Chapter 3 – Whereabouts
Slav had taken over the dining room so effectively that Lance was already mentally referring to it as the Slav Cave. Every flat surface, the table, chairs and good chunks of the floor were covered in books and what Lance originally thought were papers, but turned out to be pieces of white cloth, scribbled over with what Lance assumed were equations. Scattered amongst the clutter were no less than eight less-than-half-filled, no-longer-hot beverages. But most impressively, Slav had located not one, but two chalkboards.
"Woah," said Hunk who was the first person to enter, "Slav is kicking it old-school."
Pidge and Keith followed. "He's got access to super-advanced computers," said Pidge, a look of incomprehension on her face, "what is he doing writing stuff down?"
"Computers are for crunching number units," said Slav with unhidden contempt. "This," he waved his arms like windmills, "is Mathematics."
"But…" said Hunk as he looked across the table, "how come you wrote on… are these napkins? Why not use paper?"
"It's a proven theory that mathematical equations written on napkins are 32 percent more ingenious than those written on standard paper. You can increase the brilliance by as much as 54.9 percent if you write in the margins of a book of love sonnets, but considering the sheer volume of proofs needed, it made sense to use napkins."
By this time, the Alteans had joined them. "Coran," said Allura, "after this is over, please lock up father's private library, and what's left of the linen closet."
"Slav," said Keith in his everyone-stop-having-fun-now voice, "We're all here. Tell us what you found."
"Well," Slav walked over to a board that was practically white with chalk and flipped it over to the clean side. He faced them with two hands behind his back while a third began to write out what was probably a complex equation – it all looked like chicken scratches to Lance. "You are, of course, all familiar with D'Stwellium's principle of co-synchronous time/space states."
There were times when Lance felt like the dim bulb of Voltron. But given the blank looks plastered to everyone faces, including girl genius Pidge, he knew he was in good company. Everyone shook their heads.
Another of Slav's hands darted out, chalk hitting the board as more marks appeared, "Well, it's a simple enough conjuncture, if you take a Purion mode of pan-infinity and pass it through a hyper-constant hyper-cluster planar, basically a generalized transformation of Thrakkorzog dilemma. You see?"
"Three yeppers in a fog?" asked Coran.
Two more hands joined the now half covered board. "The Delanian thread theorem? The Malatof-Frieberg principle? The axiom of choice? Did any of you even go to school?"
"Perhaps," said Allura in what Lance thought of as her sexy diplomat voice, "You could just skip to the conclusion."
"And use a modern interface," added Pidge.
Slav sighed a long and mournful sigh, such that Lance's own abuela couldn't have done better. Giving them all a disgusted look, he clicked one of his non-chalked fingers. The lights went down and a transparent projection of Voltron appeared between them.
"The reason that Voltron is the most powerful weapon in the universe is that each of the lions can directly tap into the universe's stores of quintessence," said Slav. As Lance watched, each lion part of Voltron was surrounded by a cloud of its own color which came together to form a bright light surrounding the robot.
"Each lion connects to its own principle quintessence. And that quintessence harmonizes with the paladin, either through their "mystical" bond, or more directly, through connection their Bayard, to take on physical form."
"Oh, I got this," volunteered Lance, "Blue's got water, Red's fire, Yellow's rock, and Green's planty things, right?"
"A remarkably ignorant and, yet, still marginally correct simplification," said Slav, somehow making his eyes frown as well as his beak.
"But I get an A for effort?" Lance gave Slav his best smile.
"Yyepp." said Slav and Lance decided to be quiet. The robot projection separated leaving the Black Lion, still surrounded by a black haze.
"The Black Lion draws on the most fundamental of quintessence, that of space, which not only includes the near infinity of our own universe, but also, by the Malacor postulate, folded time and dimensional space. Don't try to contemplate it, personally it gives me migraines. Suffice to say, when the Black Paladin activates the Bayard it accesses several higher planes of reality. That was how it amplified the power of Voltron's sword."
"Oh, the fire thing!" said Hunk. Thank goodness someone was still speaking English, thought Lance. "Remember guys, how we had Zarkon pinned down at the end of the battle but his armor was too strong and then Shiro used the Bayard and the sword cut thought the armor like it was butter? I just assumed it had gotten really hot, but accessing extra dimensional space makes sense too." Lance hoped for a second that the cartoon projection would replay that totally awesome moment, but instead a teleduv jump circle appeared and the Black Lion flew towards it.
"Based off energy readings," said Slav, "I believe Shiro's Bayard was still acting as a conduit, tapping into the higher dimensions, when we jumped. But the teleduv jump utilizes a lower dimensional space. Something in the Lion's Stevanian technology allows it to handle the stress caused by the difference between these realities. But a human, like Shiro, would have exploded and imploded at the same time. Since we didn't find any bits of him inside the cockpit, I believe his lion somehow intervened and sent him somewhere for his own protection."
