by Christina Moore
The attack was over in seconds. But even a half a second would have been enough to destroy my entire investment. The fuel it took to get here, the food, the rum, every credit I paid my squad of hired goons– each burning bottled atmosphere at the rate of two tanks per day– all these resources might as well have been flushed down the crapper as I watched two months of hard work get ripped apart through the binocular setting on my helmet.
I had just tranqued the young female we’d been tracking when an alpha grey showed up, his dark wings casting a shadow across the canyon. The female was completely entangled in my nets with no way to defend herself. When the grey swooped down, he tore my girl’s throat out before any of my guys could pull off a decent shot.
I only hope the tranquilizer dart I shot into her seconds earlier at least made her death merciful.
This incident was completely my fault of course. I should’ve had the guys scout for other dactyls before we chose to set up nets in this canyon and drive her in. These animals are extremely territorial, especially when it concerns the encroachment of a rival species. Had she not been in my nets, the grey would’ve likely been content to simply drive her off, but since I made sure she couldn’t move, he did what nature commands and went in for the kill.
As a reward for cutting corners, I’ll be travelling back to Centauri with an empty cargo hold, explaining to my investors why there is now a negative credit balance in the company bank account.
I could scream, but I won’t abuse my men by broadcasting primordial howls through the com or damage my EVA suit kicking boulders. Instead, I settle for a few well-chosen cuss words involving the letter F.
This dactyl would’ve kept me going for at least the next five years. I’ve never seen anything like her in all my experience as an exotic animal prospector. Novelty dragons are all the rage, and this one with her rainbow toned hide shimmering under the light of a crimson star, would’ve gotten top billing on the auction block. I’d already had dreams of seeing her emblazoned across the front of Sotheby’s auction catalog: The One and Only Rainbow Dragon! She was easily the most brilliant animal I’d ever seen on any planet, and I’ve destroyed her.
Dragons are a hot commodity, excuse the pun, sometimes generating bids in the hundreds of millions for a live capture. While there is no such thing as “dragons” per say, there are species on various planets that with a bit of clever marketing bolstered by cosmetic surgery, can be transformed, making dragon hunting a lucrative trade, despite the costs involved with both prospecting and freight.
In Earth terms, the various species dominating this planet are more akin to pterodactyls than to the slightly more desirable winged lizard variety, but many are nicely colored, possessing a latent ability to breath fire if fed the appropriate chemical supplements. They also can survive a wide range of atmospheres and are the best aeronauts of the dragon world, with the ability to fly stunts, soar on updrafts, and trigger lightning by flying in formation through the clouds. This specimen would’ve caused a frenzy as every P.T. Barnum and princess wannabe in the galactic system rushed to place a bid. With an investment of thirty million credits and a bit of training, it could’ve sold for well over five hundred million credits.
Now she hangs worthless and broken, in my best net which (given our current supply of tinned atmosphere) will probably need to be left behind along with her decaying body. Just one more expense.
“We could salvage the nets and try trapping the grey” Igor suggests, the bazooka laser still balanced over his shoulder.
“No. He’s too mature, too dangerous,” I respond, “If he can’t be trained, he can’t be sold. If we don’t find another juvenile within the next day or two, we’ll go home empty handed. We don’t have the atmosphere supply to stay on much longer.”
“It took us weeks to find this one.”
“She was incredibly rare. I’ve never seen her species before, despite clocking in over four hundred days on this planet. I bet the greys keep their population in check through predation. They aren’t exactly camouflaged.”
“We need to find ourselves a young grey then, not as valuable, but at least we break even,” Igor suggests.
I am about to agree with him but am interrupted by the sound of frantic barking through my auditory feed.
Ted. Every. Single. Time.
