Oi, this one's a long chapter, to kinda sorta make up for the dry spell. Only it doesn't really. Oh, well. Enjoy. Lots of stuff happens in this one. And I actually changed what I was going to do with the end. I think I like it better now.
On with the show!
Chapter 15
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>>This is CB News, broadcasting over the planet Chikyu-Gamma, currently limited by blocked communications. Reports are in of an alien vessel orbiting the planet Chikyu-Gamma and threatening a CSSF ship. The designation of this CSSF vessel is as yet unknown, but this reporter has heard some hearsay about a 'multihued monster,' a 'clownish cargo carrier,' if you will, a 'fluorescent freighter,' a-
>>Yes, James, why don't you go eat your animal crackers?
>>But-
>>That's correct, James, there is indeed an enemy ship floating just beyond the atmospheric veil of the planet Chikyu-Gamma. However, officials have refused to tell the media why exactly this ship has appeared. One official, who seems to have been involved in the Academy tournament proceedings which were recently interrupted by this enemy ship, has leaked to us something about a decoy plan-
>>Isn't it also true, Barbara, that this 'enemy ship,' as it were, is the reason for our restricted transmission?
>>Animal crackers. Go to it.
>>Barbara, I work here too, you know-
>>GO EAT THOSE CRACKERS OR I WILL GET THEM FOR YOU AND SHOVE THEM UP-
Bra turned the screen off and threw her pillow onto the floor. Her head fell back to rest on the couch's arm and she groaned inwardly. "Why is it that whenever we have a crisis they send the actual reporters on vacation and let these bozos get their hands on expensive equipment? Tell me what the heck is going on!"
She slid of the cushion and rose to her feet, padding to the kitchen. Her phone, communicator, comp-linker, and ten of her fifteen free-talk tags lay in a jumble on the counter. She swiped them into the sink and almost considered hosing them in her anger. What good had all the technology of the Briefs family done when it had been trumped? She held her fire, though, remembering something her mother had told her long ago. Or maybe it was last week.
"Bra, don't you see? Technology is, yes, a wonderful thing. We do use it quite a lot, and it does reduce much of our daily workload, freeing us to do other things with our time. However, that doesn't mean that technology rules us. Correction: it doesn't have to. For the laymen out there who can't survive without their stupid GRAVITY ROOMS, slavery may be the only option. You and I, being intelligent and insightful people, have the means to manipulate technology to serve us."
Bra took in the sink with all its singly useless contact devices and thought for a moment. If none of these alone could patch through to any device outside the atmosphere of the planet, then the Qatorans must have installed some sort of code blocker. A universal code-blocker was impossible, even for the Qatorans - because the length of each code can vary, the possible code combinations are limitless - infinite. This meant that the Qatorans must have had to tailor their own blocker to the specific range of codes utilized by the various communication devices on Chikyu-Gamma.
She pulled out her computer and started a query.
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Trunks' K-7 veered around asteroid belts, through emission nebulae, and past stellar nurseries, its scanning processes continuing their scrutiny of contiguous space. This was strange. The on-site commander had said the Argo was only 50 parsecs away, Trunks knew it. Why wasn't he picking it up anywhere?
He continued his foray into the surrounding territory, contemplating alternative possibilities. Maybe the Argo was using some sort of stealth device? But no – the league of sectors had outlawed that after failed experiments with the technology had resulted in the deaths of thousands of crewmembers. Or at least their disappearance…
Perhaps the Argo had received some sort of mission that pulled them away from the area. In that case, Trunks didn't know what he could do. The entire plan hinged on him being able to contact the Argo. He had to find this stupid ship!
Trunks switched down from his main propulsion to secondary impulse thrusters, freeing up energy resources for a deeper scan. A slow hum along with a steady-paced beep accompanied the process. Maybe he could find some other ship to help him out. But was there any other ship out there capable of matching the Qatorans weapon for weapon? Trunks pondered a moment. He did know that his dad wasn't an idiot when it came to tactics; maybe Vegeta had something up his sleeve? Trunks shook his head to clear it. He was getting annoyed with all the beeping and almost stopped the scan altogether when the viewscreen output changed slightly.
"There," Trunks said aloud. A small dot on the screen indicated some sort of object floating about 25 parsecs away from him. Maybe, just maybe, this was the Argo. He entered the coordinates the screen gave him and sped off.
