21.

EVERYBODY EXPECTS THE
BRITISH IMPOSITION

SO,” THE SNARKY BRIT seethed. “We meet again, Mister Cox.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one saying that to you?” The captain asked.

“What? Why would you . . .” The man’s voice trailed off for a moment before his eyes went wide and he pounded on his arm rest.

“I’M NOT JAMES BLOODY BOND!”

As if the yelling didn’t indicate enough agitation, he hopped to his feet and produced a laser pistol from the inside of his suit jacket. This prompted a hip checking match between Kim and Cox to try and put themselves in human shield position—a human shield the rest of them were more than happy to take advantage of. While her husband ultimately won out, Kim accepted the consolation prize of poking the barrel of her own rifle under his arm.

“If you ever wanna eat another damn crumpet, you better put that gun down.”

“Oh shut up, you clueless bint,” the old curmudgeon spat. “I’ve had a hundred times as many guns pointed at me by a hundred times as many people who were all better shots than you. Do you really think I’d let a woman be the one who does me in? Even in my old age I am tougher than the whole lot o’ ya. I only got out this pintsy equalizer here ‘cos I’m on a schedule.”

“Sooooo . . .” Cox said. “You expect us to talk?”

“No, Mister Cox, I expect you to . . . Oh god DAMN it!”

On the less than dignified proclamation, his aim went askew just far enough for advantage to be taken. The co-captain’s abysmal trigger discipline allowed for a timely reaction shot. There was no fancy refractive glass to mess up her aim this time, but she still managed to miss all his vital areas anyway. She would later claim she missed on purpose. Maybe she even did. Regardless, it provided just enough opportunity for the collective to scatter like a flock of geese walking over a landmine.

“What are you two still doing here?” Kim demanded of Donald and Cox. “That was your chance to get away and hide somewhere!”

“Run and hide?!” Her incredulous significant other repeated. “I can’t leave the two things I value most in this life at the mercy of him!”

Donald squinted at him for a moment then shook his head.

“I . . . I didn’t know I was supposed to run. Can you shoot him again? I totally will this time.”

“Tim, I have never once doubted your bravery or good intentions.” She took a quick peek around the corner they hid behind. “Now is not the time for them, though. I already beat up one old geezer on this ship, and this one now has a laser wound in his shoulder. You need to take this down to wherever you planned on going and do whatever you planned on doing to it!”

She tried to force the bottle of Fireball into his hands. When he wouldn’t take it, it was instead thrust into the almost equally unwilling paws of their communications officer. He looked down onto it with disgust.

“I thought you said I was allowed to run? You’re making me a part of this now!”

He gestured with his free open hand to give his plea a little more weight. However, all he got in return was the Glock shoved into it.

“There, take that then. Better?”

“Uh, yeah a bit, actually.”

“Baby how can you ask me to leave you with this guy?!” Cox sputtered. “I mean, he’s being gracious enough to let us have this conversation, but that doesn’t mean he’s gonna be nice once he does decide to get up and come after you!”

“He’s not being gracious, hon. He’s rummaging through our cupboards looking for a burn heal.”

“That makes it even wor—”

“TIM!”

“WHAT!?”

“We don’t have time. Do this! Please! If there is one time in this entire fiasco that we just do things my way . . . can this be it?”

He pursed his lips together and scrunched his face into the closest it could get towards a scowl.

“ . . . Fine!” He relented after a giant inhale. “But if you die, then I am going to turn into a hollow shell of a man, and I won’t be held responsible for the unspeakable things I do in my grief!”

“Don’t tease me.”

“Heh, I thought you’d find that cute. But seriously, I love you. Don’t die.”

“I’m not gonna die! And I love you too. Now go save the world, while I add elder abuse to the list of crimes we’ve committed today.”

She cocked the bolt-action on switch and leapt back into the fray. Even after she had gone, Cox took a moment to take in the sounds of her shouting expletive laden taunts at her opponent in a butchered British accent. The words “Oi, guvna!” had never sounded so cute. Shame it was followed by a detailed description of growing male genitalia and then beating him with it since he was so averse to being bested by a female. Gone were the good old days of fond ribbing between opponents. Sure, they were both locked in a desperate attempt to survive, but just once, he wanted to see a polite fight.

Cox and Donald hurried through the halls of their house. Stressful as the situation was, the feelings of urgency were further exacerbated by the fact that neither one of them had gotten to pee since before arriving at Pia’s lab. Of course, if they had to deal with too many more unpleasant surprises, then that issue was likely to resolve itself.

“Hey, Donny, in your little ship schematic program you got on your computer, does it tell you where we keep the batteries?”

“No. Why would it? And why would all the batteries be in one room? And what do you need batteries for, anyway?! Oh, god, don’t tell me you have a plan.”