Keith's face had blanched when Slav mentioned exploding/imploding paladin. Lance elbowed him, "See, his lion saved him." Keith gave Lance a small smile which in Keith-land probably meant he was greatly relieved.
"But sent where?" asked Pidge, "Some sort of parallel reality?"
"No, no, parallel dimensions are only theoretically possible to access, I've tried. No, it would have to be one that was within a few degrees of a right angle to our reality. You need an intersection point, a consistency between both realities. It's usually a reality with some detectable changes and running on an independent time scale, but otherwise recognizable."
"Then how do we get him back?" asked Keith. Which had been exactly what Lance had been going to say, darn Keith and his Galra reflexes.
"If that's what happened to him," said Slav, "then there's almost no chance. You'd need to find the particular reality and its time point entry which would be very tricky. And opening it with a portal, nearly impossible. Luckily, I've calculated the probability of an interdimensional universe jump being very small - only 0.42 percent. It's far more likely, 78.9 percent in fact, that Shiro was teleported somewhere within our own universe."
"Well, that sounds better," said Hunk. "Except, you know, like 99.99999999999999999 percent of the universe is just vast empty space. So, not that much better."
"In a surprising bout of optimism, given my pragmatic personality," said the non-smiling Slav, "I believe that if the Black Lion took the initiative to save Shiro's life, it would have sent him somewhere survivable. Based on our teleduv's trajectory and the universe's ley lines, I've predicted the 1236 most likely destinations." The visuals changed to the now familiar space universe that Coran and Allura were so fond of, with light-up solar systems all over the place.
"Um, quick question," said Coran, "but what about the… take away from … borrow from the 10 and … carry the one … remaining 20 percent?"
"18 percent actually - I always save 2 percent in case I failed to account for any unexpected events," said Slav. "There's an 18 percent chance that the quintessence conversion reversed itself and the Black Paladin was incorporated into the fundamental quintessence of the universe. Less technically, it could be said that he transcended this mortal plane."
"You mean he could be dead?" asked Allura with great alarm.
"No, no," said Slav, "dead would mean he was gone. Transcendence means that an aspect of his person still exists, separate from us but still aware of us, and we of him."
"You mean he's in heaven, looking down on us?" asked Lance. Put that way it wasn't the worst thing, but it certainly was one of the worse.
Slav looked decidedly uncomfortable and spoke slowly. "That would be one culturally sensitive interpretation of the situation." Score one for the Catholic, thought Lance. "But, let's focus on the 80 percent chance that he's fully corporeal in this reality."
"Um, excuse me," said Hunk, "but I have a question."
Lance had noticed Hunk's halfway raised hand and nudged Keith – not because he was Lance's first choice to confide in, but because Pidge had called up her computer controls and was now more engrossed in her screen time than a five-year-old in front of Netflix. "Watch Slav, Hunk's about to work some magic."
"Huh?"
"I've seen this happen to three teachers back at the Garrison, including Sergeant McLarky, and she hated everyone."
"Slav," Hunk was saying, "earlier, you talked about the essences of quintessence and now you mentioned fundamental quintessence. Are there different flavors of quintessence, like strange and charmed quarks?"
"Quintessence isn't a particle," Slav replied almost dismissively, but there was something alert in his body language.
"Um, then is it some sort of force? Like gravitational or electromagnetic?" Hunk asked.
"Quintessence isn't a force," and this time, Slav watched Hunk carefully like he could see gears turning inside Hunk's head.
"Well, if it's not a physical thing or a fundamental law …" Slav leaned in closer, "then, could it be some primary component of our universe, or even, reality?" Slav was nodding, his saucer eyes beaming. "Wow … and you can detect this?"
"Detect, prove and, in a limited capacity, manipulate," said Slav gleefully, "Here, let me show you …" He started digging through the clutter on the table. "Here- no, here? Maybe…"
"What just happened?" asked Keith.
"Hunk just went from being the big guy in the back row to Slav's prize pupil." It was like when the nerd friend in the teen romance movies takes off her glasses to totally steal the protagonist's heart – not that Lance was into those kinds of movies. Anyway, he felt definite pride when Hunk shone like this.
"Because he answered the question?" Keith was still confused and Lance decided to be magnanimous while savoring the moment.
"Nope, because he showed he was genuinely interested in what Slav was talking about. Teachers dig that attitude." He would have elaborated, but Pidge interrupted.
"Hey, everyone, I found something" she called out, "I cross referenced Slav's coordinates with the decrypted Galra transmissions and there's a group calling themselves the Hobro Mercenary Ltd. operating out of the Databuni Ring who just sent a message about a prisoner they captured. They're looking to collect the bounty on Zarkon's enhanced arm Earthling Champion."
