Disclaimer: If yez think I own, or think I think I own, any of the Outlaw Star crew, you're badly wrong. I'm not worth suing anyway.
Yep, I'd completely forgotten about this. Don't know what brought it back to mind. Enjoy chapter two, and feel free to tell me what you think.
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The crew of the spacegoing vessel 'Outlaw Star' - those as could leave the ship - gathered around the hospital bed where Aisha lay. Various tubes and hookups connected her mangled body to the complicated-looking machinery which was going about healing her massive wound - her hand, the only unencumbered part of her body, was firmly held by Jim Hawking.
Being as she was a member of a race whose skills in that area are legendary, her healing process was moving along at a stunning rate, but the magnitude of the damage done was such that she would not be moving around much for some time.
Gene Starwind, outlaw extraordinaire and serial bankrupt, turned to the room's other occupant. The strange man who had brought Aisha into the hospital and called in Gene and Jim was sitting in one corner of the room, an individual thoroughly unremarkable in appearance from his short brown hair to his black reefer jacket and jeans; his eyes were closed and his head bowed, and he was fidgeting with a matte-black torc at his neck.
'What was it?'
The stranger was silent for a moment, then spoke to the floor.
'I've never seen its like before. Small-bore pistol weapon that somehow fired a composite shot with enough power to rip a target's torso apart: shouldn't even have been physically possible. I'm not entirely sure it was physically possible, but that needs closer examination than I was able to carry out. The wielder shot her with it when she confronted him at his residence, a laboratory just outside the limits of this city - I'm afraid I don't know its name - and threatened him in some way.'
'Threatened? Why? About what?'
'That much I don't know. I was supposed to be preventing the confrontation and finding out what it was going to have been about had it taken place, but unfortunately I arrived too late. The dude thought she was dead, and so I got her away from him and brought her here. I want to find out what's going on, and she knows. I'm sure of it.'
'And the man who shot her?'
'Never seen him before, although his race is familiar. I think he's a subset of the Eyii overrace - pointy ears, tall and thin, probably some sort of psionic ability - and he has a bad approach to diplomacy and a distinct Scottish accent.'
'Sounds like a Lanreau to me. They're not nice at all, and their names sound like a bad cough.'
'Hm. I'd more or less designated him "Elf-boy". He didn't take kindly to it, as I recall.'
'They're touchy. There's a question I'd like answered though: Who the hell are you?'
'Ah. One of the difficult ones.'
The black-clad stranger looked up, opening his eyes, and met Gene's gaze. His eyes were as feline as the closed eyes of the girl lying comatose on the bed, and had obviously seen far too much in his lifetime.
'My name is Erda; I'm a Cultine of the Tare clan. MolTare Erda. And, strictly speaking, I don't belong in this universe. I'm an Elite in the Drax Legion, a soldier of the timelines - I'm sent to differing threads of reality to ensure events turn out as they should, mostly thoroughly informed as to what's going to be necessary. In this case, I know very little except for my original brief, which was to save the catgirl - a mission I nearly failed miserably.
'Anyway. I'm armed and armoured in a manner which would make a Star Destroyer quail, and I want to get to the bottom of this mess.'
'Star Destroyer?' Jim piped up from Aisa's bedside.
'Large, unpleasant space vehicle. Not in this reality, though.'
Gene spoke up again.
'Do you actually believe all of that? They've got a great mental ward here, you know.'
MolTare sighed.
'This happens every single time. What happened to the good old days where everyone was credulous?'
His hand dropped to the huge 'buckle' on the belt he wore, and pressed something. Gene stared in mild shock and growing apprehension at the sight of an artificial carapace of black armour-suit enclosing the rising figure of the self-proclaimed Drax, who was quite suddenly holding a staff some five and a half feet long with ten-inch blades of faintly glowing metal. Laying one blade lightly against Gene's throat, he softly asked,
'Was there something?'
Gene could only stammer in response.
'Hm. Maybe it's you who's in need of some rest in a padded cell. You seem a tad wound up... now, to business. I intend to sort things out; are you going to help?'
Gene merely glowered, but Jim spoke up again.
'You're going after the man who shot Aisha? I'm with you, even if you are crazy. Gene?'
Gene looked sour, massaging his throat where the blade had rested, but nodded.