“I do have a plan! If it makes you feel better, though, I didn’t come up with it.”

“It does. But I still dunno where any batteries are.”

“Well that’s okay, buddy! I’m sure we can find one around here somewh—”

“There you are, you gagging sod!”

Interestingly, the amount of time it takes to pull a trigger is nearly identical to the average human reaction time—approximately two tenths of a second. Had Agent Todgerworth considered this information, he likely wouldn’t have chosen to blow his surprise with a flimsy taunt that would be neither clearly heard nor understood fully by those at whom it was levied. Since he opted to wait until after the utterance, though, which consumed nearly three whole seconds—a virtual eternity in dramatic slo-mo time—his itchy trigger finger had nary begun to clench by the time Cox and communicator dove behind the corner they had just rounded. As a result, his revenge lasering came to a harmless end as a scorch mark on the wall and Percy was made to look quite the fool.

“Well, shite, I did not think that one through.”

Donald gaped at Cox from the other side of the hallway entrance.

“I thought you burned that guy’s face off?!”

“I did!” He glanced around the corner then nodded. “Wow! Modern medicine sure is something! Looks like it couldn’t save his moustache or eyebrows, though.”

“Oh Captain, my Captain,” Percy’s voice oozed from down the hall. “We never did get to finish our chat earlier.”

“He’s walking this way, Donny!”

Donald raised an eyebrow. Tucking away the bottle of fireball, he produced the Glock and cocked it the same way that he had seen it done before.

“Then, boy, is he in for a surprise.”

It was the kind of surprise that made people understand why some people did not like surprises. Just as it did the first time, the bang blew through the contained metal hallway like a sonic boom. Cox had the foresight to plug his ears this time, but Percy, having had his element of surprise used against him, nearly toppled over from the shock of the blast and muzzle flash. “Bloody Hell!” was all he could manage during a mad scramble into the nearest alcove.

From a purely logistical standpoint, the two warring parties were deadlocked in a standoff. From a psychological standpoint, the blaster that produced pitiful pews appeared substantially inferior to the tiny sidepiece that trumpeted world-shaking bangs every time it emitted one of its invisi-ble-to-the-naked-eye projectiles. The twang they made upon meeting with their ultimate destination only served to amplify their unnerving nature.

Bang.

Percy’s entire body curled up like a dead spider when a wily bullet tore a chunk out of the corner he hid behind.

Bang.

“Do you really mean to destroy your ship just to thwart me?!” He bellowed from his hiding spot.

Bang bang.

“Donny, buddy, you are putting a lot of holes in the wall.”

Bang.

“Is that really your biggest worry right now, man?!”

Bang.

“I guess you got a point.”

“Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

Bang, bang.

Any thoughts of peeking his own blaster around the corner to return some hail disappeared when one of the preceding bullets grazed Percy’s hiding spot yet again. When he removed a hand from his eyes, a peculiar faint scraping noise directed his eyes to the floor. At first it appeared to be debris, albeit a larger chunk than the rest. Even when it stopped spinning and he got a better look at its mangled, rusty-yellow exterior, he still couldn’t tell what it was. Any attempts to pick it up and inspect it further were reconsidered after one touch fried his fingertips like a hot coal, not that he would have been able to identify a bullet even if it hadn’t been fired.

Bang.

Oh, right, he was still in a firefight.

Bang.

“I gotta say, Captain,” Donald said with surprising pleasure. “Most of your old crap sucks, but this thing is pretty great.”

Bang.

“Well I wouldn’t call it my favourite part of my collection. But I admit it’s surprisingly effective!”

Bang.

“I’ll say. I’m kinda wondering sure why we ditched these things for lasers.”

Click..

“The hell?”

Click, click.

“What’d you do, Donny? Did you break it?!”

Click, click, click.

“I didn’t do anything! It just stopped working.” Click, click. “Piece of junk.”

Percy renewed his investment in the conflict with a quick peppering of laser shots. He purposefully avoided wasting his surprise on an insult this time. However, that did not stop him from still missing, all the same.

“Having a bit of difficulties, are we?” He gibed from the alcove. Wary of any other unexpected weapon appearances, he briefly held off further advancement. For the time being, he would merely shoot lines of light and lines of provocation in their general direction, hoping something would tag them.

“Well that’s it, man!” Donald uttered as he let the pistol fall to the floor with a clunk of resignation. “That’s it! We’re done! This was the only line of defense we had, and now we got nothing!”

Cox bowed his head. Negativity was far from his nature, but Donald’s seemed beyond quelling. Not that he didn’t have good reason to be. A brief lapse in judgement nearly led to the captain peeking out at Percy right as another malevolent light beam whizzed on through where his face would have been. It was a grave scenario indeed, but there was a snippet of hope to be had.