More than a thousand years ago, the Datubuni civilization took to space.
They didn't have much of a choice. Depletion of their planetary resources coupled with major climate disruption from industrialization had made the surface of their planet nearly uninhabitable.
But the Datubuni were an optimistic, never-look-back race of aliens and their planet's own asteroid ring was practically made for building orbital satellites. Over the next century, they mined out the smaller asteroids for materials to convert the larger ones into off-world habitats. Of course, everything is limited, but before they ran out of raw materials and places to build, nearly every Datubuni clan had their own personal satellite world.
And what amazing satellites, each interior customized and unique - sweeping palatial gardens to underwater kingdoms to gleaming white negative space to amusement parks. Word got out about these marvels and soon the Datubuni Ring, as it was marketed, became the vacation destination place. The Datubuni entrepreneurs took the tourists' money and fashioned even more elaborate environments, many inhospitable, or even lethal to a Datubuni, but ideal for targeted alien tour groups. Home away from home the travel agents used to say.
Naturally, some aliens didn't want to go home. The money to be made from tourism was nothing compared to selling time shares, or even long term leasing of whole satellites. Economically-speaking, the Datubuni were some of the richest aliens in space.
However, they also lived in the highest-cost-of-living real estate in space. Everything –food, water, environmental control units, gravitational stabilizers, asteroid collision insurance – was just so expensive. Most Datubuni commuted from the inner satellites – the utilitarian, cramped ones that had been built during the first wave of colonization, but still cost a bundle to keep viable – and worked long hours meeting their tourists' and tenants' needs all the while dreaming of that less expensive solar system they'd retire to.
This is what Ogeneish Ropelmerger Borsch Logyegrater did 9 out of 11 quintiles of the week. He flew 2 vargas to work a 13 vargas shift as a space flight controller. Some quintiles his carefully directed flight plans prevented catastrophic space collisions, but mostly he was just the guy lost tourists called to asked for directions.
He was also in charge of making sure the wrong people didn't get into his sector. And the unmarked shuttle that had just come around a small mined out asteroid that a split second earlier had been backlit by a blue flash of light, seemed a tad suspicious.
Ogeneish – who, like all his people, looked like a fuchsia tripod, with a large head, three legs and three arms – did a quick registration search. He found nothing. Next, he visually cross referenced the image against ships previously spotted across the ring. Nothing. Finally, he executed a safety scan. Nothing, that ship had some top-grade shields.
"Excuse me, unknown shuttle" Ogeneish broadcasted, "please state your ID and system of origin." There was no reply. Ogeneish gave his control board a hard bang, because the system hadn't been upgraded since the warranty ran out, nearly four decades ago. He signaled the ship again, this time the system crackled a bit and the shuttle's pilots popped up on a screen.
They were Galra, which explained a lot. But, made the actual situation much worse, potentially much, much worse. Galra rarely went on vacations, they were stingy, and they rarely left positive reviews.
The Galra pilot was rather small and his face was obscured by a mask. The second Galra wore a standard, if dated, uniform and helmet. He had the most enormous, bushy purple mutton chops sideburns, they went practically up to his nose.
It was this Galra that spoke, in a grumbly but strangely accented voice. "I am Commander Heroniok of the 31th battalion of the 8th legion of the 3rd fleet of the Galra Empire, better known as the Screaming Loraxes."
"Never heard of you," said Ogeneish attempting to sound brave and threatening, as if he had a battalion of Datubuni fighter craft on call to launch at suspicious characters, which of course, he didn't.
"Of course you haven't. By the time we wrap up a planet-side tour, the natives don't have enough remaining technology to send out smoke signals. We leave destruction, chaos, and nightmares in our wake. Old women scare their grandchildren with stories of our exploits."
"Oh," gulped Ogeneish, his salary was docked for any damage that happened on his shift, "that doesn't sound pleasant."
"Truer words were never spoken," said the Galra, "Lucky for you, we're off duty. Out for a little R&R and we got a recommendation for a …" he looked down "says here, Satellite Crimson 12."
Crimson 12. It was the first bit of good news Ogeneish had heard all day. Crimson 12 was run down to the point that no respectable aliens would dream of visiting, which meant it was perfect for no-good lowlifes to do whatever it was they did, and pay the Datubuni to turn a blind eye. The Galra could blow the place up and the Datubuni would simply make a profit on its insurance policy.
"Excellent choice," said Ogeneish, "I'm sending you a flight path and clearing you for docking port on the planet side of the station." And, because the Datubuni had a reputation for hospitality, he added, "Enjoy your stay."
Inside the shuttle, the pilot turned to the larger Galra.
"Do you think we fooled him?"
