BY CHRIS KRECHOWIECKI-SHAW
Copyright is held by the author.
CRUNCH. SQUEAL.
Protestations of tortured metal. Why . . . What . . . My skull is pounding, as though an Arcturan mega-rhino is blustering its way through the bone. Blurry shadows slowly focus. At the centre of this rust-coated cavern, a tall stack of warped steel frames and spent canisters shiver and scream. I fumble up onto all fours. A thump sends tremors through the floor and I see it — the walls jolt inwards. A spike of adrenaline courses up my spine and fizzles behind my eyes — I’m in a Mark 8 Waste Processor Unit!
“Captain Dirk Danger,” a distorted voice gloats over the tannoy system. “You took longer to wake than I thought. Not quite the action hero we were expecting!”
I jump to my feet, stinging on the cold metal floor. No shoes. No clothes either, except my snug-fitting underpants. I wish I could say this was unusual. Feeling suddenly self-conscious about my stomach bulge, I hoist the waistband up a little.
“Kirsty, can we please talk?” I shout. “She means nothing to me!”
“Kirsty?” spits the voice.
Right, right. Not Kirsty. Several standard years too late. Think, Dirk.
The scrap pile is getting lower, and the walls lurch inwards once more. I was on a Space Ranger Mission. Lead negotiator for United Milky Way. As per UMW Ranger Standing Order 1, promote peace, but do not engage. Absolutely no gun-boat diplomacy. Nobody forbade meat-missile diplomacy, though.
Crunch.
The walls have accelerated. Time to go. I look around for something to climb. A pile of spent condensed neutrino canisters will have to do. They slide and skitter as I climb, but another inward lurch of the walls confines them. Printed “Volgutrox 8” — aha! The Volgutron-Andromeda conflict resolution. That’s who — Volgutron High Battle Command led by Queen . . . Queen Amtrazillis. The willowy, blue-skinned humanoid who, though icy cold and aloof at first, soon melted under the blowtorch of my charms. UMW had said to gain the trust of the locals, right?
“She meant nothing to me, Queen Amtrazillis!” I puff, scrambling for purchase. The walls are pushing the trash into a high pile, with a screaming whirlpool in the centre.
“Hah!” she replies, and my mind floods with images. Smooth green skin. The sensuous touch of two mouths. Strange alien moans. Forbidden Andromedin fruit. How could I resist?
The mountain of canisters shifts again and I fumble for a hold, grab onto the serrated edge of half a torpedo casing, and pull as my feet are dragged down. I loaded one of these with Kirsty, a last desperate scheme for survival. Our ship’s shields were at zero; she — then a junior science officer — had modified it to release a mega electromagnetic pulse, which knocked out the Rigellian cruiser’s weapons system just long enough for a miraculous escape. But now’s no time for reminiscence! With a heave and a grunt I’m free, but the ravenous void is opening wider, the walls are closing in, and nothing is stable. I jam my fingers into a gap in the gouged and pitted metal wall that towers all the way to the ceiling.
“And you mean nothing to me, Dirk Danger!” she continues. “Less than the trash you’re to be disposed with! You thought you could seduce me, insult me, and just walk away? I will teach you a very terminal lesson in the perils of wounding Volgutron pride!”
OK. I messed up hard here. But in my defence, she smelled like a heady mix of orange zest and spiced double-strength rum.
The metal is glowing hot now, a roiling, boiling vortex. Like a black hole accretion disk. Too hot for friction alone, must have been some unspent fuel. An antimatter torpedo detonation — she configured it, I shot it with perfect timing — deflected a convoy from the grip of a supermassive black hole. Kirsty and I celebrated our commendations afterwards… how could something so good fall apart like it did?
I pull up on a fingerhold, jam a foot hard against a ragged tear on the metal face, feel the rusty teeth bite into my bare heel. If I get out, I’ll need Doc to give it a check. He’s usually not too pleased to see me, even though he started under my command just 3 years ago as a junior doctor and is now the galactic expert in interspecies STDs. The abuse heaped upon this metal face above has left just enough purchase to climb, but there must be twenty feet between me and the top, where I can see a ceiling access hatch. I stretch, leap and pull, make another hold, lacerating my palm this time, but the walls are lurching closer and closer together and I’m not going to make it in time. There’s a wicked peal of gloating laughter from the tannoy.
Take a second. Think. How about…
Thud.
The walls jump to just over a leg-span apart. Without a pause, I stretch and leap, planting a foot and a hand, pushing off and up, side to side, bouncing like a frog.
Crash.
Another lurch inwards, but this time it’s a help: I can reach both walls at once and scuttle my way up, a desperate spider fleeing the spitting hellfire below. My hand slaps the sharp metal corner. I’m up! I surge towards the hatch, spin the dial, fling it open. Queen Amtrazillis’ screech of anguish echoes from wall to wall. I grab the ladder, squeeze my shoulders into the tight tube, then… no further. I’m stuck. Seems the Volgutron haven’t made precautions for a sensible amount of human stomach. Can’t pull up, can’t get back down. My abdomen and legs dangling over an ocean of blistering hot metal, the jagged jaws about to pinch closed.
This is it.
I’m stuffed.
I really, really messed up.
Why did I have to throw it all away? Not just this mission, but every single time, all the way back to what I had with Kirsty? For what? Some alien babe whose name and star system and skin colour I no longer remember?
Why must I sabotage every chance of happiness? Am I so afraid of being vulnerable?
“I’m sorry!” I yell, to Queen Amtrazillis, to Kirsty, to every other feminine creature I’ve taken for granted. The metal sides crunch in once more. They’re resting against my flanks. Poised to crush. “I’m sorry for everything!”
I wish I could live long enough to apologise properly to Kirsty. She always deserved better. Tears streak my cheeks. Vertical beams of light flash before me. Gathering. Coalescing. Revealing a clinical whiteness. A final crunch, but my body feels nothing. The lights recede, to reveal a shadowless white room. I’m standing on a raised silver podium. A transporter room!
“Captain Danger,” says a trim young woman behind the console, caramel hair pulled severely into a tight bun. A tantalising strand has escaped, brushing her slender neck. The austere uniform of a technical officer somehow complements her figure better than a cocktail dress. “I’m Lieutenant Ambrosia Barnes of UMW Starship Endeavour. I hope we didn’t leave you waiting too long!” For just an instant, a wry smile plays on her lips and caresses her cheeks.
“Captain Dirk Danger at your service,” I say with a knowing wiggle of my eyebrows, inhaling slightly to tighten up my midsection. “And Danger is also my middle name!”
***
Chris is a suburban farmer wrapped in an unruly beard, trying out messing about with words when he’s not busy playing at being an engineer, dog walker, gardener and cheese eater. Find his other stories here.