I consistently regret making Ted an official member of the goon squad. While he’s occasionally useful for tracking, his constant need for rescue and tendency to bark directly into his intercom outweighs whatever services he provides. I could leave him alone aboard ship with his food dispenser and automatic tennis ball flinger. But then again, if I left him behind, I would likely return to find my ship completely trashed if not a smoldering stain on the side of some mountain somewhere. Yet, as much of a jerk as he is, I succumb to his big brown eyes because more often or not, I end up zipping him into his tedious doggie EVA suit so he can join the expedition, always against my better judgement.
When we find him, he’s with his current best friend, my latest veterinary technician and official pain in the ass, Earl. Both are standing at the base of the net looking up at the dead dactyl, hanging limp, tongue lolling. While Earl looks up with an expression of childlike amazement, Ted continues to bark, coating the inside of his helmet with a layer of spittle. I can see by the wagging of both tail and butt that he’s excited rather than angry or afraid. Ted is nothing if not an optimist.
“One of these days, that dog is going to rip his EVA suit and then where will he be?” Igor snaps.
“Quiet!” Earl snaps back, “He can sense stuff we don’t.”
“Bull. He’s just a stupid mutt who always needs to be the center of attention. We should turn off his com and leave him to his own devices.”
“He’s your squad-mate. You should respect him,” Earl responds and soon the two are fighting like two cats in the same litter box.
The mix of barking and bickering echoing through my audio feed and into my helmet is all but unbearable, growing even more so when Jesus (Zeus for short) starts yelling into the com for everyone to shut their damn mouths. I don’t even know where he is right now, probably hiding behind some rock still trying to figure out how to smoke through his helmet. Time for the primordial scream I’ve been holding back on. It’s then I notice a slight twitch in the creature’s eyelid, revealing a long narrow slit of blue cornea. This creature’s not dead. She’s watching us.
“Guys,” I say turning up my com so loud that it sends a squeal of interference through the auditory feed, “She’s still alive. And she’s waking up.” Immediately, the audio feed goes silent, and everyone starts to back slowly away. Apparently, no one wants a five-hundred-pound dactyl lunging down on them trying to pick their organs out through shredded EVA suits. I can commiserate, which is why I’m backing away too… but I’m also proactively preparing another tranque.
In her injured state, I don’t want to tranque her again, but I also don’t want to get ripped apart by talons. I do though need to get closer, to find a way to assess the damage before I decide to load her onto the ship. I can’t justify transporting an animal damaged beyond repair, but if she can be salvaged, she will be more than worth the extra veterinary expenses. And yes, I also have a responsibility here. I’m the one with an advanced degree in veterinary medicine. I’m also the one who made the bad choices leading up to her injuries, and so this makes me responsible for making the decision to either save her or end her suffering. “Ted, you keep an eye out for that large male. Bark ONLY if you see him. The rest of you guys, let’s get this poor creature down before she gets attacked again.”
I err on the side of not getting killed, injecting the dactyl with a sedative in her foot. While Zeus and Igor support the animal from below, Earl and I climb the net. I pull out my field knife, assuming she’s tangled because this is what it looked like from my perspective on the bluff. I’m perplexed (and relieved) to see that she’s not stuck to the net by circumstances but is rather clinging to it by choice, clutching the rope with four sets of delicate pink talons, which we are easily able to pry loose using only gloved hands. How odd…
She’s surprisingly light for her size and between the four of us, we easily lower her to the ground with some assistance from the mass levitator. As the guys bind her wings and beak, Earl and I examine every inch of the animal for injury. “This is crazy,” Earl says, mirroring my thoughts, “That big grey ripped this girl’s throat out, yet here she is without any visible injuries.”
In response, I use the bio-analyzer, scanning the dactyl from crest to tail, searching for internal injuries. “Nothing. Her heart and respiration are a bit slow, but that’s to be expected given the tranquilizers. What we have here is a completely uninjured and perfectly healthy young dactyl.”
“I don’t understand,” Igor interjects, “I saw the sinews in her neck through my scope. There should at least be blood in the sand, but everything looks clean.”
“Igor, how many times were you able to hit that buck before it flew off?” I ask.