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That was quite a gun. It was a big, heavy, destructive-looking thing, lined up and down with little green lights and rippled vents steaming with the sweat of its intentions. Pan stared down into its limitless maw, trying to use its disproportionate size to work up a bit of a laugh and failing miserably. It may have been ridiculous, but it was trained directly on her ship, and she doubted if mocking it would cause it to run off into a corner and cry mercy.
Her mind, which she wished were running along at a mile a minute, was actually otherwise engaged at the moment, and not with something so useful as weapon systems. She was thinking about her mother. The last time she spoke to Videl had been on her communicator back at the Academy. They had been talking about a great recipe for chocolate-chip cookies that Videl had made when Pan was little. For years Pan had been asking her for the recipe, and only this time had Videl deemed Pan 'old enough' to handle the baking.
A soft smile lit Pan's eyes and turned up the corners of her mouth. Her mother was always making the most mundane things out to be significant. But she had said once that the everyday occurrences, including cookie recipes, were the stuff of life – the substance of it. And then Pan thought back even further, over all the hugs her dad had given her. She remembered his grin over every present she opened Christmas morning. She remembered the feeling of her mom stroking her back as she lay in bed, sick with a cold. She remembered her friends – Bra, the insufferably long-winded, kind and loyal; Brikul, the ugly giant with the friendly eyes; Trunks –
>>you will comply. prepare yourself
The silky voice curled inside her ears and forced a shiver. When her eyes again focused, the gun barrel that was once pitch black was now lit with the resentful fury of a dying star.
Pan's stomach sank. She had to go to the bathroom.
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Trunks was coming up on the object his scanners had picked up about ten minutes ago. He had to lower his speed and drop from the main thrusters in order to start up the viewing system. He wanted to see this with his own eyes; he had heard the Argo was a magnificent structure.
As the K-7 continued to glide forward, the screen over Trunks' head flickered into life. Empty space greeted him.
"Strange. I must be a little off with the camera." He started manually swiveling the hull camera back and forth, using the controls on the wall beside his right shoulder. After about thirty seconds of this, something caught his eye. He had passed it; he slowly moved back to the area.
The lower right corner of the screen was covered with a scattering of small grey articles of varying size and contour. Trunks boxed the grouping and zoomed in. They now filled the screen entirely, but Trunks was still ignorant as to what exactly they were. He tried deep-scanning one of the bigger objects to see what it was made of. The readout came up instantly. Aluminum, Byterium, Rhondorium, Silicon – the same materials used in the hull of a ship. These must be debris. But how old were they? And how had a ship been destroyed without anyone finding out about it?
Maybe it was a supply vessel. He had heard reports before of these ubiquitous crafts getting lost for weeks before the transport commission figured it out. Or maybe – but something again caught Trunks' eye. Something blue on one of the medium-sized pieces of metal. It was writing of some sort; he squinted and tried to make it out.
"In the service of…of something or other, one two…five? Or maybe three. Seven one point two. CSSF…oh, I can't…" he trailed off, because the rest of the words were obscured by another floating chunk of metal. He waited as it moved lazily by. The final word was revealed, which he knew instantly was the name of the ill-fated vessel before him. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth so hard his temples started aching.
It was the Argo.
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Pan groaned and pushed her palms against the slimy floor beneath her cheek, rising shakily until she was seated on her haunches. The watery chalk-smelling goo that her cheek had so recently called its pillow was now oozing along her jaw and dripping with an intermittent 'plop' onto her forearms and thighs. She blinked and yawned, gazing around at the walls that were mere feet from her absently twisting fingers, the low bench that was turned on its side on her right, the low ceiling which she was sure she would strike if she tried to stand, and the grey door which stood out because it was the only clean thing she could see.
Crawling to the overturned bench, she righted it and sat with her back to the wall, not caring that it was covered with the same substance that now caused her boots to squelch as she tapped her feet impatiently. She rubbed her hands together and leaned forward, trying to think.
The last thing she remembered was that huge gun rammed up against the chuckles-mobile's forward side. The light from within it had been blinding, and she had tried to switch off the screen to no effect. Soon the entire bridge section had been flooded with an intense, searing heat, and all the eyelids in the world couldn't shut out that awful light! The noise had been – but there had been no noise. That was what she now recalled. The deathlike silence of outer space had filled her ears, and she had been sure that the ship must have been ripped open.