“You need to carry on without me, Donny,” he said with a voice both solemn and dignified, as all people making great sacrifices for others were required to do by law. “Whether you know it or not, you’re a part of something bigger now. We all are. Greatness has been thrust upon us, and you bear the final hope humanity has at avoiding being placed under the shadow of tyranny. I wanted it to be the both of us, buddy. But it’s me that he wants. And since it’s me that he wants, we have a chance to still make it. Don’t make the same mistake I did with Kim and waste time trying to stop me. Just go, Donny. I’m beggin’ ya. Don’t worry about me. I got this. I’ll figure something out.”

Donald blinked at him.

“K.”

And without another word, the brave boy scurried away. Probably before his emotions overtook him and drew him toward rash decisions. Always the stoic pragmatist, that Donald. With the lad safely on his way, now was the time for Cox to shine.

“So uh, still there, Mister Todgerworth?”

The ensuing harrumph was all the answer he required, but a more articulate one followed nevertheless.

“I would hardly think to abandon my charge now, Mister Cox.”

“Captain Cox.”

“You are not a captain!!” Todgerworth blindly fired at the location of the man of dubious captaincy. “You are hardly a man! To be a captain requires one be not only capable of handling responsibility, but thriving under the mantle. Not only do you lack the requisite certifications for such a title, but I have yet to happen upon anyone who remotely displays incompetence capable of competing with yours! Let alone one who still demands such a moniker! Every report of your success has come bearing an asterisk denoting intervention in the form of aid from more competent associates of yours or sheer bloody dumb luck. The one time in which you were left completely helpless, alone to your own devices, you were only able to escape by way of an opportune cheap shot. And make no mistake; I will have my revenge for that! Yet even with your flagrant inadequacy dragging behind you everywhere you go, you propose the ability to hold me off?! You. The pitiful quim trembling alone behind that corner. Listening to me . . . silently . . . bollocks; you’ve run away too, haven’t you?”

COX WASN’T SURE HOW long the captain line would hold him for. For all he knew, Todgerworth had seen right through it from the outset and was already in hot pursuit. But he dared not look back. No one who looked back ever ran faster for it. And many who did ended up crashing into or tripping over things. It was just a bad idea all around, and he was in no position to be having bad ideas. That’s why he made a beeline for the engine room, where there was only one exit and copious amounts of loud noise that would make it impossible to hear anyone coming or track their movement via sound. It was the stupidest choice of place for him to go, so therefore, Percy would never expect a seasoned captain like him to go there.

Classically, engine rooms were the darkest, dingiest, inexplicably moistest rooms of a space vessel. They would have wires and cables dangling from the ceiling, obscured by an omnipresent haze that did not have any actual reason to be there but was never questioned by anyone. All in all, they were widely regarded as the room on the ship that one would be least surprised to be killed in. The Jefferson, however, was the exception. Large floodlights, a fancy rug, and some state-of-the-art dehumidifiers rendered it as welcoming as the lobby of the Empress Hotel, provided one did not mind the roar of an engine that was described by most as “only mildly deafening.” There were a great many scenarios Cox took into consideration during the ship’s construction. Many had paid off on this adventure, too. However, at no point did he consider a scenario in which he himself would need to be familiar enough with the ship’s components to not only identify them but also dismantle them. With wall-to-wall technological tackle stretched out before him, it was understandable to be overwhelmed by the prospect of it all. The fact that it was acid he needed made it all the worse. The stuff was generally not an ideal substance to search for by braille.

“Hardly surprising you would flee like a cowardly child,” Todgerworth’s voice sneered from the entrance.

He stood blocking the exit, rifle already levelled, and a twisted sneer marring his pale face. Cox put his hands up and backed away what few inches he had left.

“Y’know . . .” He reasoned. “I know I don’t always handle stuff the right way. But I don’t think there’s a whole lot of shame in running away from a guy with a gun when I myself got nothing.”

“Oh, spare me your shabby rationalizations. This is the end of the line for you. You’ve exhausted your bag of tricks and your exit opportunities, and now the only dilemma left falls onto me. Do I bestow the same torture unto you that I myself had to endure, or shall I just put a ray through your torso and be done with it all? The first option is so tempting; however, I could never forgive myself if one of your underlings successfully interrupted me and saved you before I could—”

A large pipe wrench flew out from behind one of the gyrating pieces of machinery. It caught Percy right under the cheek bone with a sickening crack that shut his lights out before he had even hit the ground. The old-fashioned hunk of metal clanged to a rest on the floor next to him shortly afterward. Despite having been hit by nothing himself, Cox also slid down the wall and collapsed to the floor in shock.