“I shot off four blasts. I might’ve missed with the first one, but two should’ve hit the thing straight in the torso.”
“And yet it still flew off?”
“Yes, into the clouds.”
“No,” Zeus interrupts, “It dropped down into that mountain range over there… And I hit it too. Twice. I clipped a wing. The other blast should’ve taken its head off.”
“What mountain range?” Igor asks, “You’re pointing towards the desert.”
“What clouds?” Zeus asks, “I’ve not seen a single cloud since we got here.”
“I didn’t see it fly off at all,” Earl says, “One minute it was there, and the next minute it wasn’t.”
“What are you saying?” I ask, all attention now directed towards Earl. If I’m being completely honest with myself, I’m not sure I saw it fly off either. It definitely flew away, but from my vantage point and with all the confusion, I can’t say where or how it went.
“I’m saying that Ted didn’t see it at all– otherwise he would’ve gone crazy, and I only saw it while it was actively attacking the dactyl… and so, it’s possible it never existed.”
“You’re crazy, you know that?” Igor interjects.
“Let’s hear him out,” I say, “then we can all call him crazy together.”
“Maybe,” Earl continues, “she’s playing possum. We’ve been chasing her for the better part of three weeks, right? She’s exhausted with no means of escape, and so she fakes her own death, creating an illusion making us believe that something has swooped down and killed her. When the tranque wears off, she can fly off leaving us none the wiser. And it would’ve worked too had it not been for good old Ted and his keen canine senses.” Ted sits next to Earl as if to take his side against the rest of us, tail wagging in appreciation.
“You’re crazy,” I say, but with less conviction than Igor. He has a point. We all saw this dactyl’s death, yet here she is without a scratch on her.
We’ve also been seeing mirages all week.
First the massive sandstorm that never quite reached us, then our path was blocked by a wide lake, which turned out to be a shimmer across the sand. Only Ted had seen through these illusions, gamely prancing onwards.
“That would involve some sort of mind control,” I continue, “and that’s impossible with this type of animal.” I’m trying to convince myself as much as I’m trying to convince the men. I also know what I saw when the large grey buck attacked our captured doe, and I know what I’m seeing now.
“Or a hologram,” Zeus suggests, “Some sort of image projection.”
“That’s too elaborate an explanation. Dactyls aren’t smart, definitely not smart enough to develop hologram technologies. Their brains are no bigger than Earth apples.”
Igor has gone silent, staring pensively at the bound animal. “You know,” he says, “A leaf blows in the wind, and old Ted here goes ballistic–can’t help himself… but a gigantic pterosaur, bigger than any I’ve ever seen, swoops down, and he sits there like an idiot wagging his tail. Has anyone here ever seen a grey so large? One that takes up half the sky?”
“Adrenaline. That’s what made it seem bigger than it was,” I explain, “You guys have to stop letting Ted make all of the decisions around here. He has no credibility. And no, he doesn’t always bark when there’s danger. He failed to bark when the giant spider got aboard ship last month.” Of course, that was because he was cocooned inside the web, his muzzle strapped shut with silk, but I digress.
“And how is it that both Zeus and I missed with all six blasts? My targeting success rate is never less than 75% with the bazooka laser, and while my brother Zeus here can’t hit the broadside of a battleship, that thing was so big that even blindfolded, he should’ve gotten lucky with at least one shot.”
“Look,” I reply, “I’m not claiming to have the answers, but we need to do the right science before we jump to wild conclusions.”
“You said so yourself,” Zeus interjects, completely ignoring my simple request for science, “You’ve never seen another like this in your entire career. How do you know how smart it is?”
“I’ve captured plenty of dactyls in my career and not one of them has been any smarter than your average parrot. They are creatures of pattern and instinct.” The three men stare at me incredulously, their facial expressions evident even behind a layer of glass and piles of equipment. My offhand comment about parrots has damaged my credibility. Even space pirates have an affinity for parrots, and I should’ve chosen a different bird. “I meant to say chickens,” I add lamely.