But she was here, wherever 'here' was, and she was alive. Whatever had happened, it was in another time, another dimension. Now there was only herself, the smell of chalk, and the plip plip plip of fifty leaky faucets.
She didn't know how long she sat there writing a tune to the sewer-like beat, but she was eventually interrupted by a low whisper.
"Oi. Oi, you." She glanced around, but could see no point of origin for the whisper. She said nothing. "Oi. Ah, fine. I'm coming in." She heard other voices, one of which seemed to be complaining, and the other of which was consoling the complainer. A fast sort of 'shick' sound followed, and a hole appeared in the wall at her left. She raised an eyebrow, but did not jump.
"Welcome to the Lucinda Maze, friend." A shaggy brown head of hair poked through the hole. Pan observed that the hole was flush with the floor and so low as to force any entering person to crawl through. After the shaggy hair-guy had escaped, there followed a blonde boy with a raggedy leather suitcase and a dark man with a bandana pressing his dirty hair to his forehead. He glowered at her as she sat examining him nonchalantly. This was obviously the complainer. She look again at the boy, noting his sympathetic smile. Ah, the consoler. And the whisperer –
"I bet you're wondering who we are, eh?" The whisperer grinned widely and sat down unceremoniously against the grey door, within reach of her boots should she want to injure him. His pale blue eyes took in her sliminess and her disheveled appearance, but his grin widened and his irises took on an almost teasing glint. The complainer did not sit, but moved to stand at the whisperer's left, his arms crossed and his dark gaze still trained on Pan. The boy tripped over to the bench and sat right next to her. He began opening the suitcase.
This all seemed kind of rehearsed, and as Pan was pondering this possibility, the whisperer began introductions. "Well, my name is Brand, this here is Forsythe, and the kid there is called Benin. Ben for short, I think." He glanced humorously at Ben, who was now absorbed in what Pan realized was a computer inside the suitcase. Brand continued. "The computer there is Lucinda, hence the Lucinda Maze. 'Snamed for Ben's mom." Brand didn't say anything then, but crossed his throat with his finger while looking at Pan significantly. She glanced sideways at Ben, who seemed oblivious. Dead mother. Pan felt a twinge of regret at such a young boy losing someone so important. "The Qat boys don't call it that, 'course, but we think it gives the place a more community-type feel, dontcha think?"
She said nothing, because she was now involved in a staring contest with Forsythe. His glare was getting on her nerves. She steadily maintained a similar glare but kept her pose as detached as possible, trying to make him mad while still keeping the upper hand. After a short while, he looked away sulkily. She grinned evilly, triumph swelling her chest.
"Yeah, so there's us, now would you be so kind as to give us your name, pretty lady?"
Gazing at Brand, she realized he had been observing her little competition. His eyes were lit with humor, though, and Pan dropped her guard a bit. She opened her mouth to speak for the first time in what seemed like ages. There was a frog in her throat. She coughed and started again. "Pan." She held off on her last name only because they had. Then she asked the question that had been pounding against her forehead like an annoying sixth-grade boy since she woke up. "Where the heck are we?"
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Bulma Briefs was mad. It wasn't anything she could logically support, really; her staff were working rather efficiently today, her father had made great gains in his fight against whatever sickness was plaguing him at the moment, and Vegeta hadn't even been in the building. The halls of Capsule Corp Industrial Center were busy with commerce, and Bulma's already large fortune was becoming more and more secure with every new invention, every decision, every transaction completed within these hallowed walls.
And yet she was angry. There was something wrong. Something she couldn't quite put a finger on. Something that was emphasized by various little blips in the smoothness of her day.
For one thing, the 30 or so employees that commuted from Kandar 4 had called in absent, citing difficulty with the orientation systems on their transport vehicles. It wasn't a big deal; she usually planned for about 80 per cent of her employees showing up on any given day. It still made her uneasy. For another thing, she had twice tried to call her daughter, Bra, only to come up against an annoying 'technical problems, please stand by' message from the Communication Division. This was doubly annoying because her neighbor, Mrs. Jenkins, had absolutely no difficulty getting through to her to complain about her hedges.
