...also a screenplay with a graphic novel in the works!
Concept Art by Bill Dely.
2100 A.D. DEEP SPACE: THE VOID – The small rock strewn planet floated in the midst of the seemingly endless domain of space. What classified this cragged rock void of atmosphere as a planet instead of an asteroid in the galactic charts was merely a whim of the scientific community.
The blackness was perfect until a silent explosion erupted driving the cobalt into retreat in an elliptic spectrum of energy. A silver bullet appeared from the quickly expanding saucer of light. The pearly mass slowed taking the form of a spacecraft and shattering the quiet with the 115 year-old hit song, Magic Carpet Ride, which blared into space from the ship's exterior speakers.
The long-range fighter approached the rocky surface quickly, wings folded away from fuselage and retracting wormhole shields revealed a cockpit. Intense light exploded into space from the small craft as navigation lights activated.
Inside the cockpit sat Sgt. C.T. McGregor, his black boots at rest atop switch filled control panel. He lounged in a high backed, black leather captain's chair. Muscled limbs draped loosely over large padded armrests. A charcoal tinted shirt hung open across his broad chest. Dark hair was cropped short and had the sheen of youth while the depth of his sleep left his bronzed skin without wrinkle.
The pounding music that thankfully emanated quieter inside than out seemed to have no effect on the Sergeant's sleep. It was quickly apparent that he snoozed unawares of the jagged cliffs that now filled his view screen, increasing in size at an alarming rate.
Looming large in the ship's screen, the rocky planet quickly blocked out the universe behind it. A red light flashed and beeped, quickening with the ship's approach to the planet.
Nary a twitch arose from the pilot's eyes until a very sensual female voice lyrically flowed through the large cockpit as the music faded to a whisper. "Perhaps it is time to consider the briefing?" The voice poised the question as near to a command as possible without it being one.
The switchboard lit up with light and sound as the planet rose up to reveal a crater and boulder-strewn surface. She continued. "And our eminent crash course into that large rock."
McGregor's eyes twitched, the corner of his lip almost curled, his eyes opened, his coarse hand rubbed coarser beard. "E.T.A?"
The voice responded politely, "Twenty two seconds…21, 20, 19…
McGregor yawned, and looked at the pocked surface casually. "Debrief."
"So soon Sir." The voice responded sarcastically. We're still thirteen and 3/4 seconds from impact and only two days late for a three-day assignment."
Blue eyes twinkled. "Well Aaia, if you'd kept my ship safe from those mutant tics, we'd have been here on time." McGregor smiled. He enjoyed poking fun at the computer whose personality he had programmed. Sometimes he wondered if he had not given her too much personality.
Aaia interrupted his thoughts. "Security is not in my programming. 11, 10, 9…"
"Just in case you ever decided to turn on me." He said, peering up to the ceiling. "I'm kidding. I'd give you all the power I had if I.U.S. would let me."
"Of course you would. Now, about the incinerary experience were about to have?"
The ship plummeted toward what could only result in a fiery explosion. The unforgiving surface took shape as it drew closer…closer…closer… The ship nearly shivered at the fate that was now inevitable when just before impact a large perfectly camouflaged portal on the planet's surface opened, revealing a tunnel, which lead straight into the planet's core. The fighter glided gracefully into the massive corridor as the portal closed seamlessly behind it.
McGregor smiled. "I guess I should have told you about that."
"Really?" Aaia said with the utmost human tone, expressing in the one word her annoyance and enjoyment at being a participant in her programmer's joke.
"I guess that didn't make it into the research program I gave you."
Aaia sighed and began her debriefing. "Space Hub lovingly referred to as Hell's Gate, one of the largest harbors in the known galaxy. Non I.U.S. controlled but vital to non-worm hole cross-galactic shipping. Until recently, controlled by a reasonable human crime lord...He's dead. The new lord is hiking prices, refuses to show at least the facade of respect for I.U.S. officers and had all the priests destroyed the first day. He's a grainite and mean as hell. Clean Up the mess using any means necessary with I.U.S. section 3 code 7 as protocol."
McGregor grunted. "Can't kill 'em unless he kills me first."