“Let’s load her up and get out of here,” I say, pressing the button on the control band that I wear around my wrist, generating a countdown timer in everyone’s EVA helmet, reading thirty-three minutes. The ship will be here in a half hour, “In the meantime, I want you guys to scout for that other dactyl. If It’s injured, put it down, otherwise leave it alone.”
“Alright boss lady,” Zeus responds, “but I don’t think we’ll find it.”
The men head off in different directions, each towards a different moon, Ted setting off behind Earl.
“Not you,” I say to Ted, “You hang back here with me. You need to remember whose dog you are.”
While the guys are away, I recheck the specs on the dactyl using the bio-analyzer, paying particular attention to its neurological systems. Before, I focused only on potential injuries. Now, I’m looking for structure, and what I see is surprising. Her cranial capacity is not the size of an apple as I told the guys, more like the size of a cabbage, far larger than any other dactyl I had ever scanned. What is more remarkable, however, is the “significant presence of grey matter.”
“We’re going to have to keep these readings to ourselves for a while,” I tell Ted. “No ratting me out to Earl.”
There are certain rules governing the exotics trade. Firstly, you must get a permit to remove any creature from its habitat. I currently have a permit to remove one dactyl from the planet designated Trappist C, allowing me to capture any juvenile for either commercial or private use. Secondly, you need to house said creature in a “species-appropriate habitat”, feeding it a “species-appropriate” diet. Check! Thirdly, you need to provide any preventative or responsive veterinary care while the creature is in your possession and keep it in quarantine at any port enroute to the port of call. Check! As I mentioned earlier, I do have an advanced degree in veterinary medicine and am thus marginally qualified for this job.
There are additional rules, however, which are harder to define and accommodate. At some point along the intelligence spectrum, exotic pet ownership transitions into criminal entrapment, and under certain conditions enslavement. Ted, for instance, is clearly my pet because as smart as he seems to be some days, he still prefers to drink his water from the toilets. Ted has no culture. No potential towards civilization. However, a creature with higher reasoning abilities as demonstrated by a galactic sapience scan is deemed to be a person, regardless of physical appearance, resemblance to other known animals, or instinctual behavioral patterns. In other words, if it turns out that this creature can do higher math and likes poetry, we are all in deep shit on galactic kidnapping charges.
Perhaps the best, or at least ethical, thing to do would be to cut her loose right now with some nice parting gifts and plenty of apologies, just to be on the safer side of the law. But her bio-readings are still two percent under the legal limits, and five hundred million credits is a lot of money to throw away on the off chance that this animal is somehow an official galactic citizen. A more sophisticated study might change this creature’s legal status, but at least for now, she is just left of the thin red line separating animal from person. If her future owner is worried about sapience, let him or her pay for those expensive tests.
The numbers are close enough though that I do a complete reformat, deleting the information currently stored on the bio-analyzer. The creature looks up at me, and while I’m probably anthropomorphizing here, a crafty smile seams to spread out across her beak.
“I’m going to call you Iris,” I say, “After that goddess who makes rainbows. You’ll love New Earth. You’re sure to be a star there.”
The guys return predictably empty handed. Earl encountered a swarm of microdactyls which cling to his EVA suit persistently hoping to tunnel their way into his flesh. Each must be pulled out carefully, one at a time, so that they do not damage the inner layer of the EVA suit. Otherwise, the men saw nothing. No mountains. No clouds. No large alpha greys.
The United Earth Ship Spacesquatch emerges on the horizon, lumbering across the desert towards us. I almost forget to throw my control band, which I must now do since the ship’s biological entity sensors have gotten a bit eccentric. Luckily, there is enough distance on my throw that the ship lands about twenty feet away and no one gets squashed.
Ted circles excitedly, waiting for the hatch to open, which it will not do until I retrieve the control band and initiate the airlock.