In all probability, nothing was wrong, but Bulma was a cynical person, and she assumed that things were chaos until proven orderly. Maybe Vegeta had influenced her a little bit…
She was about to get back to work when her link-phone blinked. Great, now she'd have to fix the ringer on the thing. She picked it up and punched in the query for the origin of the message. Strangely, it was from the Bonhardt system. She didn't know anyone from the Bonhardt system. She granted access out of curiosity.
"Mom? Mom! Are you there? Oh please tell me you can hear me!" Bra's exhausted and frustrated tones blared from the receiver.
"Honey! Calm down. Why in the world are you in the Bonhardt system?" She leaned back, prepared to console Bra over a boyfriend issue or something of the like.
"I'm not, mom. I..I had to patch through it in a different code in order to find you, only I had to switch codes while I was patching, and I almost messed it up, I mean I did mess it up about three times before now, only finally it worked and I'm so glad you're there -"
"Bra. Something happened." She knew it! "Are you alright?"
"Yeah, mom, I'm fine for now, only there are Qatorans and they're orbiting and apparently Pan and Trunks are trying to lure them away, but I'm not sure how that's going, and they're jamming communications and I can't do anything to help them! Oh, mom! This is terrible!"
Qatorans? Vegeta had said many times that they would eventually come for revenge. She had hoped she would be able to finish her new prototype before then – no matter. They were prepared. She was the smartest woman in CSSF; she could beat any technology she saw. She had to tell Vegeta. He may have been a baka, but he was unbeatable for tactics.
"Don't worry, Bra. Mom and dad are coming to help."
"Oh, mom! You're awesome!"
"I know, dear. Uh, where are you, by the way?"
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8000 people, most of them civilians, gone just like that. Some of the greatest engineers, enforcers, and commanders in the CSSF. Jason Greco. Tomaris Levatharin.
"Pan's parents," Trunks spoke aloud, trying to pierce the emotional void that now held him captive. The Argo's nameplate was still centered on the viewscreen, mocking him as it floated serenely in a peace that belied the destruction that must have occurred only hours previously. He lowered his head to avoid the scene, but could not prevent its imprint in his memory. He tried thinking of something else- anything else. Pan's face came into his mind.
He saw her look at him coolly as she shoved a piece of cake in his face. He saw her burning with anger as he attacked her and stopped her from entering the tournament. He saw her smile at him from behind a cup of hot chocolate, her grin as she refused to be fooled by his Keebler-induced lies. She was so – wonderful. She didn't deserve this. Not this.
With the Argo gone, the plan was basically shot. But Trunks still had a K-7, and enough firepower to maybe focus the Qatorans on him while he made Pan escape. But since when had he been able to make Pan do anything? He sighed. He still had to try.
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Brand leaned over Pan's head to see what Benin was typing on the suitcase computer. This seemed somewhat strange because he would have had a better view on Benin's right, but Pan decided not to notice. Forsythe sat in the corner with his knees under his chin and glowered at her. She ignored him. Her head was spinning with what little she knew and the bulk she didn't.
They were inside the very Qatoran vessel that had so recently destroyed the chuckles-mobile (yes, it is gone. Let us have a moment of silence. No speeches? Ah, such is life) that was apparently still orbiting Chikyu-Gamma. The slimy, chalk-smelling cell in which she was now contained was part of an elaborate storage room-turned-brig the Qats (as Brand liked to call them) had created out of necessity. What necessity, Pan had yet to figure out.
Benin shook with excitement. He smiled giddily as he tapped furiously on the ancient-looking keypad on his lap. Images and designs flashed rapidly on the screen and stopped on what looked like a map. "Ah," he said, and shifted the screen so Pan could see better. It was a map of the cells, a fact Pan knew because Benin was typing 'Lucinda Maze' across the top.
"Did you create this?" Pan asked, amazed. It was intricately detailed, showing about 250 or so cells of similar size, all filling up a rectangular area with 6 large corridors separating it into 10 square sections. Each cell had a set of names written in it, which Pan supposed were the people currently residing there. Pan glanced through them, not really expecting to recognize any. She thought she saw a last name starting with 'Gr,' but she was cut off from her examination as Benin pulled the screen back around and zoomed in on a small portion. He swiveled it back and let her watch as he typed in her name inside one of the few remaining empty cells.