"Hardly matters," said the Commander, his voice an octave higher, "Scared the living Tulurians out of him. He's going to spend the rest of his shift looking the other way so hard, he'll have a neck cramp."
Keith lowered his suit's mask. The thing was hot, he wasn't sure how the furry Galra could manage. Kolivar had left Keith the suit along with Coran's costume and other useful Galra stealth equipment. It felt odd going into a potential trap without his Bayard, but at least he had his knife.
On an encrypted frequency, Keith hailed the Green Lion, "Pidge, we're in. Sending you the satellite location and our docking info. How are you doing?"
"I've successfully hacked into their information network, but apparently everyone's live streaming their vacations, so it's running like molasses. And it's gotten slower now that Lance has found what looks like the spring-break beach-party channel," she added, disgust obvious in her voice.
"It's not my fault that I'm bored," said Lance, "Keith and Coran get to go undercover as Galra soldiers, meet up with the mercenaries in a space bar to figure out if they really have Shiro and negotiate a trade. So, while they're having an awesome time, we hang out in invisible mode and watch to see that no one sneaks off in a space ship."
"It's an important role in the plan, Lance," insisted Coran, "We don't know how many of them there will be, it could be a trap. There could be an all-out battle. But, given that these are mercenaries, you can be sure they'll take our negotiation money to their ship, so if they try to give us the slip, you'll be able to figure out which of these satellites are their base."
"Yeah, it's a totally great plan, Coran," snarked Lance.
"Why thank you for saying that. I'm quite pleased with it myself," Keith glanced at Coran but with the helmet he couldn't determine if he was being serious.
Keith wouldn't admit in a million years but he had to agree with Lance. Coran's plan felt thin – too many things that they didn't know about could go wrong. Shiro would never have signed off on it, that's for certain.
But that's why they needed Shiro. He was their leader, had been since they left Earth. Ten minutes into meeting them, Allura had recognized him as the Black Paladin. So, right now they needed to focus on getting him back-not on who was going to pilot the Black Lion, or lead the team, not any of those things that would matter once Shiro was rescued.
"So, Coran's got his super Altean diplomat skills, but I still don't see why Keith gets to play the Galra, he's too short," said Lance, "and he's all sulky and non-verbal, no acting skills."
"That's why he doesn't need acting skills," sighed Pidge, "and besides, the suit didn't fit you, remember. Anyway, Coran, we'll keep radio silence until you're inside. Green Lion out."
"Poor Lance. We must find something exciting for him to do next time," said Coran, "but he's wrong, impersonating Galra and outwitting blood-thirsty goons, that doesn't take diplomatic skills." His tone was thoughtful, contemplative and the way he gently shook his head made Keith certain that a meandering, culturally-incomprehensible Coran story was on its way. The computer was reporting 10 vargas to docking, short of an emergency, there was no way Keith was getting out of this.
"Why, I remember one time," Coran began, "when I was diplomatting for the Galra and this other Altean, Blorclues, Blorkalras, whatever, he was diplomatting for the Ruxs, and we sat down to hammer out a-"
"Wait," Keith interrupted, "What do you mean, diplomatting? And why does each side have their own Altean?" He had intended to just let the story take its course, but this was too weird for even Keith to ignore.
"Diplomatting is the act of being a diplomat between two races that can't be within 100 light-years of each without starting a war or something. And, of course, each side has their own Altean. You wouldn't want to leave diplomatting to an amateur."
"That's not how we do it on Earth," said Keith, "each side has their own diplomats." At least, that's how he thought it worked. He'd always been more interested in the fighting than the peaceful bits of history class.
"Interesting," said Coran, "does it work well for averting conflicts and war?"
"Not particularly" admitted Keith.
"Don't be so hard on your planet, not every alien race has the proper temperament to be a good diplomat," said Coran, "Alteans have a natural talent for forming communities. They can draw on individuals' strengths to create groups that are more than just the skills of their members. Doesn't mean it's all roses and rainbows, there's always a bit of wrong-way rubbing. But, for an Altean, nothing is so grand as being surrounded by a diverse set of people interacting and arguing, sharing and scheming, laughing and pouting. You paladins are a quirky lot, but I miss the absolute chaos of a diplomatic assignment."
"I think I'd go crazy surrounded by all of that," said Keith.
"Really? What's your ideal comfort state?"
This was the point where Keith's natural inclination was to shut down the conversation. But with Pidge's comments still fresh in his memory, he did his best to answer.
"I prefer solitude," he said, "there was this small mountain range by my house on Earth. Sometimes I'd take my camping gear and hike up to the highest point. Sunsets were amazing, red skies over red rock and desert. And at night, the only sign of civilization was maybe the lights from two or three houses. On moonless nights, the stars would fill the sky. Even the dark patches, if you looked long enough, your eyes would adjust and see faint dots of light." As he described it, his body remembered the sensations. "There were the rustling sounds of animals and the howls of coyotes, but no cars or music or people sounds. It felt like I was the only human left on earth." Describing it that way sounded anti-social. "You don't think that's my Galra side, do you?"