“Are we really going to bring it aboard,” Zeus asks.
“No,” I reply, “We traveled forty odd light years pissing away two months of time so that we can tie it up and stare at it for a bit.” I guess I’m feeling a bit cranky- blame it on the mix of cortisol and adrenalin sloshing through my gut. I also hope that I’m not having a hot flash in the middle of a desert planet. I need to get back aboard ship where It’s cool.
“I agree with Zeus” Igor adds, “We should cut it loose and be on our way.”
“Come on now,” I protest, “We’ve brought far more dangerous animals on board than this one.” Zeus and Igor exchange a knowing glance. They must talk about me when I’m not around.
The hatch opens on the second try, sending the loading ramp plummeting into the unstable sand. Another thing that needs to be fixed. It almost smashes into Ted, but I pretend not to notice. I can’t yell at him every five minutes, and besides, he enjoys playing games with his personal safety.
Using the mass levitator, Zeus and Igor load Iris into the ship, through the pressurized airlock, and straight into the cargo cage, while I monitor her vital signs. I tell her not to be scared and that Earl will make her dinner as soon as everyone is settled, but she doesn’t look scared, rather– and I’m probably anthropomorphizing again– she looks around with an interested expression across her scaled face.
Is it my imagination, or does her gaze land a second too long on the control panel operating the cage’s containment field?
Now this might be a problem. Even a dog as dumb as Ted will learn what a button does if he sees you pressing it enough times. I remind myself to figure out how to override the cage controls from the master panel.
As Igor and Zeus stand with stun guns at the ready, Earl and I grab steel lids salvaged from ancient Earth garbage cans. They are cheaper than the control shields that can be bought from the supply depot and, in my opinion, are more humane. They don’t administer a shock when a creature approaches too closely.
In my experience, hurting any animal only makes it more dangerous. The animal might come to fear or hate you enough to kill. It doesn’t matter if you’re defending yourself or not. If someone is going to be the bad guy here, let it be Igor or Zeus rather than Earl or myself. We are the ones who need to develop trust so we can handle the animal safely while providing daily care and training.
I fully expect the standard backlash when we cut her free from her bonds, but instead Iris merely stretches her wings, yawns widely, and curls up into a ball, falling asleep almost immediately on the clean straw.
“See,” I say, “Look at how sweet she is… And you guys tried to convince me that she’s dangerous.”
“There are plenty of ways things can be dangerous,” Igor mutters, just loud enough to be heard.
“I don’t want you to have a pissing contest with this one like you did with the big blue we harvested a few years back,” I warn.
“That big blue wanted to eat me. I needed to show it who was alpha to protect myself and this crew.”
“I’m the alpha,” I respond, “And I say, no jousts. This little beauty is special.” Silently, I acknowledge that Big Blue, a flying macrolizard procured from the Denebian system, had been a rough character to deal with. I still have a scar where he decided that my forearm was being offered to him as a special treat, and since his sale to an intergalactic zoo, he has been caught feeding off the remains of two keepers.
For dinner, we grill celebratory steaks near the airlock. They are, of course, fully synthesized. Real beef is not practical on a long space voyage, but the guys are not connoisseurs, and so no one notices the difference… Except for Iris.
Earl sets aside the biggest and juiciest steak for her, but when I bring it into the cargo cage, she turns up her beak, refusing to look at it.
“Maybe she likes live prey,” Igor suggests scoring the second biggest steak for himself by playfully jabbing at Zeus with a dinner fork.
While Ted drags the rejected steak into his personal cabin at the back of the crew compartment, Earl and I suit back up and net a swarm of microdactyls, releasing them directly into Iris’s cage. She hungrily snaps them in mid-air, decimating the swarm so quickly that I end up suiting back up to gather more. I let Earl enjoy his downtime eating syntho-steak with the guys– he’s earned it, and after all, Iris is my baby.