The thrower emerged from whence the wrench came. Just a silhouette at first, the short stature and mane of long dark hair suggested an individual of female persuasion, which helped to steady the captain’s erratic heart rate. He let out his first breath in quite some time.

“Baby, I swear sometimes I actually think you have spidey senses.”

“You think I’m somebody else, don’t you?”

The voice did not resemble Kim’s in the slightest. It was all sweet and no sultry, with a peppy, almost musical quality. However, the primary giveaway came via the pronunciation vagaries commonly heard in a habitual Hinglish speaker. When she stepped into the light to retrieve her wrench, the newcomer was revealed to be a younger woman, perhaps late twenties or early thirties, with both darker hair and darker skin than who she was initially assumed to be.

“Captain?” She asked. “Are you alright?”

“GAH!” Cox exclaimed. “Who are you?!”

“I . . .” She seemed unsure whether to be hurt or confused. “I’m your engineer, Diksha. Do you not remember me?”

“No! No, I do! Thatsyourname. Diksha.” With quick clap, he was on his feet and reaching out to grab her hand. “It’s just been a while! But, boy, am I glad to see you.”

“I can see that. Who is this man? And why is he so angry with you?”

Upon being asked, he could not help but bob his head to and fro, trying to formulate an explanation that sounded reasonable without incriminating himself too much.

“Well y’see, back when we were at Space Guan . . . Wait. Have you been down here this whole time?”

“Of course. Where else would I be?”

“I . . . I guess,” Cox avoided the question. “And you haven’t noticed anything weird going on?”

“No? Nobody has come down to see me since we arrived at the Kalliope mining station.”

“Wow. What do you do down here all day?”

“Is that really a more important question than why a strange man is on our ship trying to shoot you with a BSA69 blaster rifle?”

“I guess not,” Cox chuckled. “It’s kind of a long story, though. I promise I’ll tell you it all later! But while I got you here right now, I need your help. I gotta crack open a battery and get some of its acid-y nectar. It’s not for me, it’s to save the world.”

“I see.” Diksha stared at him, blank-faced. “Well, actually I do not see, at all, as your explanation prompts far more questions than it answers. But you are speaking with such urgency that it is clear you do not wish to take questions. Wet-cell batteries are not very common anymore, but we do have one. Extracting the hydrofluoric acid is simple enough. Just let me grab my tools.”

“No time! My nametag has a laser built into it. I’ll just cut the cover off.”

“Um, okay? But I still need to get the proper pipette for the actual extraction. You cannot just put hydrofluoric acid in a cup.”

“Oh! Well, I was just going to grab the whole battery and carry it like a bucket. But your idea works too!”

With how smoothly things went with Whatshername, Cox could not help but wonder why he never visited her down here. Usually one’s ability to knock out a man with a pipe wrench did not factor in to the quality of their company. Yet, when combined with her encyclopaedic knowledge of the inner workings of his pride and joy, as well as her total willingness to comply with strange, unexplained requests, he quickly found a fondness for his once invisible crew member. She even offered to boil the acid down for him to increase its potency. It was quite refreshing to have at least one underling treat him like a captain and welcome his presence without apprehension or reluctance. Best of all, at no point did he consider that his former indifference may have been the only thing that prevented some grave misfortune from befalling her throughout the course of his messes. That probably would have ruined the moment.

“Here you go, Captain,” Diksha smiled as she handed over the caustic substance. “I do not know how you will save the world with this, but good luck!”

“Thank you, Miss Dishka!”

The acid changed hands, yet the transaction did not feel quite complete. To just duck in, have his life saved, then mooch and take off seemed so impersonal. The poor girl’s job was so lonesome already. Trapped down here all alone in this dingy— but not too dingy—machine room, she was probably dying for somebody to reach out and offer her some social interaction.

“Say, just so you know, if you ever feel like getting out of here sometime, you’re always welcome to come up to the bridge. I’m sure the rest of the gang would love to see ya!”

“That is very nice of you. But I stay down here because I like being away from people and have no desire to be dragged along on the unsafe outings you’re very famous for. Instead I can concentrate on my work and build my models. Not every crew member of a ship wants a turn in the spotlight, you know.”

“I . . . wow, you’re good at having points. Okay, then! Well, I guess I’ll get back to the ‘spotlight!’ Haha.” He turned around to leave but kept spinning until he had gone a full 360 degrees, then raised a finger and opened his mouth once more.

“Even though I don’t see you very often, that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the importance of your job. You’re just as valuable a part of the Jefferson as the rest of us, and don’t you forget it!”

Diksha mulled the statement for a moment.

“ . . . What is the Jefferson?”

“Uh . . . that’s the name of the ship! You didn’t know that?!”

“I did not. Why do you call it that? Is it something to do with Thomas Jefferson?”