"Exactly".
"Dandy." McGregor flipped a coolant switch. "Wiped out all the grays, huh?"
"Yes."
"Interesting."
The view screen revealed the pitch-black tunnel that soon sprouted lights as the ship sped through it. As the light sources increased, signs of life appeared along the shaft's surface. McGregor flipped a switch, dimming the exterior lights as every surface of the corridor filled with living quarters, shops, restaurants and taverns.
McGregor's craft darted from the tunnel exit and into the planet's core. Sailing deep along the radius, the sleek vehicle moved toward the core's center. The hollowed planet teemed with activity as shuttles and taxi's scurried about the interior.
Three miles separated the planet's walls. Every inch of surface was put to use, covered with minimally profiled intricate structures and warehouses; often it was difficult to establish where one ended and the other began. Metal intertwined with stone to create phantasmagoric architectural wonders that sprawled amongst the cragged interior. An orb that glowed moon-like at the planet's center illuminated the core, currently simulating night. McGregor maneuvered the ship through heavy traffic, banking around the silver orb and then guiding his ship toward a cliff wall with several large caves. Decreasing speed, the ship's landing gear dropped and it slipped into a hangar carved into the cliffs natural caves.
Bustling traders moved about the hangar in a furor. Ships of all shapes and sizes were loaded and unloaded with cargo. Exotic creatures bartered and exchanged goods as ships were serviced for the long flight to anywhere. The stone floor of the monstrous cave was polished to sheen. McGregor observed all this while buttoning his shirt, shutting down his systems and arming himself. He looked up to where a long broadsword hung, then reluctantly took down the two holstered blasters next to it and strapped them around his waist.
McGregor's craft gracefully settled into an open space between an I.U.S. trade vessel and a much smaller clepto ship. The cleptos were just one of the many genetic mutant creations that roamed the universe along side the native creatures of a more natural genesis. Cleptos were humans with the genes of mockingbirds engineered at the point of conception. Rarely did they exceed 1.5 M in height and hollow bones allowed them amazing leaping abilities. Small wings limited their aerial capabilities to gliding--their wings not strong enough to give them true flight. Elfish features, soft feathered hair, and wings that folded gracefully down their back made them beautiful creatures and one of the touted successes from the genetic engineering revolution. But they were not without fault, their abilities at collection and hawking wares made them excellent merchants--it also made them master thieves.
McGregor smiled politely through the windshield as he lowered blaster blinds, waving at the tiny man-bird as he set his alarms.
It didn't take long to make his way through the interior caves toward his destination. He walked briefly down an exterior bridge, a five-foot wide non-symmetrical path stretching across the monstrous cavern below. He was momentarily suspended in space as he stopped to scan the chasm's depths before turning his gaze to the massive airspace inside the hollowed planet. He took a deep breath, wanting to enjoy the experience more than he seemed to. He continued down the rock walk.
McGregor entered the thriving bar with confidence. After all, he was a Space Janitor--highly trained and well equipped. He was in his third year as a Janitor, and was given the best missions. It was a dangerous job, and he loved it for that. He had worked hard to gain the position, and made the elusive rank of Space Janitor in the fastest time possible, two years. Across the globe his position demanded respect. He looked about the tavern as he strutted through the crowds. Traders from all walks of life--both alien and engineered, organic and mechanical--mingled and partied. C.T. was out of uniform, yet many in the crowd noticed his genetic superiority, he was sure by the way they parted for him. He approached the counter where a sexy barkeep quickly took notice of this tall stranger.
"What's your pleasure, cowboy?" The barkeep whispered flirtatiously.
McGregor turned to his left where two green-skinned lizard men looked pathetically at empty mugs. With a questioning glance he asked them both, "Orange Whip? Orange Whip?"
The duo nodded in unison, a ray of hope filtering into their verdant reptilian eyes.
McGregor dipped his head in acknowledgement, and said without facing the Barkeep, "Three Orange whips." He smiled at his inner joke and ode to one of the greatest adventures of all time. As the barkeep moved to concoct the drinks, McGregor scanned the room, leaning back and resting his elbows on the bar. He took in the entire alcove, noticing who noticed him, and who purposefully kept their eyes away. He grew confident from his ability to observe human emotions--and intentions--at a glance and was emboldened by his effect on the people at the bar.
