Intergalactic Terrorist (New Dimension Book 1) (16 page)

Chapter 18

Superintendent Rexan Stort sniffed the air. The distinct smell of blood lingered. It was a usual smell in Baggus, but rarely was it this strong. Stort didn’t care about the dead. Their troubles were over. His were just beginning. Here was a ship violating every law on Baggus’Regious. There was no communication with the Orbital Sentry at the guard station. No authorisation was given to this ship to enter the planet. Plus the pilot was obviously a drunk or a retard or both and couldn’t even dock in the landing bay.

    Now there were deaths on this pilot’s conscience. Now he had to deal with the Baggus Sentry. Now he had to deal with Rexan Stort.

    Superintendent Rexan Stort was a Jaal and, like all Jaal, his square jaw gave him a sturdy look. In fact Stort’s whole head was square. In the right situation his head could have been mistaken for a box.

    His skin was a very pale yellow colour. So pale that it was almost white. So pale in fact that it was almost see through. It was disturbing to many criminals to be able to see his veins so clearly. Sometimes it made them drop to their knees and surrender in an instant.

    He stroked his stubbly chin.

    “Ready your weapons Sentry,” Stort shouted to his men.

    Behind him a number of Sentry Officers edged forwards. Stort’s loyal men. The best of the best. At least the best of the best on Baggus’Regious. Compared to the law enforcement anywhere else in the galaxy they were probably a farce but they did what they could.

    They raised their guns as one. Ready for whatever was waiting for them inside that ship.

    “Open the door and step out. Slowly,” Stort shouted.

    Nothing.

    “I said open the bloody door and step out slowly!”

    Still nothing.

    A small Sentry guard with buck teeth and thick glasses leaned closer to Stort.

    “Maybe he can’t hear you sir,” he said with a snivel.

    “Thank you for that Forlus,” Stort muttered.

    “He’s inside his ship sir,” Forlus continued. “It’s made of thick metal sir. Hard to hear through such thick metal sir.”

    “Yes thank you Forlus I realise that.”

    “Just saying sir.” The small constable picked his small green nose. Stort sighed.

    “Look alert men,” he snapped, still in a mutter and in no way sounding like he was snapping.

    Another officer ventured closer to the ship and poked around the base with his booted foot. Something squished. He bent down and peered through the smallest of gaps.

    “
Eugh
,” he spat, “looks like my old lady’s chunky tomato soup under here sir!”

    “That’s lovely,” Stort responded. “Now will you get away from there Axtin!”

    The one named Axtin wiped his large black nose and scratched the random patches of thick, wiry hair on his face in confusion.

    “Sir,” he said slowly, “I don’t understand what all these people were doing in the band stand?”

    From behind the stall that sold second hand beef burgers something made a nervous cough. It was ignored by the Sentry.

    “I don’t know Axtin,” said Stort, “maybe they really liked the music.” He knew this statement couldn’t be right. No one in their right minds would actually like the music that this band played. To Stort it sounded like they were being forced to vomit bile into a tin bucket. And then unfortunately being forced to do it over and over again. One squashed band was probably not such a bad thing. Not to Stort anyhow. For some reason the other inhabitants of Baggus seemed to enjoy it.

    “A sad day for music,” young Forlus solemnly sighed. “My mam bought me their first album. Had it signed and everything. Well… at least I can say I was here. The day the music died.”

    “Indeed,” Stort muttered. “Put your helmet on straight lad,” he said to Forlus. “And you stop picking bits out from under that ship,” he said to Axtin, “it’s not your wife’s soup. I’m sure that tastes much nicer!”

    “You would be surprised sir!”

    Superintendent Stort cleared his throat and shouted once more. “Pilot… please exit your ship with your hands in the air!”

    “Metal sir,” said Forlus, “I’m sure we’ve already been through this.”

    Stort huffed and put his hands on his hips. How in the world did he ever get this bunch of fools working for him? He looked around his men. They all looked a little backwards. Helmets wonky, uniforms creased and dirty, scuffed boots. If there was one thing that really irked him it was scuffed boots.

    And there were varieties of all the ten species in his unit. Forlus was a May’orn. Axtin was a Waabba. He had a number of Gumthar and Lampan and Zax-lar. He even had an Umfian, which was possibly his greatest challenge. Umfians are usually the ones arrested not the ones doing the arresting.

    It is said throughout the galaxy that trying to command a unit with ten mixed species is the most difficult of tasks. Superintendent Groyling in the southern territories of the city didn’t have all ten in his unit. He only had four. Lucky bastard.

    Still, these were his lads and he loved them. Each and every one. Except for the new starters that the Governor had sent over last week. They were just annoying. He had to train them and everything.

    “You might want to try shouting through this next time sir,” said a voice next to him as he was passed a large megaphone.

    Ah! Sergeant Edious Thinker! The best Sentry Officer in his unit. Thinker was always on the ball. Thinker reminded Stort of himself when he was younger. Back in the days when he used to care. Of course Stort had always been a Jaal and not a Lampan and Stort had had quite a rebellious social life, but still, there was
something
about Thinker that reminded Stort of his youth.

    “Thank you Sergeant,” he said as he accepted the megaphone. He raised it to his mouth and pressed the button. A loud ear aching blurt of feedback sounded from the end of the megaphone forcing all nearby to squirm.

    “My fault,” Stort acknowledged to the crowd, “held it too close to my mouth.” He pressed the button again. “Pilot please exit your ship with your hands above your head. I will not ask you a second time. If you do not cooperate I will be forced to send in my men. They
will
be carrying extremely painful charged batons, which I
will
give them authority to use.”

    His words rang out loud and clear through the megaphone.

    “Think he heard you that time sir,” said Thinker smiling.