“Well, no . . .” Cox mumbled. He shuffled his feet and gave an awkward shrug. Previous eye rolls and groans had taken all the joy out of answering this question.

“I dunno . . . ever since I was a kid, I always wanted my own Jefferson Starship.”

“I do not understand.”

“Yeah, I was pretty sure you weren’t gonna. I’ll fill you in later, I promise.”

“Are you gonna send someone down to take care of this?” She asked as she gestured at the body on the floor. “Am I supposed to . . . ?” She followed up after a moment of awkward silence. She neglected any further queries when both remained unanswered.

Adrenaline coursed its way back into Cox’s bloodstream the moment he departed. Holding the acid at arm’s length as if it were a peeing baby, he stumbled his way through the Jefferson’s halls. The mission’s end was in sight. All he had to do was figure out where Donald had fled with the goopy mac-guffin, and they would be able to put this whole thing behind them. Fortunately, in the dark days of yesteryear, he would have been forced into an elaborate cat and mouse type circumstance where he would have to rely on deduction and intuition in order to locate his charge. However, years of humanity funnelling its collective intellect into programs that removed all need to possess any intellect made for an easy way around that. A quick visit to the nearest wall terminal, an awkward inquiry to the psycho torture-bot that ran the thing, and presto: a blinking light coming from . . . Donald’s room; go figure. The fact that his designated icon was the Punisher skull may have hinted at who got to choose the crew’s symbols.

At a giraffe’s pace, he could cover the distance in less than two minutes, though navigating the halls as an eighteen-foot-tall quadruped would probably slow him down more. Two legs would suffice. They were enough to take him up stairs, around corners, and even around obstacles jutting up from the floor, such as Czech hedgehogs, or his wife’s dishevelled and limping visage.

“KIM!” Cox yelped, nearly dropping the cargo he so carefully carried.

She let herself fall into his outstretched free arm, enjoying the opportunity to save some energy and wipe away the streams of water cascading down her face.

“What happened?!” Her husband continued to prod. “What did he do to you?!”

“I’m not crying!” She blurted, smearing her hands across her face some more. “After I broke his nose, I think he realized I wasn’t going to just go down like a bitch, so the old goat pepper-sprayed me.”

After trying to put some weight on her bad leg, she shuddered and gripped him harder.

“Agh! I think my foot is busted . . .”

“Here, sit. Sit!”

“No, Tim, he’s not that far behind me. We gotta go.”

“How are you gonna go?! You can barely walk.”

“I don’t think I have much choice at the moment, love. Can’t kick his ass without a foot.”

It was in that moment that Sir Richard Head, premier woman-beater of Britain’s secretest service, loped on into the scene. With a face looking like a punctured can of red paint and a hand white-knuckling a spot in his midsection, it appeared he had underestimated the hardiness of a homegrown space scoundrel. Two-bit underhanded fighting approach aside, though, he had the spine to stick it out and attempt to see the job through. With only Cox left in his way and no engineers armed with pipe wrenches hiding around corners, it was entirely possible he may even succeed yet. But there was still one bump left on his road to victory.

The captain pressed the acid container against his wife. “Hold this.”

“Why? What are you doing?”

“I’m having my character-defining moment.”

Maybe luck really was the only crutch he had. Maybe help was his only means of triumphing. Maybe it was true that every success he had ever attained was owed to an intervening force, tangible or otherwise. Or maybe those were just accusations made in anger by a bitter rival who sought to sneak beneath his skin. To find the truth would require an enormous scoreboard and more thought than the captain was willing to put into the matter. A plan to rely on outside interference simply was not his brand of irrationality, as it would require a plan to have been made. For better or for worse, every gig began as plainly as it was intended to remain. And no matter how bleak a prognosis, he always pressed on; even on his own. If fortune felt fine to favour him along the way, then there was no sense in turning it down. It wasn’t his problem if others considered it unsporting.

In compliance with tradition, there was no ace in the hole when he marched the distance from wife to beater. In this moment he was just a man. A man with a beautiful mop of feathery blonde hair and a balled up, smaller-than-average hand that he slammed into Sir Head’s skeletal mug. Both recoiled from the impact.

“You . . .” The captain grunted in pain as he clutched his quivering fist. “Just got cold Coxed.”

Sir Head did not respond immediately, perhaps due to having his brains thoroughly rattled. He dabbed at his cheek and opened his mouth until his jaw clicked.

“I ain’t even mad. I didn’t think ya had it in ya.”

“There’s a lot of things that you don’t know I have in me!”

All three of them looked down with hunched shoulders and scratched at the back of their head, in the wake of his awkward exclamation.

“Right, then,” Sir Head broke the ice after a moment. “Now that you’ve grown a pair o’ bollocks I reckon it’s about time I kick them in.”