The Barkeep returned with the drinks and smiled. McGregor smiled back, truly seeing her for the first time. Dark silky hair flowed about her shoulders, and ample cleavage sprang from the girl's low cut, red, sleeveless shirt. Subtly brown skin glowed between the tapered top that hugged slender waist, and the low cut pants drew a perfectly curved line across her toned abdomen, two inches below the perfectly shaped bellybutton. She set the frothing drinks down. She saved McGregor's for last, and met his eyes boldly as she placed the drink before him.
He fought to maintain his casualness, as the blood in his body seemed to instantly heat, turning him to mush. Raising his eyes, he met her gaze--reminding himself she was probably just a non-gen, far his inferior--he hoped he faked his confidence well.
The twinkle in her eye told him he failed. "Where ya' from?" She asked, the words seemingly caressing his ears as they passed.
Her eyes blitzed his senses, ransacking any chance he had at a witty response. Electric in their coloration, they danced before him; depths of aquamarine mesmerized him. In all his days amidst the genetically designed eyes of the elite, he'd never seen their equal. It was too much, and he pulled his own eyes away from the sparkling pools. Reaching for the tangerine colored drink, he raised it to his lips with his right hand, hoping to sooth his countenance. He'd long ago made the habit of eating and drinking with his right hand so that his more dexterous appendage would be available for his gun if needed. Finally after setting the drink back to the bar, he answered. "Earth."
Delighted eyes lit up, and the beautiful girl couldn't hide her excitement at the answer she had hoped for. "Long way from home. Smuggler?"
He smiled internally, his confidence returning with the reminder of who he was. True confidence replaced false bravado now, knowing his answer would quickly win the girl; every woman longed to find a man of his genetic make-up. "Janitor." He didn't have time to wait expectantly for her dazzled and impressed stare; her disgust rocked him instantly. The very face that a moment ago stirred heat in his loins now sent daggers of ice through his heart.
The girl was obviously surprised by this unexpected piece of information. She recovered quickly, leaned in toward him, looked deep into his eyes and made no attempt to hide her contempt. "You sure? I can usually tell a gen-freak…I mean, gen-man--they do nothing for me."
If her initial reaction shocked him, this statement broke him. Suddenly every fear of inadequacy swelled up from the past, taking the form of beads of sweat surfacing on the back of his neck and the muscles of his legs turning to jelly. He quickly fought the irrational fears back; he'd dealt with this issue years ago, when faced with a newborn younger brother, a brother designed to perfection by his parents. A brother--who unlike himself--was not adopted. For six years before his brother's untimely death, the boy roused fear of inadequacy in McGregor's adopted heart. It only worsened after his brother's sickness, he became near deity after that, and McGregor felt ever more his inferior in the shadow of the perfect memories his mother had of her womb born son.
McGregor shook off the doubts, so he was adopted, and without papers, his parents said he came from genetically pure stock, and he made Janitor in record time--a non-gen couldn't do that! He was who they said he was. He had nothing to fear he told himself. He forced himself to stand taller; he was Sgt. C.T. McGregor, Space Janitor--gen-man! He matched her stare, waiting for her to make the next move. Her coldness held, and she stared at him with unflinching eyes of steel.
Stepping back from the bar, he pulled credits from the front pocket of his dark brown flight jacket. He forced himself to meet her gaze then tossed them on the bar. "For the clean up." The titanium chips clinked on the bar and finally drew her gaze from his. He felt released and took the opportunity to escape.
McGregor was up and moving before her eyes rose from the money. She watched him glide purposefully through the crowd toward the rear of the large tavern. Once again, he would quell his own doubts of his genetic make-up the only way he knew how--with action, and with a vengeance.
A large double door sat well protected by two heavily armed eight-foot angular faced kragors. The sentries bred for war frowned at the approaching intruder. One of them stepped forward, extending a six-fingered hand. "Halt."
McGregor ignored the command, quickening his pace. Blasters drew as one and without hesitation the kragars unleashed a barrage of laser blasts.