"Oh, I doubt that," Coran assured him, "The Galra are very fraternal, strong brotherly relationships that translate to life-long bonds with their fellow soldiers."
Keith was tempted to press Coran for more information, but they'd reached their destination.
The satellite, Crimson 12, was built into a small asteroid with the docking ports sticking out like porcupine quills. Many had ships. Keith docked the shuttle at the designated spot and pulled up his face mask. They were met by a Datubuni official who eyed Keith's knife, but said nothing. He gave them an interactive pamphlet map and directed them to a conveyer belt leading down.
Walking around as a Galra was a different experience for Keith. Even when he was in Paladin gear, he felt like more like a curiosity to the other aliens. As a Galra, everyone noticed you, but then looked the other way and the space around Keith and Coran magically opened up.
They emerged onto the main thoroughfare, three stories high with the ceiling sporting animated advertisements. Along the walls, lighted signs identified establishments in multiple languages, and some very explicit symbols. It reminded Keith of the Hong Kong cinema that Shiro used to watch, if the extras were all multicolored with extra appendages. The metal walls were patched and dirty, none of the shiny surfaces of the Galra ships, or the Space Mall for that matter. His fear that the meeting place would resemble a Starbucks was fast leaving him.
"Ah, here we are," said Corin cheerfully consulting the map, "the Collack's Teeth, not highly rated."
Keith didn't notice the door so much as the massive blue refrigerator-sized alien with dreadlock like tubes coming out of his head. His mouth was so overburdened with teeth, or maybe tusks that Keith wasn't surprised when he greeted them with a growl.
"Be a good Db'ti'kebao and open the door now," said Coran in a lower octave. The Db-whatever blinked his one eye in a bored, disdainful way.
"You don't want to be giving a Lorax any trouble," said Coran and he stepped into the alien's personal space. The two engaged in a staring contest, Coran standing on his toes. After a moment, the alien slouched and let them pass.
"It's good to have a reputation," said Keith.
"In this place, it's good to have a bad reputation," agreed Coran.
Growing up, Keith had occasionally been sent to a hole-in-the-wall bar to fetch his father. And after getting kicked out of the Garrison he'd scored a fake ID to get into the biker bar. This place was nothing like those, more of a night club than simply a bar. The paint was chipped, fabric on the seats and curtains was faded and stained but the place must have been impressive in its day.
A purple bar at least twenty feet long ran along one wall. There was a stage tucked in the corner where an Unilu moved her hand over a metal ringed instrument to produce a buzzy vibrating melody. There might have been a dance floor at one time, but now the space was crowded with tables.
Keith made a visual sweep of the place and was relieved not to see any real Galra. The barman and most of the waitresses were Databuni and he spotted more than a few Unilues in proper pirate gear. He recognized a few species he'd seen at the space mall and a party that resembled the aliens that had stolen the blue lion. But at least half of the aliens were races he'd never seen.
Everyone radiated a dangerous vibe, if only to ward off trouble. He'd certainly dropped back to his tense body language he'd taken whenever a new kid had shown up at the group home.
"Well, what's it like?" Lance asked through his intercom.
"Like the Star Wars Cantilena bar, but less sandy. And the alien's playing a Theremin," said Keith.
He heard Lance curse and Pidge said, "Unbelievable, Keith, you can't remember Cantina but you know what a Theremin is?"
"Okay you two," said Coran, "I'm putting you on mute so you can listen in but not distract." To Keith he said, "I'm going to discretely ask after our mercenaries."
He sidestepped up to a bored looking waitress and asked, "We're on the market for some unsavory characters and have a recommendation for a group going by the name Hobro. Any helpful directions will be appreciated and…" he was probably making suggestive eyebrow movements under his helmet, "compensated."
The waitress gave him a bug-eyed look and walked away. Before Coran could approach the next waitress, Keith intervened.
"Hey," he said raising his hand to get her attention, "we're looking for the Hobro Mercenaries. Which table?" She pointed to a table in the back with an Unilu and a hooded figure. "Thanks," said Keith turning away from her.
"Impressive," said Coran, "What's your secret?"
"Small words, short sentences."
The Hobro watched them as they walked across the room. The Unilu looked the part of the pirate, black heavy cloak, several visible weapons - Keith counted three knives, a sword and an eyepatch. For some reason, he also sported a white ruffled neck collar.
The second alien was completely covered save for their hands, which were more like tallons, and face.
"It's a female Shpoidig," said Coran, "Looks like she's had a nose job."