With a wrinkled nose and squinty eyes, the captain wiped his bloody hands on his jumpsuit, then put them up in an old-timey fisticuffs stance.

“May I borrow your can opener?”

The boxing stance was then abandoned and replaced by a pounce with the force of a thousand unloved kitties. It struck Sir Head with such thunderous strength that the agent was forced to take nearly an entire step backwards. Once the dust had settled, they were left in a heated and mildly erotic embrace, the Brit’s hands clamped onto the captain’s collar and the latter midway through performing some kind of half-hearted bear hug. When their eyes locked, the surprise round had ended, and the floor was left open to counterarguments.

Cox wished he could tell people he fought the good fight, and that through grit and love his hands avenged his wife’s honour. He wished he could tell people that. But fights were not the consequence-free fun and games that they seemed to be in cartoons and the NHL. People got hurt in those things.

Cox was already feeling the pangs before Head had even returned the favour, as his hand still smarted something fierce from the initial sucker punch. Things only got worse from there. The implausibly firm old-man grip on his jumpsuit left him helpless to avoid the dizzying retaliatory Head headbutt. Not only did it put him on the floor, ears ringing and vision blurry, but it also smeared the agent’s pre-existing blood all over his face, magnifying the awfulness.

Yucky as it was, it would take more negative reinforcement than that to keep him down. It would, in fact, take several punches to the midsection, a knee to the jaw, a kick in the groin, and a few elbows to the back of his head. There were a variety of other things that would have done the job as well, but that was what he got, and it was super effective.

Sir Head stepped toward his body and scrutinized him, giving an occasional foot nudge.

“You wanna get up again?”

Cox groaned into the floor to buy a couple more moments before rolling over.

“Not really. I mean, I gotta. But I feel like you’re just going to beat me up some more.”

“No shit. What else would you expect me to do?”

“Well . . . your buddy liked standing around and talking until something happened to make him lose his opportunity to kill me. Maybe we could do that?”

“Percy’s a sopping puss and words ain’t never solved anything. Now are you going to get off your arse and have another round with me or shall I wrap things up?”

With an offer like that, what else could he do? He had to get up. Rocky lasted a whole fifteen rounds, and he already had brain damage. Surely he could be at least two-fifteenths as good as Rocky.

The notion got him back on his feet, much to his opponent’s glee, but he still needed a helping hand to stay there. Sir Head didn’t mind sparing one if it gave him more time with his playmate. After swatting away one last ditch attempt from Kim to intervene, the sadistic spy had free reign to work out whatever deep-rooted daddy issues that made him the way he was in the form of tenderizing Tim’s face until all hope had been wiped off of it.

Battered, broken, and beaten, Cox fell backward into a bulkhead the moment he was released. The heroic feeling that was once enough to keep him going when his muscles just couldn’t be bothered had about reached the end of its magic. Yet he did not feel pain, anger, sadness, or disappointment, any of which would have been preferable. Instead, he had become numb; and it was not nearly as comfortable as past philosophers had suggested. For the first time in his entire life, Cox could not feel at all. He could not even feel silly about his slumped over pose, staring at the ceiling with glazed eyes and tongue hanging out of his mouth. At least the awkward, futile display did succeed at defining him; it was just a shame it was as a terrible combatant who really was incapable of succeeding on his own.

All these pessimistic notions swirled around his reeling mind over the course of just a few seconds. None lingered long, popping like bubbles shortly after manifestation. By the time his mental faculties began to return, such sentiments fell to the wayside when he realized the light he was staring at this whole time was awfully bright. It was also perfectly centered on the ceiling, and far more radiant than any of the other electrical illuminations in similar spots. When a large figure dressed all in white appeared in the middle and dropped through into the hallway a few feet away, the captain’s mental faculties were once more under suspicion.

“Wow . . .” His pupils shrank to pinheads as he slid down the wall. “Are you an angel?”

The astronaut shook his head and pulled off his helmet, revealing a bald octogenarian with pointy ears and a ficus growing out of his nose.

“Are you an idiot?” The man asked him back.

“Banks?!” Kim exclaimed. “Why did you put on a spacesuit to get on a docked ship?”

“Take a look at all the singe marks on it and figure it out.”

“Banks?!” Sir Head repeated. “Did she just call you Banks?!”

For the first time since anybody here had met him, the old man stood up straight.

“She did. And who the hell are you?”

The Brit wiped one last smearing of blood off his face and postured his way in the hitman’s direction.

“I’m someone who’s not impressed.”

Mister Banks grunted an acknowledgement, then added:

“I’ll try to live with that.”

“Oh, you won’t have to for long.”

“I’m not sure if that’s an old joke or if you’re threatening me.

“Bit of both, now that you mention it. You’re old as shit.”