    “Yup… that should have got through the metal,” put in Forlus.

    The hatch on the cube-shaped ship flung open and slowly the pilot began to emerge. The Sentry gripped their charged batons and licensed laser dischargers tightly.

    Stort carefully rolled one of his homemade liquorish cigars and popped it in his mouth.

    “I thought I told the son of a bitch to put his hands above his head,” he growled.

    The Sentry and the crowd of civilians behind, stared at the small figure that had emerged from the battered ship with confusion.

    “What
is
it?” Forlus asked Axtin, although something told him he already knew.

    “What is it?” Axtin repeated. “Well it’s… you know… it’s one of those guys.”

    In truth, no one in the market place could quite put a finger on what it was. They all seemed to know but couldn’t for their lives remember.

    “Who are you?” Stort asked the newcomer.

    “I am Giblet, son of Goblet,” said the Dwarf proudly. “And I am on the most important of quests so if you all wouldn’t mind stepping aside that would be dandy!” 

    To Stort’s eternal horror, the people
did
begin to move for him! Even his own bloody men began to move!

    “Stay right where you are Sentry,” he shouted, cigar still in his mouth, smoke rising from him as though he were some sort of mad bull. “That goes for you as well.”

    Giblet looked disgruntled. “Did you not hear me?” he asked.

    “Oh I heard you. Something about a quest. Well I’m on a quest of my own. My quest is to arrest the bloody idiot who just squashed a hundred Baggus civilians.”

    “And a band sir,” said Forlus.

    “Indeed. And a band. Do you know how hard it is for me to order one of my men to inform the deceased families of their untimely deaths?”

    “Yes,” Giblet said slowly, “that was unfortunate. Don’t really know what happened. I steered my vessel away from the market. Thought there’d be less mess if I only crashed into the bandstand. Don’t blame me for everyone standing underneath it.”

    There was guilty cough from behind the stall once again. Still, it was ignored.

    “Never-the-less you failed to acknowledge your presence to the orbital sentry,” Stort continued, “thus failing to alert us of your identity, thus ignoring one of our most important laws. You also failed to land your ship in the docking bay
and
you are carrying a weapon when that is strictly forbidden in this city!”

    Giblet looked at his axe. The crowd of civilians behind Superintendent Stort quickly shuffled their collection of knives, guns, daggers and long pointy things they made in woodwork class into the insides of their jackets.

    “Crashing was an accident,” Giblet admitted. “I tried to land in your docking bay but my sensors have gone offline since I had the clash with the dragon you see.”

    Stort did not see. “And ignoring our hails?”

    “Well… I… didn’t feel like talking,” Giblet also admitted.

    “And carrying your weapon?”

    “Erm… I like the feel of it in my hand. Makes me more of a man,” Giblet admitted some more.

    “Thinker, arrest that man,” Stort ordered with a snarl.

    “Right you are sir.”

    “Arrest me?” the Dwarf laughed. “Don’t you people know who I am? I am the champion! I have a quest to complete! The dragon… it is somewhere in this city.”

    And he was right. Giblet had located the dragon, before his opponents had even arrived in the Baggus’Regious system. The beast had been hiding behind an old asteroid orbiting the fat planet. Giblet had battled the dragon, attempting to shoot it with the missile cannons on his vessel but it had retaliated. After a brief attack, the Dwarf had lost control of the vessel and spiralled out of control towards the planet’s surface.

    He did however, amongst all the spinning, crossing of eyes and gulping down of gallons worth of Dwarf vomit to stop it splashing all over his control systems, see the dragon descend swiftly and gracefully down with him.

    “If you do not let me finish my quest,” Giblet continued, “then the people of this city will be burnt. Or eaten. Or burnt
and
eaten! Dragons are not fussy eaters. Personally I do not like eating burnt food. Or cooked for that matter. I like it raw and juicy. Sometimes still wriggling! I enjoy the feeling of it squirming as it slides down my throat!”

    Stort grimaced. This was a vile creature. Stort liked his food cooked to perfection. He fancied himself as quite a good chef. In fact he wanted to be one in his younger years. Sometimes he wished he had kept that idea. Actually most of the time he did. This was one of them.

    “Enough talk,” he said. “Thinker, slap the cuffs on him.”

    The sergeant stepped forwards, handcuffs at the ready. But Giblet was prepared for his advances.

    “Not today officers,” he shouted and lashed out at Edious Thinker with his fist, connecting with the Lampan’s lack of nose.

    Thinker fell backwards, unprepared for the force of the attack.

    Stort smiled. “I hoped you were going to do something that,” he chuckled without actually chuckling. He raised an eyebrow. “Boys… take him down!”

    Instantly the Sentry officers raised their licensed laser dischargers, stun setting only, and opened fire at the Dwarf. Giblet sprang forwards, reaching for his shield and bringing it in front of his body, blocking the oncoming laser attacks. The dark blue flashes of laser bounced off the shield, flying back towards their firers. Three Sentries were hit in the chest and fell down, stunned on the floor.

    Axtin growled, raised his charged baton and ruffled his wiry hair, forcing it to stick outwards making him appear like some sort of mutated hedgehog. He leaped at the Dwarf, bringing the charged baton down as fast as he could, sparks flying from the end. It was met with the blade of Giblet's axe.

    In a battle of strength between a charged baton and an axe, the axe would win every time. It was something that Stort had made the Governor aware of many, many times. Of course the Governor had never listened. He liked to get things done on the cheap. The charged batons were made on the cheap. For just a few more knobs they could have been made from a much stronger material. Anything stronger then polystyrene would have done.

    Axtin’s charged baton split in two, the charges backfiring, sending Axtin flying across the market place covered in flashing sparks and gibbering in tongues for the next few hours.