"She looks like she got a lot of jobs," said Keith. The alien had two eye, two ears, a mouth and a nose, but none in the normal, symmetrical locations. She looked like she'd been painted by that famous artist that Keith had never bothered to learn, who knew art appreciation would have been useful?
They approached the table and Coran gave the agreed upon pass code, "This place has certainly seen better times. Why I remember it back during the Kabarian uprising."
And the Unilu, in a slightly slurred voice replied, "My uncle lost his left arm in that one."
Coran gave a nod and they sat down at the table, Keith did his best to look menacing. The plan was for him to be the non-speaking muscle, but the height difference meant that everyone was a head taller than him. Real intimidating.
A waitress came over and Coran ordered something with too many consonants for Keith to catch, he shook his head when the waitress looked his way.
"Heard you have something Zarkon's been looking for," said Coran.
"Could be, could be," said the Unilu. He seemed bored.
"But, there have been, rumors, that the mighty Zarkon is not in the position to be looking for anything." said the Shpoidig. Her voice was lower and raspy, but the tone was the same.
Keith did his best not to stereotype aliens, especially since finding out about his own ancestry, but these guys didn't look tough enough, or smart enough, or with it enough, to have captured Shiro. And there was something… creepy about them.
"Doesn't matter what Zarkon is up to," said Coran with confidence, "we have his orders. Do you have Zarkon's champion or not?"
"Why in such a hurry?" asked the Shpoidig, "deals shouldn't be rushed."
"Let us converse," said the Unilu, "tell a curious mercenary what is causing so many Galra ships to be racing about."
"Yes," agreed the Shpoidig, "see, here is your drink." She took the glass from the waitress and as it passed behind her sleeve, Keith was sure he saw the shimmer of something dissolving into the liquid.
Coran, unaware, raised the drink in a toast, "To Zarkon, may he live another 10,000 years." But before he could bring it to his lips, Keith had launched himself across the table.
The drink splashed another patron, but he was naturally slimy and didn't seem to notice. Coran, on the other hand was sputtering and gesticulating underneath him.
"Sorry," said Keith, "that drink- I think I saw the Shpoidig slip something in it."
That didn't seem to appease Coran, who kept pointing at Keith. No, not at, behind. The Shpoidig had leaped up on the table and was wielding a nasty looking blade. Keith kicked up on the underside of the table, sending it, the alien flying backwards into a group of short, rock textured creatures who threw the now broken table one way, the Shpoidig the other, and started towards Keith and Coran.
"Ooh," said Coran, "G'rtt-mrs, haven't tangled with them since the days of my wayward youth." He grabbed a broken chair leg besides him and swung it. "You get the mercenaries."
Out of the corner of his eye, Keith saw the Shpoidig struggling to get up. The white caterpillar alien she'd landed on wasn't making it easy.
The Unilu wasn't so hampered and he had all his knives out. He threw the first and Keith just managed to duck. It hit the waitress's raised platter, sending drinks and glasses onto two patrons at the bar who promptly turned to the aliens on either side of them and started up, fists raised. The bartender let out a howl that seemed more joyous than angry and hopped up on top of the bar, from which vantage point he began kicking the patrons.
"Keith, what's going on?" Pidge had overridden Coran's mute command.
"I think we started a bar fight."
"What, a bar fight?" Lance shouted, "That does it, Pidge. Land this lion, now!"
Keith couldn't spare them any more attention because the Unilu was aiming knife number two. This time Keith pulled out his dagger and using that weird mind trick, he lengthened it and swatted the flying knife away.
"Bravo!" Coran called out as he swung his chair leg baseball style into the head of a boulder alien.
Not wasting any more time, Keith vaulted over an alien lying prone on the floor – there were a lot of those – and caught the Unilu's wrist which held the remaining knife. As he twisted, the Unilu took a swing at him. Keith ducked and elbowed the alien in the chin.
As the Unilu fell backwards, his neck ruff came off, revealing a white tennis ball protrusion. It appeared to be growing out of his neck.
"What the?" Keith leaned over the now unconscious alien to get a better look.
"No lolligagging, Keith!" Shouted Coran, "these guys aren't going to beat themselves senseless on their own." As if to disprove his point, behind Coran a chandelier fell on a Datubuni.
Coran practically skipped over to Keith, but as he leaned over, his purple skin paled.
"No, it can't …" visibly shaking, he reached out to touch the white growth. "Quiznak," he whispered.
"What-" began Keith but Coran cut him off.
"Keith," he yelled, "it's an Apocrytaen gall! His partner must be an agent as well. Don't let her get away."
As usual, Keith didn't have a clue what Coran was talking about. But the tone said it all. Keith glanced around the bar and saw a fluttering black robe heading for the exit. As best as he could, given the surrounding pandemonium, Keith took off running.
