Our Contest Page 2

Greg stands and launches himself over the table at Staci. He’s quickly able to close his hands around her throat and begins to choke her. The small woman is feeble in her own attempts to save herself. James yanks Greg off her and punches him in the face. Greg takes a step back and smiles. He’s clearly a person who uses violence as a narcotic and quickly punches James in the face with two quick jabs before Votary can intercept him.

  Votary easily blocks the follow-up attack from Greg and places a boot into his chest. The kick knocks Greg into Staci’s vacated chair. The chair hovers down the floor and collides with the next empty one on the side of the table.

  “Enough!” Votary bellows. “If you don’t behave, I’ll show you how easy it is for me to keep you in line!”

  The other eight individuals slowly take their same seats around the table. James and Greg glare daggers at each other and give their chairs a few extra inches of separation while Staci keeps her face buried in her hands.

  “Does someone want to explain what exactly just happened?” Votary asks.

  “That bitch used her—” Greg begins.

  “Someone who isn’t emotionally compromised right now?” Votary clarifies.

  Dante speaks for the group. “Staci Post hasn’t accepted what just happened to all of us. She barely speaks, but we did get her name out of her. The scientist, Flaimeson did you say?”

  Votary nods.

  Dante continues. “Flaimeson used to speak a lot when we could hear. It gives some credibility to him being a spy for your side. He said that she can make a person feel extreme pain. I don’t know how, but if she wants to hurt you, you just hurt. I can tell you from personal experience that it isn’t great. I can feel it even in smoke form.”

  “Curious,” Votary muses. “They let you use your powers while held captive?”

  “They couldn’t really stop us. Trust me, they tried,” Dale answers. “Except for you, I haven’t seen anything that can stop us from being augments.”

  “Then why didn’t you escape?” Votary asks.

  “Where to?” Dan demands. “We’re on a spaceship. Escaping our cells wouldn’t change that.”

  “Besides,” Mary Lee continues, “they weren’t bad to us. Sure, they kept us confined, but they wanted us to join their crew.”

  “Yeah, Vlad and Vape took them up on the offer,” James says after giving up his staring contest with Greg. “Those two left on day one, and we haven’t seen them since.”

  “I see,” Votary says.

  “So, can we go home now?” Staci screams.

  “I would prefer you all to stay,” Votary answers.

  “No, thank you,” Staci says.

  “You’ll be free to go, if you wish, after you hear what I have to say about the Malignant, but I’ll confer with Flaimeson first. This shouldn’t take longer than the rest of the day, assuming you aren’t diseased or anything like that, and you want to turn your back on the planet, I’ll send you home.”

  “Oh God!” Staci sobs and buries her face into her folded arms on the table.

  “Let’s hear it then,” Dante says.

  Votary fills the new augments in on the story of the Gudz and Malignant. Soon the other augments hold similar faces of dread that Staci hides.

  Flaimeson, Patrick, Amine, Power, Julie, and Gallery stand in the open bay that the Templars used as their entry point when the ship was still called the Ahika. They wait idly for the Malignant contingent that’ll bring desperately needed repair parts and replacement equipment.

  Flaimeson is the only one wearing his battle armor and stares longingly at Gallery’s shapely body covered by a skin-tight body suit. The former pop star catches his glare and decides that she’s not going to ignore it like she normally does with her fans.

  “You got a problem, Sasquatch?” Gallery demands.

  Flaimeson doesn’t respond. He smiles as he suggestively walks toward Gallery. “You are optimal. The most aesthetic woman I have seen in many centuries.”

  “How charming,” Gallery says with crossed arms and rolled eyes. “Just don’t stare at me. It’s rude.”

  “You consider it impolite to appreciate exceptional decoration?” Flaimeson asks. “What is impolite is us not docking.”

  “Docking?” Gallery asks.

  “You must be aware of IC?”

  “I don’t know what half of what you say means,” Gallery says.

  “Most of us don’t,” Power says.

  “Because most of you are morons,” Julie insults. “IC means intercourse, but you should have picked up on that from the context he used docking in.”

  “Don’t talk to me, bitch,” Power says before going back to his conversation with Patrick.

  The older man seems more than happy to ignore another squabble.

  “I am over ten thousand years old. Trust me, child, I can teach you a new definition of ecstasy,” Flaimeson boasts. “Why are you so prudish?”

  “I’m not a prude!” Gallery objects.

  “You kind of are,” Julie counters. “Sex after a mission is a healthy way to re-center oneself.”

  Gallery looks at the sweaty hair lining Flaimeson’s body.

  “Gross,” she says.

  “Sub-optimal,” Flaimeson says before turning his attention to Julie. “You seem to be the only rational one. I extend the offer to you as well.”

  “Perhaps after the business at hand is complete,” Julie responds.

  “Gross!” Gallery repeats.

  “Optimal,” Flaimeson declares. “The Malignant are here. A measly ten hours and we can dock.”

  Julie smiles. “I don’t promise anything.”

  The Templars wait for the four shuttles to land, then move to greet their visitors.