In the morning, or in what passes for morning on a planet tidally locked to its star, we ready the ship for take-off. Igor and Ted have been up for hours by the time the rest of the crew emerges from their sleeping pods. While Igor is a mercenary by trade, he’s an engineer by profession. Despite the absence of emergency indicator lights on the maintenance panel, he insists on checking all systems manually, no longer trusting the Squatch and her faulty warning systems. I don’t blame him.
Zeus is technically the pilot. While I’m legally required to have a licensed pilot aboard ship during flight, his services are only really needed if the autopilot fails or we encounter unusual space conditions, which we never do, since space is mostly empty. The ship is so thoroughly automated that even Ted could fly it in a pinch (as he occasionally does).
As Igor and Zeus prepare the ship for orbital takeoff and Earl and Ted check on Iris, I stock up on microdactyls. Iris is eventually going to have to eat commercial dactyl feed, but I want to have some around as a special treat. I also admit that I find netting them to be therapeutic. Once they end up in the net, their instinct is to cling rather than to escape, and while they bite like hell, I barely feel their little teeth through my titanium mesh re-enforced gloves.
I give Iris a few as Earl and I strap her into the specially constructed armature designed to transport large animals through heavy g-force conditions, i.e. takeoffs and landings. Curiously, she enters the frame without protest, willingly allowing us to strap metal rods around her delicate wings. “She shouldn’t be this tame,” Earl says. “We need to have a serious discussion about the implications of an animal who is able to fake her death in a manner convincing enough to fool four humans.”
“She’s a smart girl,” I coo, caressing the soft blue feathers lining her sagittal crest. She’s going to be a hard one to part with.
“It’s more than that,” Earl protests, “I think she’s s–“
“Don’t say it,” I interrupt, “don’t say the S-word.”
“Sapient,” Earl finishes. “I think she’s sapient and that’s something we’re going to have to deal with sooner rather than later. We need to release her back into her natural habitat BEFORE we take off so that she can rejoin her kind.”
I say nothing, but in my heart, I agree with Earl, despite the marginal readings on the bio-analyzer. Biometrics alone can’t be used in determining a creature’s personhood. Behavior criteria are more important. Any judge in a galactic court of law would favor Earl’s conservative approach in determining citizenship: sapient until proven ignorant. If I want to act ethically and avoid trouble, I will release Iris now and report her existence to the Galactic Veterinary Council.
Despite my doubts, however, I continue to strap her into the frame. It’s not because I question Earl’s judgement or want to recoup my losses– It’s the look of dread that crosses Iris’s face when her “natural habitat” is mentioned.
“Don’t make me go back there,” Earl says in a clear and distinctly feminine voice. “I want to go to New Earth where I will be a star.” Is she controlling me or him…? I wonder as I dutifully tighten the straps against not only my better judgement but against my will.
“Why did you try to deceive us on the planet?” I ask.
“Because I thought you wanted to eat me, but now I know you have a starship and want to take me to different places, I want to be your friend.”
Earl sneezes when a blue feather brushes past his nose, breaking the connection. Too bad I only remember what happened for the next thirty seconds, while Earl remains oblivious to the fact that his body was appropriated by a pterosaur and used as an intercom. He has also conveniently forgotten his objections to keeping Iris onboard. Only Ted looks up at us skeptically.
When we’re all safely strapped in our launch chairs, Zeus initiates takeoff. The Squatch shutters before hovering slowly upwards. Eventually, her hydrogen extractors generate enough power to the engines that she races smoothly towards open space. Fortunately, there’s no turbulence in the sparse atmosphere, but once again we’ve forgotten to load the dishwasher before takeoff, and dirty plates and cups from both breakfast and dinner fly out from the kitchen sink clattering against the back wall. Ted is going to have a blast licking the hull for the next five days. Maybe, I’ll turn the gravity replicators off for an hour or two so he can get the stuff further up, and so us humans can give the ship a proper scrubbing. Iris might enjoy the experience of zero gravity as well.