"Pidge, come on, faster, "said Lance, "If we don't hurry, there will only be a pile of unconscious aliens and Keith looking smug."
"Keith!" they heard Coran's voice through their headsets, "It's an Apocrytaen gall! His partner must be an agent as well." There was the sound of crashing in the background, the bar fight must still be going on. "Don't let her get away!"
"Coran," said Pidge, "what are you talking about? Hang on, we'll be there in a tick."
"No time for that!" said Coran. On a one to 10 hysteria scale, Coran usually tapped out around 12. But this time, thought Lance, he'd broken into the 20s. "Find Keith! Find the Shpoidig. She's been infested!"
"What? You mean like lice?" asked Lance.
"Infested- Infiltrated- Intruded- Tip of my tongue! Never mind, it's the Apocrytaens! The most horrifying, repulsive aliens ever to curse the universe. They should have been eradicated over ten thousand years ago. But if they're back now, even a single nest could give rise to an army! We can't let even one Apocrytaen get away."
"But what about Shiro? Do they have him, or was it a trap?" asked Pidge while Lance looked around at the maze-like corridors.
"Shiro isn't our top priority anymore! Infected! That's the word I was looking for."
A racing black figure caught Lance's eyes. He instantly recognized it as a Galra, a surprisingly short Galra, crossing a corridor about 40 yards in front of them.
"Hey, Pidge, look," he pointed, "It's Keith. Keith!"
"Keith? Keith." Pidge was talking into her headset, "Something's wrong, I'm only getting static."
"I'll get him," Lance said as he started running.
By the time he made it to the junction Keith was just rounding a corner away from him. Man, that guy was fast. Lance picked up the pace and at the next turn had decreased the distance. He was panting too hard to call out. One more turn, and the Keith was only a few yards ahead. Next turn led to a dead end.
Lance leaned over, panting a bit. "Man, Keith, what's going on? Coran's freaking out and you…" Lance looked up to see a gun pointing at him. "aren't Keith."
Trained paladin reflexes got him back around the corner just as the not-Keith Galra started firing. "Pidge!" he shouted through his headset, "Wrong Galra! And not the friendly sort."
"As if there's a friendly sort." said Pidge, "I'm on my way."
Lance shifted his Bayard into gun form and was pleased to see it was designed for use at short range. Pidge wasn't the only one who could optimize her Bayard. He waited for a pause and popped out, purposely aiming his shots low. It had the intended effect of causing the Galra to dance backwards – pretty funny too – which gave him enough time to dart in close, his gun just inches from the Galra's chest.
Unfortunately, the Galra had his gun at a similar distance from Lance's head.
"Stalemate?" asked Lance. He had to grin, because he was sure it looked action-movie cool. The Galra took a step back and to the side, then another. He was inching his way back up the corridor. A good escape if it was one on one. But those weren't the odds. Pidge, great little sneak that she was, crashed behind into the Galra's leg. He went backwards, the gun shot upwards. Lance pulled out flying kick he's been practicing and, unlike Keith, the Galra didn't duck. Pidge's Bayard turned into a grappling hook, pinching his arms together.
"And the Galra goes down! Way to go Team Plance!" shouts Lance, his hand up for a high five that never came.
"Don't use words that you don't know the subtext of, Lance," sighed Pidge, "and restrain him already."
"Paladins!" came Coran's voice, "have you found Keith?"
"Nope-" began Lance, "wait a tick." He removed the Galra's mask. A youngish Galra glared back. He was beardless, with short, dark, spikey hair, bat-like ears, yellow eyes and tiny fangs in a tiny mouth. He reminded Lance of a stray kitten, cute, scruffy, and liable to give you rabies. "No, definitely not Keith."
"Seriously?" asked Pidge. Lance shrugged. "Coran, I'm only getting static on Keith's frequency."
"You have to find him. The Apocrytaen-"
"Yeah, yeah, horrible, contagious, bad thing, bad thing," paraphrased Lance.
"P'Talaquos," said the Galra.
"Huh?" said Pidge and Lance together.
"The Apocrytean's name is P'Talaquos. She's the only one for now, but she's raising an army. She inserts her eggs into her victims, just below their heads. The egg send out tendrils into the victim's brain. That's how she controls them. By the time you can see the large gall on their necks, they're not much more than a walking incubator. Once those galls start hatching, her children will swarm the galaxy. They'll overrun planets and extinguish races, like they did before Voltron defeated them."
"Eww," Lance shuddered, "and Eww," he looked a bit sick.
"You think that's bad, pray you never see the young Apocrytean emerging. That will wake you in the middle of the night in a cold sweat," said Coran, "Who's your information source, by the way?"
"The Galra we captured," said Pidge. She turned to their prisoner, "how do you know all this?"