  Smith and Mitch stand in front of a massive window that gives them an unadulterated view of Earth and the space that surrounds it. Smith is quite pleased with how excited Mitch is. The two stand as the sole individuals in the room. Several comfortable hover-sofas and recliners sit undisturbed behind them.

  “This is beautiful,” Mitch mutters.

  “Thanks,” Smith says with a cocky grin, “but make sure you take your eyes off me for a moment and take in the view of Earth.”

  Mitch smiles. “Cute as ever, Officer Smith.”

  “Is there anywhere else on the ship that you’d like to see?” Smith asks.

  “Besides your bed?”

  “I’m saving the best for last.”

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing the kitchen,” Mitch admits.

  “On a ship, we call it a galley,” Smith corrects.

  “Whatever. I just want something in my mouth.”

  Smith fails at stifling a giggle.

  “I’m impressed you’re willing to let that one go,” Mitch says.

  “I shouldn’t, but I’m trying to be a gentleman.”

  “Since when?”

  “Why so interested in the galley? Each room can make the same stuff. You request a meal, and it sort of teleports to your table.”

  “Then what’s the point of even having a galley?”

  “We took the officer quarters. The enlisted sailors didn’t have the same amenities.”

  “Rank definitely has its privileges,” Mitch says with a smile. “What a shame.”

  “Why?”

  “I feel useless up here. I was hoping to be the cook or something.”

  “Baby, you mix a great drink, but cooking isn’t your thing.”

  “You saying I suck at it?”

  “No, but you’re just okay. A solid six on a scale of ten. Besides, the cooking is mostly automated. You still wouldn’t be needed.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Off to the bedroom?” Smith hopes.

  A devilish smile crosses Mitch’s lips.

  “Why? Nobody’s here. I�
�d love for you to press my body against this glass so I can watch the planet as you manhandle me.”

  “Thank God,” Smith says as he wraps Mitch in a kiss. “I didn’t want to have to wait a moment longer.”

  Mitch laughs as Smith’s powerful arms press him against the glass. The sound of a falling zipper makes each man smile.

  Millantra has joined the other six Templars in the landing bay. The Templars wait as the Malignant offload crate after crate with a hive mind efficiency.

  Power is in his fully armored mode, with tazdeve assault cannon arms spinning and missile launchers on his robotic shoulders. Millantra cants her head almost ninety degrees as she moves closer to Flaimeson.

  “This is not a battle, Power,” Flaimeson reminds him. “You may relax.”

  “Nah, dawg, you may be able to relax, but that orange armor puts me into kill mode. These bastards killed Curtis and Zoe. Not to mention Gabriella and Jake. I ain’t relaxing until they leave.”

  Millantra looks at Flaimeson. “What is wrong with them?”

  “They do not comprehend. Remember, they are simply children,” Flaimeson answers.

  “Listen, bitch, don’t talk about me like I ain’t here,” Power threatens and turns his deadly armament toward the Gudz spies.

  “Why don’t you explain it to us like we are children?” Patrick suggests.

  Flaimeson shrugs. “Sure. Have any of you played sports?”

  The assembled Templars scoff at the ridiculous question.

  “Yes, we’ve played sports,” Julie answers.

  “I’ve balled a day or two,” Power adds.

  “Do you still consider it winning if you cheat to get those results or if the other team has had misfortune?” Millantra asks.

  Without missing a beat, Julie answers. “Absolutely. Winning is everything.”

  The other Templars clearly don’t agree. Millantra re-focuses her question toward them.

  “Do you all concur?”

  “No!” Gallery shouts. “Winning isn’t important.”

  “And it definitely doesn’t count under adverse conditions,” Patrick adds.

  “You have such fleeting lives that you fear death above all else. True Gudz are different. We fear being accused of winning with an asterisk. This is just Our Contest. We will not cheat, and neither will the Malignant. We will all celebrate in the afterlife, except for those who consistently break the rules,” Millantra finishes.

  “Then explain your willingness to be a spy,” Julie challenges.

  “That is different,” Flaimeson says. “Spies and assassins fall under different rules.”

  “How so?” Amine asks.

  “They just are,” Flaimeson answers with a sigh. “Why do kickers leave the American football field? Spies and assassins are necessary, so both sides use them, and therefore they are not dishonored.”

  “Whatever,” Power says. “Y’all are crazy. It looks like them bitches is done anyways.”

  The Templars look at the Malignant, who politely wait for the conversation to end. In front of the Malignant stands a woman who appears to be an older teenager. Her actual age is impossible to tell for the human Templars. She has short hair cropped close to her head and is so orange that it almost shines. She gestures Flaimeson with a hand that exposes a slender wrist buried beneath silky orange robes.

  Flaimeson immediately approaches her.

  “Now we being summoned like dogs?” Power asks.

  “Silence,” Millantra says in a loud whisper. “That is Leebuch.”

  “Why the hell do I care?” Power asks.

  “Because she is Mother’s chosen successor. That means she has the same power over all weather as Mother does. She could kill us all easily.”

  “Not me,” Amine smugly says. “She could only fight me to a draw.”

  Millantra gives up on educating inferior minds and walks over to join Flaimeson with Leebuch. The other Templars cautiously follow.