McGregor's hand casually brushed by his belt as the blasts reached him, a shimmering light flickered where the shots should be destroying flesh. An invisible force field absorbed the blasts with ease. McGregor's left hand was a blur as were the two darts that entered jugulars with deadly silence--the kragars crumbled--a dart protruding from each of their crimson stained necks.
McGregor stepped over the fallen mutants and pushed through the doors, his hands snagging them at their apex and flinging them shut behind him without missing a beat. He continued toward a gigantic desk centered in the elaborate, foliage filled room.
The thing that sat behind the large desk smiled, its seemingly rigid rock face curved upwards. The thing's tangerine hide covered a massively muscled nine-foot frame--he was a Grainite--a genetic mutation bred for mining the mineral planets.
McGregor stopped, glancing toward an eagle sized winged lizard that perched perceptively in an iron cage. It's emerald skin shone like fine polished leather carved to resemble scaled skin. The dragon's tongue licked the air expectantly. McGregor turned his gaze back to the brute behind the desk, coolly meeting the Grainite's smile. "Lord Grimm, I presume."
The genetically created beast ground out a laugh. "I must have done something right, for them to send one of you."
It took an act of will not to acknowledge the complement as pride surged within him, but McGregor held the beast's gaze and said casually. "You worked quickly, unfortunately for you not quietly."
The two warriors analyzed one another carefully, waiting for the other to make a mistake.
"Why'd you kill the grays?" McGregor asked, hiding his interest.
Grimm paused, then began to chuckle, then to laugh--the laughter grew to a near deafening level before he stopped cold. "Because they kill people." Grimm used the nano-second McGregor's mind strayed to go for his guns.
Pistols slid from McGregor's holsters with lightening speed, firing simultaneously with Grimm.
Two mutated thirty inch shoeless feet that rested casually on the desk became launchers, sending literally a ton of tangerine marble hurling toward McGregor who was already diving through the air, hitting the ground rolling as he fired.
McGregor's blasters ignited again and again, lasers ricocheting off the granite's hide.
Rock chips flew from Grimm as he sprinted for the door, firing a large armor piercing photon blaster at the now up and ready McGregor.
McGregor's force field took the brunt of the first blast but it didn't keep him from being knocked back, he fought to keep his balance when a second shot slammed into his chest, propelling him forcefully onto his backside. Breath purged from his lungs and then the third blast connected, slamming the Janitor's head back against stone floor and sending a ripple through his force field…it fizzled away in an electrical light melt down.
McGregor struggled to sit, gasping at the air that was still denied him, then finally finding it and expelling it again with the words. "Oh, shit!"
A massive hand grasped him by the shirtfront; jerking him from the floor and hurling him like a rag doll into the back wall. Grimm laughed again as McGregor slid down the stone to the floor.
A twenty-inch tongue lashed out from the lizard's fanged snout and McGregor heard in his mind, Better move. McGregor listened to the thought and painfully dove from the path of another photon blast. The dragon was obviously enjoying the show.
Grimm continued his march toward the doors, he turned and smiled, firing one last shot at the scrambling McGregor who--hearing the word, Move, in his mind--threw himself behind a hutch full of multi-colored roses, landing hard on already cracked ribs. Grimm laughed at the cry of pain from McGregor and he turned away.
Just as the grotesque hand reached for the double doors, McGregor grimaced with the agony of the effort, but pulled himself up from behind the hutch and shouted, "Hey Rock Face!"
Grimm turned to see a four-inch metallic disc spiraling toward him.
McGregor disappeared behind the hutch as the disc embedded into the center of the grainite's forehead. Grimm's eyes crossed upwards as cumbersome fingers reached frantically for the tiny device. Fours quick ticks later the bomb detonated and the ensuing explosion thundered through the room like a canon.
Kneeling behind the slate desk turned bomb shelter, McGregor covered his head. The concussion blast sent rocks, pebbles and grains of sand raining down upon the room and McGregor. Shortly thereafter, as McGregor allowed his eyes to rise, the leaves and pedals of a hundred roses and a plethora of herbage settled gently around him.
