gabran scientific monitoring station seventy-nine light years away detected high level gamma ray emissions disrupting ground zero’s quantum field.

The Zed-type Dagger Midnight turned, accelerating towards orbit, an unconscious Commander Majors captive on board.

Intercepting the triangular ship streaking upwards, the unmanned Quasar Ferocious Mark 5 “Dark Side” opened fire.

Engaging the Dagger’s proprietary Phantom Drive, a form of auxiliary propulsion using dark matter energy, the saboteur pilot evaded attack by defying the laws of physics, bending space using gravity, occupying unknown planes between.

At the sight of the sinister black ship’s unheralded arrival, more jumble of thorns than proper craft, malevolent tribute to pain and cruelty, the What’s Out There? Let’s Find Out! audience was slightly unnerved. Intergalactic diplomatic stakes were just raised, and gabran reputation was now on the line; something more valuable to an advanced spacefaring race than almost anything.

A legendary Thigg K’iiglar design directly interfering with Earth affairs was an unexpected twist, and an episode leaving the faraway holovision audience with a familiar, uneasy feeling. Thigg, a prodigal gabran from a long line of celebrated scientists, was corrupted, and at the height of his darkest ambitions, fled to the forbidden Xothros System with stolen tech.

From his new rogue factory outpost, the couture assault ships became fast favorites of space’s most desperate and diabolical. Prized for their one-of-a-kind features, and only ever auctioned to the highest bidders, a Zed-type Dagger Midnight was perfect for ambushes, assassinations, espionage, heists, and covert operations of all kinds requiring the utmost plausible deniability.

Krikk watched on his telescreen the Mark 5 decoy vessel, fabricated by lunar-based nanobots, chase an amorphous assault craft phasing in and out, evading the intense barrage from behind.

The Dark Side’s ion cannons glowed red hot. Advanced quarkdrive engaged, the unmanned ship’s computer calculated necessary space folds to contain the fleeing enemy. Time was running out.

A crystalline indicator bulb on Krikk’s control panel flashed magenta. The Dagger Midnight’s hyperspeed engines were almost online. Buck was moments from spending the rest of his short life tortured by a hostile alien race.

The Dark Side’s hull went prismatic, losing physical form, teleporting several points in space ahead, attempting to gain an edge in the vicious dogfight.

Countering in Phantom Drive mode, the Dagger Midnight evaded another ionic salvo, catching the Mark 5 Dark Side replica in a surprise plasma blast. The damaged Quasar Ferocious decoy vessel reeled off course, drifting in space on emergency batteries

Krikk’s craft materialized directly behind the Dagger Midnight, its Phantom Drive disengaged, now circling the stalled Dark Side. Holographic targeting monocle flashing in his left eye, he unleashed the Quasar’s entire ion cannon reserves at once THOOM THOOM THOOM THOOM!

Losing power, the wounded Dagger Midnight sputtered; a huge, blinding full Moon behind it illuminating every sinister crevice.

A crystalline bulb on Krikk’s controls flashed Arctic blue, as a small hatch on the underside of the Quasar Ferocious silently slid open, deploying an egg-shaped probe beelining towards the disabled enemy ship. The ovoid probe unlatched, splitting open in half, unleashing a swirling metallic cloud.

Descending onto the listing Dagger like grains of sand in a space haboob, the relentless nanobot storm tore apart the ship’s essential components, disassembling entire systems, leaving only a floating carcass, metallic bones picked clean by robot vultures; cabin assembly the only intact module remaining.

A dull bell tone rang out inside the Quasar Ferocious. Krikk flipped a switch. It was the Dagger Midnight hailing on emergency frequencies, “Vraz. Krikk Vraz,” Buck’s voice crackled through the telescreen in a static hailstorm, “Stand down. I repeat. Stand down. Do you copy? Over.”

Slowly removing the targeting monocle, Krikk cleared his throat, “Buck? Is that you, old chap?”

“Do not fire. I repeat, do not fire.”

The nanobot swarm returned to their ovoid case as the space hen unlaid her metal egg.

“Buck, I’m engaging the Quasar’s tractor beam, locking on now,” waving a hand over an opaque cluster of control knobs resembling multi-colored jewels.

A high pitched whine transformed into a low droning oscillation whuh whub whuh whub whuh whub whuh whub, as the silvery Quasar Ferocious towed the Dagger’s meager remains.

Krikk removed a glove with his teeth, stroking the back of this neck at the base of his bony skull with a single thin finger, “Buck, old boy. What the devil’s going on in there? Don’t give in to the scum, whatever you do!” grabbing a flight stick, “I’m towing you to Lunar Station Gamma, sit tight.”

“It’s not, well, I guess it’s not what you think, Vraz,” a distant timbre hiding in the commander’s distorted voice, “I haven’t the faintest clue what’s going on here, but we need help, over.”

Krikk sat up, adjusting his flight chair, hitting several switches above his head, “Help, my dear fellow,” the gabran audience’s pride began to swell back home at a line they’ve heard repeated many times, “is most assuredly on the way.”

The Quasar Ferocious’s sleek profile reoriented in a graceful sweeping bank towards Earth’s blinding lone satellite, tethered to a once prized death ship, now scuttled and crumbling with little bits floating off here and there.

To be continued….