The Lost Prince
Gorgonea Tertia, Fandom Space - 2000
The Cast
Fandoms - Captain Grunter, Navigator Basib, Engineer Brockko.
Prince Camcietti, Bala Karach, Seca Constapal
Hadra
The Fandom salvage ship came to a stop at the small asteroid cluster.
‘Damn!’ shouted Captain Grunter. ‘I want that ship, Burp! If you don’t catch it, you’ll all be going home with empty pockets.’
‘Not to worry, captain, the fools made a fatal mistake going in there. It’s too small, Gurk! We’ll have a tractor beam on the vessel in a few minutes and will drag it out,’ said Brockko, the first engineer, burping loudly in excitement.
Navigator Basib eventually manoeuvred the massive ship into the perfect position. ‘All yours, Brockko. Ha. Gaburp!’
Brockko aimed, and zap. The tractor beam snagged the sphere at the first attempt and started slowly pulling it in.
A crescendo of burbs erupted as the three stout Fandom shipmates belly slammed each other in celebration, burping continually.
‘Ha. They’ve led us a merry chase, but they’re no match for Grunter the great Fandom salvage king! Burp.’
‘Where shall we kick out the Vercetians? Or whatever they said they call themselves, Gaburp,’ bellowed Basib, ‘Relgan 5’s the nearest suitable planet.’
‘No,’ shouted Grunter. ‘We’ll be passing Doth in a week’s time. A pleasure planet will compensate them for the kind donation of their beautiful vessel. They may well get put to work, mind.’
They all laughed and burped, and belly slammed again.
Prince Camcietti waited the full three hours that Bala Karach, his Team Leader, had ordered him to. He’d taken over the Life Team a couple of years earlier, but with the evacuation of the Royals, she had wrested the majority of the control back from him. ‘Twenty is a good age to take control on Verceti,’ Karach had told him in her characteristically blunt manner. ‘But being on the run from the Trun is a whole different situation altogether.’
He powered up the one-man escape pod that had been dormant except for life support since the delta sphere had deposited it in a crevasse on a small asteroid. Only now was he able to see who, if anyone, was still loitering close by. Nothing. That was promising. At least it looks like they’re still running from the salvage vessel, he thought. Or, Captain Grunter and his merry band of belching men have captured them.
Camcietti’s Life Team had been on the run for three months since escaping from Preenasette with the other Royals and decoys. They had followed their escape route to the Gorgonea Tertia system, but soon became aware of a ship matching their every move. Seca Constapal, his pilot, was convinced it was a Trun sphere. Both ships were so evenly matched they couldn’t escape, and the Trun couldn’t catch up. After three weeks the supposed Trun ship disappeared, and its place was taken by a large cargo type vessel. This ship slowly caught them up, which they had thought surprising, and then immediately made contact with them.
‘Hello, burp. I’m Captain Grunter of Fandom. Welcome to our little bit of space, burp. We rarely have visitors, and we would love you to come and eat and talk with us. We’re great hosts, and our food is magnificent. Burp.’
After a lengthy discussion, it was agreed to send Bala Vondra and Dom Billa, the Life Team’s second-in-command and security chief respectively. Karach had finally given in—against her better judgement—to the notion that they needed to get some local help; something that would give them the edge if and when the Trun turned up. They took a two-person NavPod and headed off to Grunter’s ship. Within forty minutes Grunter was back on the viacomm.
‘Hello again. Burp, Grunter is back. I’m afraid the food isn’t agreeing with your shipmates...’
Camcietti, out of frame, slid over to Seca Constapal at the helm and whispered in his ear. ‘Slowly power up and be ready to move laterally instantly on my mark.’
‘What’s going on?’ he whispered back.
‘They’re powering something up. Just get ready to move.’ Camcietti stayed right on Constapal’s shoulder, concentrating hard.
Gunter’s ship was surreptitiously edging around sideways to the sphere. Camcietti could see that this was no ordinary cargo vessel. On the surface, this space freighter looked like any other—undoubtedly similar to the Vercetian ships that serviced their orbital space station. A tramp ship for sure, not following any defined schedule, and able to carry any cargo, legal or illegal, he thought. He was seeing a mishmash of upgraded parts that were apparently from other, faster ships. The original two star drive motors ran down each side of the hull. Two-thirds of the way down the intake louvres, new silver drive sections had been fitted, with additional add-ons above and below. These didn’t have intake louvres; Camcietti had never seen the like. Maybe these booster units were the secret to the cumbersome vessel’s speed.