"Nah, I hacked it from the ship's database. The names I did do, though – we did, I mean. A sort of research compilation. Lots of fun, met lots of people. Some of 'em quirky, but most nice. A bunch of 'em were just-"
"Don't give the lady more than she can absorb, Ben. Lets just go through the basics. Any pressing questions?" He looked at her, still hovering over her head slightly. She shifted away under the pretense of taking a closer look at the computer screen.
"Can you let me see the other names again?" Benin grinned, ready to comply, but Brand held him back with a look.
"Not quite yet, fair inquisitor. That's for after you learn the situation." He motioned for her to move over and sat down on her left. Benin chuckled. Forsythe glowered even more. "Truth be told, all of us here in these cells have been captured from ships that have since been destroyed. Most of us haven't been missed."
"Why not? Don't you have friends? Family?" Pan looked at him closely as he talked. She didn't trust him.
"Well, in a sense, not really. We're, ah, well I might as well be out with it, eh, Forsythe?" Forsythe continued staring at Pan, but nodded grudgingly.
"We're mercenaries," Benin supplied eagerly. Now this was something new. Pan thought that the mercenary trade had been pretty much wiped out by higher economics and peace treaties. Who would want to hire brute force?
"Well, not Benin, really, he's just a kid with major hacking skills we picked up along the way." Benin sulked. "But 'Sythe and me, we're the real thing. Or at least we were, until the Qats cut in on our trade lines."
"Who in the galaxy would employ mercenaries? I thought you guys went out of business long ago."
"Ah, so she does have an intellect. I like that. Ah, Pan, that's what various governments would like their citizenry to believe, but the fact is mercing is a very lucrative business in the outer developments. Like ah, the Ghratin system, for instance."
"The Ghratin system? But that's right next to-"
"The Qatoran sector? Oh, yes. Indeed it is. But they haven't bothered us for fifty years, and as long as the two major planets in the Ghratin system want to get revenge on each other, Sythe and me are in business."
"Only you're not in business anymore." Pan turned to him, interested. Her knee brushed his, but she decided not to mind.
"No."
"And the Qatorans decided to bother you."
"Well, basically. They actually decided to try their new weapons out on our two planets of operation. After they were gone, we really had nothing left to lose, so we decided to take on the Qats as employers."
"If you're serious I'll remove your ability to propagate right now." By now she was standing, and heat had risen to her cheeks.
"Hey, hey! I'm in the same cell as you, nene? Ah, come on, Pan! I wouldn't seriously cut a deal with Qats. They're murderers!"
"And you're not? How many people have you killed for the sake of a profit?" She backed to the wall, keeping all three invaders in her line of sight. Benin was looking at her solemnly, but not meanly. Forsythe had switched from an outright glare to a considering stare, and Brand was now standing and walking toward her, his arms raised.
"Hey, Panny, just let me explain things to you-" She broke.
"Don't call me 'Panny', you grisly jerk!" taking his left wrist in a firm grip, she swiftly lifted his arm over her shoulder and in one motion bent over, tossing him on the floor. Her face hovered over his, and her forearm was now pressed into his neck. Forsythe barked a laugh.
"Yeah, Brand, I think we can trust her. And anyone who can drop you like a sack of bricks is worth keeping around just to shut you up." Forsythe stood, and held out a hand to Pan, a look of gregariousness now plastered on the face that had once worn only animosity. She leaned back, uncertain. "Aw, take it. It's not like you wouldn't be dead anyway, if we wanted to kill you, and none of us has shown any inclination to do so." She saw his point, aside from the 'not being able to avoid death' bit. She took his hand and rose to her feet.
Brand started to struggle up, but Forsythe stepped on his chest to keep him down, roaring with laughter as he did so. Brand grabbed the offending ankle and shoved it to the side, putting Forsythe off-balance and allowing him time to swivel to his knees. This was achieved in such a fluid, practiced motion that Pan knew instantly he was a well-trained fighter. He grinned at her and stood.
"Okay, so you got us. We're not actually mercenaries. 'Sythe here is my older brother and the kid there is our sponsor."
Benin caught her incredulous look. "I'm rich," the kid said matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything. He went back to typing.