As soon as the g-forces stabilize, I free Iris from her safety aperture and head over to my desk where I start arranging for the various permissions we will need to bring Iris through the space ports enroute to the Centauri System and New Earth.
I glance back to see Iris and Ted curled up together in the cargo cage. It’s so sweet they are getting along that I simply must stop everything I’m doing and take a photo for my social media feed.
I have a nagging feeling that I’m forgetting something though. My mind has felt a bit foggy since takeoff– perhaps because I’m able to spend the entire day aboard ship rather than hiking across the desert. Just as I’m deciding to retire to the crew cabin, taking the rest of the day off, someone finally figures out what’s wrong with the present scenario. Igor is busy double checking to make sure the ship sustained no damage on its atmospheric flight, and so It’s Zeus who asks the obvious question, “Why is Ted in the cage with the dactyl?”
“Now that’s a good question,” I respond, slowly rising to my feet and walking over to the edge of the containment field. He couldn’t have walked in there by himself. Someone had to let him in. “Earl!” I shout, “Why did you let Ted in with Iris?”
“You were the last one in there, you must have let him in,” Earl responds from somewhere in the crew compartment.
Again, Earl is correct. I was the last one in Iris’s cage. Ted undoubtedly followed me in and decided to stay behind. Maybe, I need to start taking those omega supplements because my brain is definitely getting loopy. I could point the bio-analyzer in my direction, but I dread the thought of what my readings might be.
“No harm,” I say to anyone who might still be listening, “As long as they don’t fight.”
About three hours later and halfway through the Trappist system, an alarm sounds through the hull, a sharp repetitive buzz complete with matching strobes. “Warning, multiple obstacles incoming, please modify navigational data at your earliest convenience.”
We’re about to fly through an asteroid field– except there is no such field recorded in this vicinity. Not on any chart, not in my considerable experience traversing this system. Nonetheless, emerging from the darkness, only partially illuminated by the red tinged light of the Trappist Star, a wide field of silent rock lurks in the path ahead.
“Where did all of these asteroids come from?” Igor asks, silencing the alarm on the control panel.
“Maybe a moon exploded or something,” Zeus suggests.
“No. Nothing recent like that. These are weathered and pock marked, like they’ve been bouncing around awhile.”
I look back at Iris who watches from the cargo cage, a smug expression on her beaky face. Ted is no longer in there with her, drawn by the excitement of the alarm to the proper side of the containment field, he sits in his customary spot at the co-pilot’s helm. I’ll have to consider how he got past the containment field when my ship is no longer in danger of being crushed like a beer can.
I’m also beginning to suspect that my mind has not been completely my own since takeoff.
“Maybe,” I suggest, “These asteroids are grey dragons– like the mirage lake or the sandstorm that never reached us.”
“She’s constructing a net,” Igor agrees, nodding his head and looking back at Iris with an expression that would melt the paint off a starship, “We should’ve left her planetside.”
I might be anthropomorphizing again here, but Iris makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like sniggering.
“Zeus,” I order, “I want you to take over manual controls and maintain course. Take evasive maneuvers, but if you happen to hit something, don’t worry. All we see in front of us is just another illusion.”
Less than five minutes later, the Squatch rolls sharply and stalls, sending everyone to the floor. Our left engine has been obliterated by an asteroid.
#
“We can’t fly this way,” Igor complains, “unless we plan on only making right-hand turns from now on.” And indeed, Zeus has managed to miraculously right-hand turn our way out of the asteroid field and back to safety.
“We need to land somewhere,” Zeus suggests, “Our thrust is off.”
“If we find a planet, I can transfer the central engine to the left wing.” Igor suggests, “That should balance the thrust and allow us to proceed to the nearest station.”
Returning to Trappist C is out of the question, but Trappist E looms just out the starboard observation window. We can make it there with minimal problems, using a gravity assist and a huge dose of luck to help with landing.
I notice with approval that Earl is already strapping Iris into her safety apparatus.