Grunter had been waffling. ‘I don’t think it’s anything serious. Just a reaction to the spices we use. But they do have an excellent shuttle pod. We do like it. So much so, we want its mother ship, which means you all need to come and visit us as well. Burp.’
Karach said, ‘Are you threatening us? We have more firepower than you. I won’t let you harm my officers.’
‘You wouldn’t shoot your own people, would you?’ Grunter replied with a belching laugh. ‘They are safe, as will you be. All we want is your ship. We are, after all, salvage collectors, burp, and we have the perfect buyer waiting to buy yours. I’ve already accepted a substantial offer from him for the vessel that was following you. I’ve contacted him, and he wants a pair, burp.’ More laughing and belching out of frame—his crew joining in.
‘Now,’ whispered Camcietti to Constapal. ‘Go now!’
The sphere moved laterally just as the tractor beam from the salvage ship shot out towards them.
Karach, almost toppling over, shouted belatedly, ‘Get us out of here!’
Camcietti’s intuition and the subsequent unexpected acceleration of the sphere meant that, for the moment, they had stolen some valuable time on Grunter.
‘What about our people?’ asked Constapal, busily trying to get as much distance as possible between them and the salvage vessel.
‘Our capture is no good to them,’ said the Prince.
‘Head for that asteroid belt,’ said Karach. ‘There is cover to hide the Prince in a shuttle pod.’
‘Er, I am here.’ Camcietti sounded wounded. ‘Do I get a say in this plan?’
‘No,’ was Karach’s blunt reply. ‘I’m responsible for you, and I’ll not risk capture. Now, get in.’
Camcietti got into the nearest pod, while Constapal calculated a route into the asteroids. The remaining members of the Prince’s Life Team looked on, their particular skills being of little help here. Karach held the door open, giving him final instructions. ‘Go to the fourth planet in this system—it’s inhabited—and wait for us. We will find you. Power down and stay silent for three hours before you go. Quick. That large one there, head for it.’ She closed the pod and when secure, opened the outer airlock door. A minute later he was drifting towards an asteroid. Camcietti landed it with a bump, then powered down and checked the time.
Prince Camcietti went to the fourth planet. He put the pod into geosynchronous orbit, powered down, pretending to be some space debris, and let the mini AI take a few readings of what was below him. His immediate concern was the environment on the planet’s surface. Judging by the turbulent swirling high atmospheric conditions and the continuous scatter of lightning flashes he saw from space, the surface might be hell.
The AI’s report, though, suggested the opposite. The high level mayhem appeared trapped in the upper atmosphere, the first two miles above the landmass being relatively calm. The planet had no indigenous population but had a scattering of outposts that appeared to be trading ports and a place for long-haul cargo vessels to lay up or get spare parts. It seemed a suitable place for anyone not wanting to draw attention to themselves. He picked an outpost accessible through a gap in the stratospheric chaos and settled for a landing site about four miles away in a small wooded copse. He hit the go button and leant back in his seat, ready for a bumpy ride.
Eight hours later he was strolling into the port. He had been amazed during his long walk to civilisation at the spectacular light show going on above him. The violent swirling of the multi-coloured clouds made him think that he’d be soaked at any moment— hopefully by nothing more sinister than water. He was wearing his grey robe, not having had time for a change of clothing, but with his hood in place, he would maintain some level of disguise even though he would look a little eccentric.
The port had a small main street with the typical amenities: shops, restaurants, a couple of small hotels. To either side were warehouses, little ones for storage up to large hangars for vessel repairs and maintenance. The top end of the main street led to a large open expanse where all of the visiting ships were parked. An impressive array of machinery from all corners of this part of the galaxy. This picture of technological diversity was Camcietti’s first real experience of the width and breadth of intelligent life that existed.
He needed to eat and drink so entered an establishment that appeared to advertise both, though with his translator on the blink it was necessary to go in to be sure. He found his senses smacked by a variety of exotic smells as he walked in. Food made up part of it, but another odour unknown him was also present. He looked for a quiet table and chose a corner and positioned himself with his back against the wall.
A grubby looking waiter took his order; water and a vegetable looking dish, sorted without getting into translator territory.