“Ah. Good one, then.”

“Quit stalling and fight me, you tired old twat.”

“When did I say I was going to fight you?”

“ . . .Well, aren’t you!?”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“You better start plotting then, because you don’t have any choice!”

Sir Head put his fists up once more, waggling them around like maracas. Banks, however, just studied the bizarre motions with a cocked head. After a moment’s mulling, he still neglected to raise his own arms, instead folding them and smacking his lips.

“Sure I do. I could run.”

“You could.” The agent agreed, still waving his hands and now adding some fancy footwork. “If you’re alright with showing us all you have no spine.”

Banks shrugged.

“What do I care what you think? You already said you’re not impressed.”

“I . . . what is going on here!? You’re supposed to be the most dangerous man in my organization’s database. You’ve allegedly brought down ships; massacred entire battalions.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then why are you so shy about an honourable one-on-one, eh?! If you’re so great, then I should be nothing to you.” The older man’s eyelids fluttered, as if the words gave him a headache. After another one of his heaving sighs, he glanced down at Kim.

“Did you two go to the same bad-guy school or something?” His gaze then returned to Sir Head. “Wanna know how I take down ships and all the people in them? It’s because I don’t fight them fairly, I don’t fight them honourably, and I certainly don’t fight them with my bare hands. In fact, if I can help it, I don’t fight them at all. Fighting is a waste of time, a waste of energy, and would be a waste of brains, except if you go looking for one, then you obviously don’t have any. You might think you’re a big man because you knocked the stuffing out of those two, but all I see looking at you right now is a geyser where your nose used to be. But hey, I’m sure the knowledge that you’re the toughest guy around is worth all the broken ribs, destroyed knees, face scars, and arthritic hands, right?”

Like any true manly man of action, Sir Head disregarded any potential wisdom that may have been gleaned and instead shoved Mr. Banks backward.

“Worth every bit,” he snarled through curled lips. “’Cos when it comes down to the wire and it’s man-to-man, I got the experience to get the job done.”

Banks stayed silent for a couple moments after that. He took the time to stare down at his chest, where the Brit had put hands on him. Then, after lifting his head back up, he spoke with an even colder calm than before.

“Well. That’s better than relying on words, I guess.”

At that, he unstuck a blaster rifle from his back and fired a wide-angled laser blast that spanned the width of the hallway and cleaved through both of Sir Head’s knees. Both calf, ankle, and foot combinations remained upright like tree stumps, while everything above them went crashing to the floor. The agent’s cries of agony sent chills up the spines of Cox and Cox, yet did not daunt the man-hunting Martian. He cleared the space the shove gave him with just a few steps then loomed over Agent Head’s head with the same aloof air that he had in every situation. Yet the slight nod indicated at least some sign that this was more than business.

“Not as impressive as a flying roundhouse kick, I know. I just don’t have your experience. All I got is this gun.”

One last click, one last pew, and one last flash of light ended the conflict. It was a moment that would have been perfectly punctuated by a flock of birds flying away. Instead, the only ceremony was the sitting bodies of the two protagonists huddling together in mutual relief and injury while their unexpected saviour wiped a smudge off his trusty, newly-appropriated sidearm with his sleeve.

“I’m keeping this, by the way,” he told them. “Seeing as you made me throw away my last one.”

Neither one replied, instead looking up in discomfiture at the man’s nonchalance. After a beat, Banks gestured down at Sir Head’s body.

“So is he it? Or is there any more?”

“There’s a guy down in the engine room,” Cox spoke in soft, hushed tones like a man in shock and also in a library. “I think Da-, I mean D-, er . . . Whatshername mighta killed him, though.”

“Ah, I’ll sort it out. You two just go deal with the stuff.”

THAT WAS THE LAST they ever saw of Banks. No one was too sure when or how he managed to get off their ship, but they were none too pleased when they found out he left behind the bodies of both Sirs Head and Todgerworth, as well as two hard candy wrappers. Having to fish one of those things out of the Roomba was the least-pleasant goodbye that Cox had ever experienced. However, at the time, he would be flying high on emotion-tailoring drugs to prevent any PTSD from all the death he experienced.

Before any of that could happen, though, Tim and Kim had to pry themselves from the floor and embark on the long limp to Donald’s bedroom. It worked as a three legged race of sorts; each had an arm draped over the shoulder of the other to aid in their zombie shuffle. The majority of the captain’s injuries were situated on his face and torso and so he could actually walk fine, but an arduous trek of mutual injury was too good of a bonding moment for him to pass up. So he held her close and limped like he was on a quest for an Academy Award.

“Do you think mom and dad would hate what I’ve become?” He broke the silence.

“Love, I don’t know,” Kim grunted. “Probably not. They never really cared about much anyway.”