“Okay, boys,” I say, “Everyone strap in, I guess we’re going sightseeing.” I’ve never been to Trappist E. It’s on the outer edge of the star’s habitational zone which means It’s probably as cold as Trappist C is hot, even in the star facing hemisphere. However, it might be worth a look around for future expeditions. Life always finds a way.
The descent through the atmosphere is not nearly as rough as it should be. Rather than attribute the smoothness of our approach to Zeus’s abilities as a pilot, I’m hoping this means that the Squatch is not as badly damaged as the external cameras would indicate. We make a soft landing on a wide snowy plateau. At negative thirty degrees Celsius, the planet is not nearly as cold as I had feared.
When I go to unstrap Iris, Earl stops me. “Maybe we should keep her strapped in for awhile… Just until we figure things out.”
“Maybe not,” I snap, “Keeping her unnecessarily confined is inhumane, and against protocol. She will be fine resting in her cargo cage until we’re through, we’ll leave Ted to stand guard.”
“Okay, you’re the boss,” he responds with a resigned shrug. The four of us suit up and the cargo ramp drops into the snow. Luckily, it’s hydroxide snow and not that nasty methane stuff.
Collectively, we exit the Squatch, marching forward through brutal winds and knee-high snow, all in the interests of inspecting the left engine. Why are we all going? I wonder.
I hear a loud thump as a habitation unit slides down the ramp. Not a bad idea to have this handy in this unfamiliar world. I wonder who deployed it… I don’t quite remember ordering it… Shouldn’t I be the one making these decisions?
Igor and Zeus reach the damaged engine first. They are both looking up at the ship’s hull, squinting under the blinding pink glare of starlight on snow. Stunned rather than surprised, I approach to see that there is no actual damage evident, not even a small dent in the hull or scratch in the paint.
Suddenly, all three engines roar to life, blowing back icy slush in a rush of heated air. Too late, I scramble towards the cargo hatch, but it’s already gone, clicking into place over the air lock. I search for the control band normally on my wrist, but inexplicably, I’ve left it behind on the desk. I look up to see Iris looking down from the helm, through the forward control window, with Ted beside her strapped into the co-pilot’s seat. She winks one indigo eye before the Squatch rises off the ground and races off through the atmosphere trailing rainbow exhaust in its wake.
“What the Hell just happened?” Igor screams into the com.
An ethereal voice floods my helmet, “Ted and I are off to experience the galaxy. We’re going to be stars.”
“Don’t worry though,” the voice continues, “I’ve already sent a distress signal alerting the authorities to your predicament. Another ship should be along in a few months to rescue you. In the meantime, I’ve left you the emergency habitation unit and a supply of protein cubes.”
Earl calls, “Here boy!” into the com as if Ted will somehow turn the ship around and return for them, but all that can be heard through the static is happy excited barking. The Squatch is gone in seconds, leaving an enormous rainbow in her wake, stretching across the horizon from one mountain range to the next.
I’m already thinking about how I can explain this predicament to the investors upon my return to Centauri and about how I’ll spin this when I’m inevitably called before the Galactic Veterinary Council, when the guys fix upon me with faces both angry and scared.
At this point, I can apologize, but I’m not solely to blame here. At every turn, the guys did exactly what I paid them to do. Even the investors knew that there were no guarantees when they signed on. Dragon prospecting has always been a risky business.
Time to find out if this planet has a breathable atmosphere, I think as I start to unscrew the peg attachments on my helmet. If I die on this rock, let my epitaph read, “Far too many people put their faith in me.”
Christina Moore lives in Columbus, Ohio. By day, she works as a cataloger in the libraries at The Ohio State University. By night, she writes mysteries and speculative fiction– either science fiction or horror, depending on mood. She also enjoys cycling, photography, aquarium fish, choral music, big dogs, and rogue house cats. She has two upcoming short story publications, one with the Ohio Writer’s Association, the other with Of Rust and Glass.