'I'm with Jim. You may be a nutter, but if anybody ever shoots the cat it's going to be me.'
Yep, I'd completely forgotten about this. Don't know what brought it back to mind. Enjoy chapter two, and feel free to tell me what you think.
**************************
The crew of the spacegoing vessel 'Outlaw Star' - those as could leave the ship - gathered around the hospital bed where Aisha lay. Various tubes and hookups connected her mangled body to the complicated-looking machinery which was going about healing her massive wound - her hand, the only unencumbered part of her body, was firmly held by Jim Hawking.
Being as she was a member of a race whose skills in that area are legendary, her healing process was moving along at a stunning rate, but the magnitude of the damage done was such that she would not be moving around much for some time.
Gene Starwind, outlaw extraordinaire and serial bankrupt, turned to the room's other occupant. The strange man who had brought Aisha into the hospital and called in Gene and Jim was sitting in one corner of the room, an individual thoroughly unremarkable in appearance from his short brown hair to his black reefer jacket and jeans; his eyes were closed and his head bowed, and he was fidgeting with a matte-black torc at his neck.
'What was it?'
The stranger was silent for a moment, then spoke to the floor.
'I've never seen its like before. Small-bore pistol weapon that somehow fired a composite shot with enough power to rip a target's torso apart: shouldn't even have been physically possible. I'm not entirely sure it was physically possible, but that needs closer examination than I was able to carry out. The wielder shot her with it when she confronted him at his residence, a laboratory just outside the limits of this city - I'm afraid I don't know its name - and threatened him in some way.'
'Threatened? Why? About what?'
'That much I don't know. I was supposed to be preventing the confrontation and finding out what it was going to have been about had it taken place, but unfortunately I arrived too late. The dude thought she was dead, and so I got her away from him and brought her here. I want to find out what's going on, and she knows. I'm sure of it.'
'And the man who shot her?'
'Never seen him before, although his race is familiar. I think he's a subset of the Eyii overrace - pointy ears, tall and thin, probably some sort of psionic ability - and he has a bad approach to diplomacy and a distinct Scottish accent.'
'Sounds like a Lanreau to me. They're not nice at all, and their names sound like a bad cough.'
'Hm. I'd more or less designated him "Elf-boy". He didn't take kindly to it, as I recall.'
'They're touchy. There's a question I'd like answered though: Who the hell are you?'
'Ah. One of the difficult ones.'
The black-clad stranger looked up, opening his eyes, and met Gene's gaze. His eyes were as feline as the closed eyes of the girl lying comatose on the bed, and had obviously seen far too much in his lifetime.
'My name is Erda; I'm a Cultine of the Tare clan. MolTare Erda. And, strictly speaking, I don't belong in this universe. I'm an Elite in the Drax Legion, a soldier of the timelines - I'm sent to differing threads of reality to ensure events turn out as they should, mostly thoroughly informed as to what's going to be necessary. In this case, I know very little except for my original brief, which was to save the catgirl - a mission I nearly failed miserably.
'Anyway. I'm armed and armoured in a manner which would make a Star Destroyer quail, and I want to get to the bottom of this mess.'
'Star Destroyer?' Jim piped up from Aisa's bedside.
'Large, unpleasant space vehicle. Not in this reality, though.'
Gene spoke up again.
'Do you actually believe all of that? They've got a great mental ward here, you know.'
MolTare sighed.
'This happens every single time. What happened to the good old days where everyone was credulous?'
His hand dropped to the huge 'buckle' on the belt he wore, and pressed something. Gene stared in mild shock and growing apprehension at the sight of an artificial carapace of black armour-suit enclosing the rising figure of the self-proclaimed Drax, who was quite suddenly holding a staff some five and a half feet long with ten-inch blades of faintly glowing metal. Laying one blade lightly against Gene's throat, he softly asked,
'Was there something?'
Gene could only stammer in response.
'Hm. Maybe it's you who's in need of some rest in a padded cell. You seem a tad wound up... now, to business. I intend to sort things out; are you going to help?'
Gene merely glowered, but Jim spoke up again.
'You're going after the man who shot Aisha? I'm with you, even if you are crazy. Gene?'
Gene looked sour, massaging his throat where the blade had rested, but nodded.
'I'm with Jim. You may be a nutter, but if anybody ever shoots the cat it's going to be me.'