"I've been tracking her ship. She's been collecting hosts and information across the Databuni Ring. Whatever you thought she was giving you, it was a trap. And it sounds like your friend is her latest catch. Let her ship leave this station, and you'll lose him."
"Not going to happen," said Pidge, "I'm logged into the Databuni network. I'm monitoring every satellite in this system, and if she leaves, we can track that too."
"Even if she leaves by wormhole?"
"Wait," said Lance, "I thought we were the only ones that still used wormholes."
"We need to get to the Green Lion!" said Pidge, "We'll follow her in."
"It won't work," said Coran, "Apocryteans use tiny wormholes. None of the lions could follow them back in the day. And we were never able to find their home base."
"If you couldn't-" Pidge began, but Coran kept talking. "Lance, you need to get to the shuttle and follow them back to their base. Once there, sneak in, grab Keith, figure some way to signal us and we'll come get you."
"What?" said Lance, "Tell me which part of that do you think is a good plan. Because I've seen all the Alien movies, even the sucky number three, and that is a horrible plan. No way, no how."
"So the galaxy's defenders are just a bunch of cowards without their lions?" said the Galra.
"Oh, and you'd head into that by yourself?" Lance countered.
"That was my plan before you tied me up," the Galra said with a familiar smug look. Yeah, it was totally what Galra-Keith would have done.
"Lance," said Pidge, "What if you took him with you."
"What? Tell me you're joking."
"He knows a lot about this P'Talaquos and the Apocrytean."
"But he's a Galra!"
"He's not wearing one of Zarkon's army uniforms."
"Oh, you think maybe he's a" Lance lowered his voice to a whisper, "Blade of Marmora?"
"You do know we Galra have excellent hearing, right?" asked their captive.
"Well then," Lance turned to him, "are you?"
The Galra gave a derisive snort, "I have nothing in common with Zarkon's followers nor a rebellion so focused on keeping themselves secret that they've accomplished nothing in 10,000 years."
"So, if you aren't with Zarkon or the Blade, who are you with? Is there another rebellion-" began Pidge.
"Every moment we spend talking, your chance of following P'Talaquos and saving your friend grows slimmer."
"Fine," said Lance and he reached over and unlocked the cuffs. "But no stabbing me in the back."
"I always slice people's necks so they can watch me watch them die."
"Great, so we're adding Predator to the movie-mix," muttered Lance as they started running to the shuttle, "Pidge, you better figure out a way to track us once we get out of that wormhole."
The Shpoidig was fast, and agile. Twice she'd duck down a side corridor, causing Keith to double back. Luckily, his Galra suit enhanced his senses and he'd been able to follow her by the sound of her footsteps.
He found her standing in front of a midsize cargo ship. He timed his approach to arrive behind her just after she'd unlocked the door so he could catch her from behind, knock her out and duck out of sight in case someone was coming out the open hatch. No one did, and Keith got a clean shot at Shpoidig.
Keith slipped on the now unconscious body to the floor, his hand straying over the golf ball like protrusion on her neck. It was cold, slightly soft, like a growth. Coran had called it a gall and remembering the look of horror on his face, Keith pulled his hand away.
The cargo bay was dark and there was a foul, rancid smell to the air. Keith missed his paladin suit with its air filters and lights. His Marmora blade emitted a faint blue glow he used to light his way.
Through the dim light, he caught sight of a figure, not moving. Keith approached it and saw it was an Unilu, its body held up against the wall by some sort of webbing. He appeared to be sleeping, but his neck was bent at an uncomfortable angle, presumably because of the basketball-sized gall from his neck.
Like every horror movie protagonist, Keith forced himself to lean in. The alien's eyes snapped open, and his pupils darted around in a frantic manner. Keith jumped back, his blade raised, but the Unilu's body, down to his facial features, remained still.
What was going on? It was the most freakish place he'd been in so far, and that list included a giant worm's digestive track.
Keith transformed his dagger into its extra-large sword form, partly for protection, partly for the light emanating from it. Slowly he turned, trying to make out other details. More of the strands of webbing hung along the walls of the docking bay and drooped from the ceiling. He made out another lump on the floor and approached it slowly.
This one was Datubuni and its tri-symmetrical arm stuck straight out. Otherwise he seemed to be sleeping. His chest rose and fell and his neck was gall-free. As Keith leaned over, he saw something moving in the shadows. It swayed back and forth, another alien.
His training took over. Finally, something he could fight. He crouched, ready to spring. And that's when he felt a prick on the back of his neck. A moment later, all his muscles relaxed and he fell to the ground. His eyesight blurred and the rancid smell became overwhelming. He caught sight of something white, almost a skeleton, reaching towards him. A voice cooed inside his head, "No need to struggle. You are mine now."