He rose with an aching snarl, laser blasters still in hand, pointing at the double doors--nobody entered. Breathing deeply, he stretched out his bruised and battered body. He inhaled slowly--agonizingly--testing his ribs. Sniffing, he drew in another breath, suddenly aware of the avid aroma now filling the room, enjoying the fragrance of a hundred annihilated roses. Two pistols twirled into holsters and he said wryly, "I love the smell of roses in the morning."
A snicker drew McGregor's attention to the cage, which now lay on its side. The shaken up dragon ruffled out its leathery wings then peered at McGregor.
McGregor's mind once again filled with thoughts not his as the words, Three, two, one, zero, floated through his mind. On zero the doors of the office burst open and a half a dozen kragars charged through firing upon the Space Janitor. Without his force field he was mandated to defy physics and out maneuver the blasts. His own guns reached his hands in a blur and he miraculously escaped the initial onslaught with only flesh wounds. But he only managed to bring two of the warriors down as he somersaulted his way over a table and across the room; attempting to find cover behind the large upturned desk as he unloaded on the remaining four kragars. The well-trained soldiers spread out, attempting to put their adversary in a position of crossfire. McGregor knew too well his fate if he allowed them to succeed--he would be dead.
He didn't give them a chance to think, and kept on the move. He sprang forward, guns exploding in blue rays of death, purposefully charging in the direction of the two still in the proximity of each other. They leapt apart, as did McGregor's guns, and both kragors fell from precision shots to the head.
Blood sprayed from McGregor's shoulder as a blast from one of the remaining kragars ripped across deltoid. "ARRGH!" He dropped with the hit, forcing himself to ignore the pain of landing on the very shoulder that now burned, blasting away at the attacking soldier. The leathery skinned creature crumbled to the floor across the room from him and silence stilled the air. He scanned the room from where he laid. The last kragor had gone into stealth mode. He dared not to make a sound as he slowly slid himself into a defensive position between a carved stone pedestal and the wall. His eyes darted about the room and his ears tuned to the slightest sound.
Silence.
Free Me.
Not exactly a good time for that. McGregor thought back at the dragon.
Obviously. After you win.
If I win?
You will if I help you.
I was going to free you anyway.
Thanks. Here he comes. With that thought sent, the dragon sprang to the side of his tipped cage, causing it to roll. The kragar turned toward the noise as McGregor stood up to face him. When the kragor turned back, he was looking down the barrels of McGregor's guns.
McGregor smirked. "Always good to have back-up."
The kragor nodded, glancing at McGregor's weapons.
Two titanium barrels nodded back, as McGregor quipped. "Don't even think about."
The kragor dropped his weapon.
McGregor maneuvered around him to the cage, gun and eyes on him constantly, then reached down gingerly, opening the iron door of the cage. "Stay out of my mind." He needn't have spoken, for the telekinetic lizard had already read the thought.
The dragon's snout curled in what could only be described as a snarling smile, revealing a tiny row of fangs designed for gnashing. Taking flight, it circled the room then landed on McGregor's shoulder.
"Are you kidding me?" McGregor flinched at the talons digging into his shoulder. "To the nearest planet with meat is as far as you're going." He then thought instead of said, And stay out of my mind.
Impossible.
McGregor ignored him. "Enter the dragon."
The dragon snickered despite having no way to understand the subtext.
"I'll call you Bruce."
And you…Seeker.
In a flash, McGregor holstered his pistol and pulled a dart. He squeezed its base, causing several drops of venom to disperse. "A warrior shouldn't have to die for protecting his master." Nearly impossible to see, the movement was so quick, McGregor's hand sent the dart into the kragar's jugular and the giant crumpled to the floor in a heap.
Like a pirate's prized parrot, the dragon rode McGregor's broad shoulder as he walked back into the cantina. The clientele of this establishment were used to violence, and purposefully kept their eyes and glances at bay as the Space Janitor sauntered past them and toward the bar. He threw down another wad of cash on the countertop. It didn't escape his notice that it wasn't the girl from earlier who took up the money. He quickly shoved the disappointment from his mind--he'd never see her again anyway.