"He is a great hacker, we didn't lie about that. His parents own the second largest Benetene refinery in the system. He has a lot of free time, so he uses his substantial allowance to help programmers in need of support." He tried to sit next to her again. She didn't move. He stood up again as if he hadn't ever tried.
"Programmers. As in computer programmers? Then why are you so skilled at fighting?" His eyes looked appreciative at her notice.
"Well, our research takes us into all kinds of situations. I decided that instead of waste money on some brawn, I might try my hand at some combat training." He grinned again. "We're uh, actually working on a beta version of the new planet defense system CSSF commissioned. We were, that is, until we were so rudely interrupted." Brand was now leaning against the wall next to her, his arms crossed, his brown hair falling over his amused eyes. He certainly didn't look like a computer programmer…
"The Qatorans decided to test their F-20 strafe cannons on our poor shuttle hull as we were heading home for research. We ended up here just like you, oh, say, about a month ago."
Pan rested her chin in her hand. "But why did they bother beaming us aboard? I mean, last time they attacked, they just wiped everyone out, right?"
"It seems like the Qatorans have learned the value of hostages. Have you seen who's in these cells?" Benin piped up and looked at her inquisitively. She slid over to look at the computer screen. Where was that Gr name? She scanned the cells with her eyes. There.
"Jason Greco! The Argo? They attacked the ARGO?"
"Hold on! Who do you know there?" Brand finally had wiped the grin off his face. "They may not have died." Forsythe shot him a warning look, but it was too late.
"Died? What? I thought they took hostages – "
"Only significant hostages." He knelt in front of her. "Who did you know?" He said it earnestly, and his hands were clamped to her shoulders. All the heat had gone out of her body. Oh, no. Oh, no.
"My parents." She said it so softly she wasn't sure he had heard her.
"Last name?" Benin piped softly. She looked at him, tears burning in her eyes. He grabbed her hand and squeezed it. He was a good kid.
"Um, Son." She got out before her throat closed. Mom! Dad!
"Oh." The quietness of the voice forced her to acknowledge it. It was Forsythe. "Him." His face was unreadable. She looked at Brand. He avoided her gaze.
"Will someone tell me what the heck is going on? What do you mean, 'him?' My father? What about my mom?"
"No, Pan. Not your mom. Not your dad. Goku." Brand was trying to sooth her. She wanted to punch him.
"Wha? But-" Forsythe jumped in.
"We talked to him today. Nice guy. Told us a story. Said he'd had a son." Had? "Also a daughter-in-law. Said he'd been visiting them on the Argo, said it was the first time in a while 'cause he'd been gone for a good fifteen years. Mostly he just sits there, though. Says the same thing whenever you try to talk to him – 'I tried.'"
"Now, Pan. Don't get upset. We don't have much time and the Qats – " she just looked at him. She didn't have the energy to explode, even though her insides were as tumultuous as a tornado. He squeezed the shoulders he'd been holding all this time. She didn't want to punch him as much. "The Qats are only going to continue killing. Your parents aren't the only ones." She cringed. He squeezed tighter. His voice softened. "Pan, do you remember the Argo's complement?"
"7,883," Benin supplied softly.
"The Qats only took 50 of 'em. 50. Out of 7884."
"-83."
"Ben," Brand warned. Benin quieted. Something of the hollow pain Pan was feeling had entered Brand's voice. Maybe he had lost people close to him.
The face Pan had been fighting to keep neutral crumpled, but she refused to let her body collapse. Brand took the initiative and folded her rigid form in his arms. She hadn't been expecting it. She let her head rest beneath his chin. But for some reason, she didn't cry. In the face of such a horrible truth, her tears would not come out to comfort her. She just stared at a bug climbing the wall next to Brand's elbow and listened to him breathe.
"Pan, Goku was there when it happened. He's even been burned because the Qatorans cut it close beaming him out. Saw the ship explode around him, the people…" Forsythe trailed off. "He could really use a friendly face." Pan sighed and closed her eyes tight.
"Take me to him."
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And there we are. Like? Dislike? How will an author like me know unless you…wait for it…review! Please? Pretty please?
sobs in another corner
Oh btw I have the next chappie about half-written. So it may be up in the near future, emphasis on 'may.' Prob is, classes start soon, and that eats up a lot o' ma time. Sigh.