Camcietti looked around the room. The clientele, although a diverse variety of species, were mostly unremarkable. He wondered why he would think that. After all, he should be feeling the wonder in this diversity. Maybe it was the seedy surroundings or the fact that everyone appeared to want to keep themselves to themselves. Two groups of aliens did stand out, though.
The odour that he couldn’t identify earlier appeared to be coming from a group of four rough-looking traders who were the same species as the waiter. They were taking turns inhaling smoke from a pot in the centre of their table. As each of them took their turn, they momentarily paused and shuddered slightly, apparently receiving some mental stimulation. Rounded shoulders, hooked noses and long greasy looking hair made it appear they were slumping over the table. When they looked around, only the slits of their eyes were visible, carved deeply into the ruddy coloured skin. It was as if even the dull light in the saloon was too bright for them. Between the four of them, they appeared to be watching everyone in the room, displaying a high level of paranoia. The one that faced him was certainly taking a keen interest.
The other group that interested him did so because of their outstanding visibility. The only word he could think to describe them was beautiful. In many ways, they were near identical to him with small ears and noses. But they had hair, rather than a head cap. It was the clash of their snow white skin and shockingly purple hair that made them stunning. There were five of them, deep in discussion with what he realised was a Fandom. They were obviously negotiating and had reached an impasse. The Fandom was getting irritated and passing wind excessively.
His meal turned up, and the waiter threw a note onto the table. The bill. Camcietti reached for the pouch containing his emergency survival funds and carefully selected one of the smallest diamonds in it. He handed it tentatively to the waiter with a questioning stare. The beaming look on the waiter’s face told him it was obviously a sufficient amount, and more likely very excessive. He pulled his hood back to allow himself to eat, aware of the sideways glances from those interested in what this new visitor looked like, and took a mouthful of food. He looked up again to see one of the beautiful people staring straight at him. It was a girl. Young, maybe his age, eyes locked on his. She broke contact and turned back to join the negotiations. Her eyes were stunning, violet gems in a white face, but Camcietti couldn’t help but feel there was a great sadness there as well. A haunting sadness. In that briefest of moments, he had felt an empathy with her race, as though a great tragedy had befallen them.
His meal finished, Camcietti got up to leave. The waiter indicated to him to use the rear exit as someone was clearing up a spill by the front. He exited the rear door, turned right into what was a blind alley, and turned back, only to be faced by the four smoking aliens, taking up an aggressive posture.
The largest of them pointed at the pouch on Camcietti’s waist, his other hand pointing to his own, so there would be no misunderstanding of their intentions, a crooked smile on his face. Even hunched over, they were still quite tall, and he could see their arms were disproportionally larger than their legs. Camcietti was fairly sure he could overcome them and set his posture, readying himself for a fight. The larger alien pulled out a weapon, pointed it at him and fired, stunning him. As he staggered, the aliens relieved him of his purse, and the large one smashed him over the back of his skull with the butt of his weapon. He collapsed on the ground.
Camcietti awoke, and his surroundings slowly came into focus.
He was in a room, and he could feel the motion that only came with space travel. He was on a ship. It was some kind of recovery room, everything seemed to be blanched white and sterile. What has happened to me? he thought.
An alien entered. It was a girl, and she was beautiful, pale skin and striking purple hair, and those eyes. He’d seen those eyes before, they were so stunning and oh so sorrowful. She spoke to him.
‘Carsaress et mundross knanasee vontrupp.’
Camcietti knew his translation implant would now be hard at work.
‘Good morning, if it is morning, I am,’ he paused and tried again, ‘Where am I?’ He saw her touch her temple. She spoke again.
‘Carsaress of earlydross young vontrupp. Dimmistrag ‘ve fi estravon cradietek aire vet ‘oder fauxit plondraxi mouit. Bbrosk swazzik formundredred in ps‘drithlre...’
She was giving him ammunition for his translator. He would do the same. ‘The captain of the ship commanded his soldiers to adopt a defensive posture,’ he continued with the universal translation monologue.
They both waited a few moments, then repeated three more sets of dialogue.
She said, ‘Good afternoon, my name is Hadra. I’m a Rammorian, and you are on our ship. What is your name?’
‘Daviss,’ replied Camcietti, totally unaware of the fact he had given his birth name.
‘Where do you come from?’ she asked.
Camcietti paused, a strange look on his face. He was wrestling with something. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, staring into those sad eyes.