  Alex walks into the men’s locker room at the hospital. He spots Donald in there and sheepishly walks toward his partner. Donald quickly turns his back and ignores his friend.

  “It’s like that?” Alex asks.

  Donald doesn’t respond. He continues to shove his civilian clothing into a gym bag, then places it in the locker assigned to him.

  “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I had to process some serious shit,” Alex tries to explain.

  Donald slams his locker shut and turns to face Alex. Even though Alex is much taller and stronger, he timidly takes a few steps back as Donald approaches him. He’s never seen his partner this angry.

  “I’m sorry for your problems,” Donald practically shouts. “Funny story; I also experienced some shit. My partner bailed on me on the same day that some alien queen bitch decided that I don’t count as a real person. Apparently, a lot of other people got scared, and I’ve had to work twenty-hour days since. I feel guilty when I sleep those four hours in whatever vacant room I can find here and then go back out. I’m terrified that I’m hurting some of the people I’m trying to save because of how tired I am, but you know, a lot of other people had to process shit!”

  Alex takes the abuse and finds it difficult to be mad at his friend.

  “I’m sorry, but Kim and the kids needed me.”

  “I didn’t see them at Carlos’ funeral.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m kinda in hot water right now for going there and then coming here.”

  Donald walks past Alex. He bumps him with his shoulder.

  “Sorry, I didn’t hear what you just said. I’m so tired and overworked that I zone out occasionally. Pretty funny, huh?”

  Donald exits the locker room and walks down the hospital corridors that are filled with patients but significantly understaffed with doctors and nurses. Alex chases his friend and keeps pace as the shorter man defiantly strides through the building toward his ambulance.

  “I’m here now. Don’t let people suffer because you’re too proud to take my help.”

  “Don’t do me any favors!” Donald screams as he keeps from looking at Alex. “You’ve got your family to worry about. I’ll worry about all the other families. It’s a fair split.”

  Alex grabs Donald by the shoulder. “Listen, you’re mad and I get it, but I’m about done taking your shit.”

  “There are plenty of ambulances these days. Feel free to take your own,” Donald says as he shakes his shoulder loose and continues on his mission to get to an ambulance with limited conversation.

  Alex lets him go and resigns himself to driving a separate ambulance for a day or two.

  Keith lies on his bed at Tina’s house. He looks at his most recent text from Jenny in their conversation.

  It reads, Did you see Mother on ‘The Intrepid Reporter’ yet?

  Of course, he writes back, kind of hard to miss it.

  What do you think? she writes back.

  I think someone needs to tell her that orange isn’t the new anything. She needs a better stylist.

  Cute. I thought she was very beautiful, but that’s the only nice thing I have to say about her. She’s gonna kill us all.

  No, she won’t. She’s just saying that stuff to get augments like you to reveal yourselves and leave with her. She’s just frontin’.

  I hope you’re right.

  If I’m not, then at least you’ll be safe. Promise me that you’ll go with her if it’s the only way to stay alive.

  I won’t leave you and my family.

  Just promise me.

  I can’t make that promise.

  Please!

  Fine.

  I love you, Keith types.

  You better, Jenny types back.

  All the Templars except Darsh in med bay and Amine on guard watch are present on the bridge of the Vengeful ISH. The repairs of the last two days
are finally complete.

  The various stations on the bridge glow with smoky tendrils from blank slates.

  “What exactly are we supposed to do with these?” Patrick asks.

  Julie smiles.

  “I’m so glad you asked,” she says before adding, “I’m sure we all want to know.”

  Flaimeson laughs along with Millantra at the joke.

  “They’re serious,” Abel says. “I’m actually curious myself. It appears the last thousand years must have had some interesting advancements in technology.”

  Realization dawns on Flaimeson. “My apologies, Father. I forgot that you left when we still used archaic keys to interact with our machines.”

  “So, if you don’t mind?” Votary begins, “Please bring us up to speed on how to use this ship. It isn’t much, but it’s all we have, and we’re closing in on only five weeks left until the battle.”

  “No problem,” Flaimeson states. “It is all about penetration and strokes.”

  Many of the Templars giggle at Flaimeson’s choice of words.

  Flaimeson does not understand the humor. “Let us say that you want to regard a diagnostic on weapon systems.”

  Flaimeson moves to the nearest vapor board and waves a hand over it. “You just have to wave any limb over the board to indicate your intention to manipulate it. Then you remember that weapon begins with w and move to the approximate location of the twenty-third letter in the second basic language. Which is about here.”

  Flaimeson wiggles two fingers in a wisp of orange smoke that is about twenty percent from the top of the visible vapor. Abel and Julie nod knowingly. The rest of the Templars watch with a combination of ignorance and disinterest.

  Flaimeson continues his tutorial. “Now that I have weapon systems on the screen in front of me, I use my non-dominant hand to move to the relative position of the fourth letter of the second basic language. Once diagnostics displays on the virtual screen, I just twirl my finger analog west orientation and the data presents itself for me to regard.”

  “Simple,” Millantra adds.

  “I get it,” Julie admits.

  Her peers stare at her in disbelief.

  “Stop lying, bitch,” Power says. “You can be wrong from time to time.”