“I guess . . . I dunno. I just don’t want to shame the family name.”

She let out a weak laugh; one that obviously caused her pain, but she could not help but utter regardless.

“Honey, you’re worried about their opinion on that?! Those two couldn’t have set the bar any lower—no offense. You’ve at least done things! Made a difference in one way or another. You told me the only reason those two have any money is because they were lucky enough to be ones alive when your great great great great great great great great great great great grandparents’ Beanie Baby collection finally appreciated in value.”

“Yeah . . .” He let out an unsatisfied sigh. “Do you think maybe this ship will ever appreciate in value, at least?”

“Oh babe, god, no. This thing ain’t even gonna outlive you.”

“Awww! I mean, it helped me do all this stuff, I guess. But is anybody even gonna know?”

She smiled and reached out a hand onto the door that read “Donald’s Room. Enter at own risk” under a biohazard symbol.

“We will. And I’m pretty sure, whether or not they admit it, someone in here is going to as well.”

With a press of some buttons, the door opened wide. Inside was Willy, doubled over in a series of groans and dry heaves, while Donald and Whisper stood over him waving their arms and screaming “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” nonstop.

“What the hell is going on?!” Kim barked, wincing from the force of her yell.

“Willy ate the goo!” Donald screamed back.

“What?!”

“He ate the goo! We heard somebody trying to get in and next thing I know, he dumped the vial out of the bottle, popped it open, and ate it!!”

“What the hell?! WHY!?”

“I wanted to be a hero!” Willy moaned, bear-hugging himself and squashing all his facial muscles together.

“I wasn’t part of any of this!” Whisper defended herself against a question no one asked. “I just clearly picked the wrong room to hide in.”

“Am I gonna die!?”

“No, no, buddy!” Cox tried to comfort him. “No! No, no, no . . . no . . .”

“Whisper,” Kim ordered “Get us out of here. Set a course for somewhere; we’ll figure it out once in transit.” She swore under her breath and looked down at the pipette in her hand.

“We had the stuff and everything; why couldn’t you have just hung on!?”

“Dude, I’m dying!”

“You’re right. Bad time. I’m just . . . frustrated.”

She tossed the acid across the room, where it bounced off the wall and splattered on Donald’s dresser.

“Hey!” He whined. “That’s my underwear drawer.”

Cox, who had been rubbing Willy’s back the whole time, ignored the two of them as he rushed through the five stages of grief. He was currently on the third.

“Maybe this won’t be a big deal! I mean, we all know stomach acid is tough stuff. It can eat through wood and metal and all kinds of stuff.”

“Maybe,” Kim agreed. “We should still get him to a hospital, though. They can pump his stomach and get the thing out of him while the acid eats it.”

“There we go! That’s the plan. You hear that, Mister Padilla? You’re gonna be okay. We’re just gonna keep the Space Jam in you until we find some doctors!”

“Uh, guys?”

The couple turned around to find Donald holding the bottle of Fireball. Pupils dilated and lips pursed, he upturned the spout into his hand. They listened to a few soft clinks of glass on glass and recoiled in horror when they saw a glass vial pop out.

“There’s another one in there.”

All three of them seemed to follow the same wavelength. Their eyes traced from the bottle to the wall to the sizzling dresser, which had thirstily soaked up every drop of acid spilled upon it. Afterward, they came full-circle, back into looks of defeat aimed at one another. Donald swallowed while husband and wife exchanged glances.

“Can you get mo—”

“That’s all there was.”

Another groan from Willy, who had now gone full sprawl, captured their attention once more.

“Okay, hear me out . . .” Kim began.

“No!” Cox yelped. “You can’t be serious!”

“He already ate some; if it’s going to kill him, then he’s already doomed!”

“So you want to feed him more!?”

“What else are we gonna do with it?!”

“But what about everything he’s done for us!?”

“He hasn’t done hardly anything for us!”

“He ate the Space Jam!”

“That doesn’t matter unless he eats it all!”

“Oh god, I can’t watch.”

“Then don’t. But you gotta hold him down.”

Willy was no pet, and this was no act of euthanasia, but it was heart-wrenching nonetheless. Donald sat on one arm while Cox sat on the other, and the poor fellow beneath them had no trouble deciding which one at whom to aim his clamp-jawed pleading-eyed stare. Even after Kim plugged his nose, the desperate condemned continued to grunt and squirm and warble. Amid the whole display was the wife’s little hand trying to shove a vial of purple slime into his mouth. It wasn’t so much a “here comes the airplane” kind of feeding but instead played out like a PETA advertisement against foie gras.

Cox, who could not bear to listen any longer, begged her to at least knock the man out for the duration. He never did come to understand why she got so angry at the suggestion.