Tales from the Captain’s Table (24 page)

Porthos sniffed the red and white cloth as the admiral continued. “We’re expecting you for dinner tonight. Promptly at seven. The wife said she’d skin me alive if you were late, and I kinda like my skin, if you know what I mean?”

The admiral looked me straight in the eye. “You can come along too, Captain. Don’t want anyone feeling left out.”

He started to head inside, then paused for a final word. “Porthos is good at what he does, even though he may not be entirely cooperative. You’ll get along—” He grinned at the beagle. “—eventually.”

The door hissed shut, the admiral was gone, and I was left holding the machete.

“I suppose we should get going.” I secured my phase pistol, hefted the machete, and headed toward a path on my right.

Porthos went left—through a heavy wall of elephant-ear leaves.

Who was I to question a beagle’s choice of direction?

Trying not to think about spiders, ticks, ants, and assorted alien creepy crawlies I’d come to know and not be fond of, I wielded the machete with masterful ease and followed Porthos into a world of watery green light filled with squawks, screeches, and howls along with hordes of man-eating mosquitoes.

I slashed right and left, struggling to see through the dark cloud buzzing around my head. Good thing we had a licensed beagle nose leading the way.

All I had to do was find the beagle.

Porthos bayed, his voice low and rich with discovery. He was on the trail of something big—hopefully, Doctor Findalot.

The jungle thrust barrier after barrier into my way—tangled bushes, matted leaves, gnarly vines—taking delight in thwarting my every movement. When the machete came dangerously close to thwacking my leg instead of the local vegetation, I paused for a moment beside a massive tree root.

The baying shifted to an impatient bark.

So much for short breaks. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

But I wasn’t going anywhere. My right foot moved; my left foot stayed put, trapped in a sticky vine. A tendril snatched the machete from my hand while the main vine wrapped me up for dinner.

Double-O One had made it clear he preferred working alone, but I didn’t think he’d leave me to be eaten by an alien forest.

“I could use a little help here.”

Porthos—brown lace-up boot in his mouth—burst through a wall of matted leaves.

“Don’t just stand there breathing,” I said over the leaf supporting my chin. “Do something.”

Porthos made one lazy circle around the tree, then stopped somewhere in the vicinity of my feet.

The vine relaxed its grip just as something hot and wet trickled down my leg.

Shran started coughing.
Well, they wanted a story
, Archer thought. He held back a smile as he watched the feline Prrgghh pound the Andorian’s back.

Shran cleared his throat—a loud harsh sound—and finally caught his breath.

“What is it?” Big Ears didn’t seem to get it. “What happened?

Archer glanced at Shran. The Andorian didn’t say a word, but his antennae moved back and forth in an Andorian shrug.

“It’s a highly confidential beagle secret,” Archer said.

White Beard leaned over and whispered in Big Ears’s big ear. The alien sucked on his pointy teeth for a moment, then looked at Porthos. “No.”

“Yes,” Archer said with a nod….

The vine dropped off my leg like it’d been hit with a hot poker. It wound back up the tree, until all that was left was a puddle on the ground and a uniquely sour odor in the air.

“Thanks.” I knelt down, reveling in my newfound freedom, and took the boot in hand. Porthos sniffed the leather a couple of times, then whined expectantly. I took a sniff, too, but all I could smell was wet feet. “Doctor Findalot’s?”

Porthos gave a soft woof, reflecting his opinion of my scent-impairedness, and soldiered ahead.

I could tell we were getting into real rain forest by the way my dress shoes sloshed. An old alien once told me that the reason these forests get so much rain is to keep the ground water at a reasonable level—somewhere between the ankles and the knees. This provides ample feeding grounds for all the bugs and slimy critters, especially the fist-size leeches that seemed particularly fond of my flesh.

Blood donation hadn’t been on my to-do list for the day; between the mosquitoes and the leeches, however, I managed to give more than my pint. I waded rapidly in the direction I thought Porthos had taken, pond scuzz swirling around me in dizzy circles. Suddenly, Double-O One reappeared—to the left and slightly behind. He wrestled a massive leech from the back of my knee and woofed at me to hurry up.

Ever since we’d left Poke & Prod, noxious odors of varying styles and intensities had pounded my nose: mildewed vegetation, green slime, and rotting brush. Now a new stench joined the group, an oily, oozing, putrefying-fat stench that clung to the inside of my nostrils and didn’t want to let go.

The stench of death.

Porthos smelled it too. He growled, his hackles raised like a flag in a brisk wind.

Were we too late? Had Doctor Findalot gone to that great research facility in the sky?

The beagle darted forward into the tangled brush. One branch snapped. Then two. Then nothing.

“Porthos?” I whispered. “Porthos!”

No sniff. No whine. Not even a nip on the knees.

Clenching my teeth in one hand and phase pistol in the other, I forced my way through the brush, and stumbled into a clearing.

Porthos stood like a melting ice sculpture, staring straight ahead. A cat-size kitten stood beside him—fur and tail both on end. I looked to see what could convince cat and beagle to stand side by side in silence.

And froze.

Less than a hundred yards away a small herd of cattle surrounded a pile of rotting bones, bones the cows were busily consuming.

Porthos grabbed my pant leg and pulled me back into the bushes, but he was too late.

The cows turned as one entity, looked me over from head to toe, and sneezed.

Adrenaline screamed through my veins, along with a good dose of healthy panic. The kitten scrambled up my legs and onto my back. I grabbed a handful of fur and stuffed the little beast inside my shirt, then immediately regretted the action.

We tore through the jungle. Porthos took the lead while the kitten mewled encouragement. Fear made up for the lack of machete as we stumbled through bushes, fell over crumbling rock walls, and dodged hungry vines.

Nothing fazed the stampede thundering behind us.

Suddenly, Porthos scrambled over a huge log.

Always one to chose discretion over valor, I bent to catch my breath and study the takeoff.

Not a wise move.

Leaves behind me exploded, and a giant carnivorous cow stampeded right into my extended posterior, catapulting my body, kitten and all, clear over the top of the log.

That might have been the end of the story right there, but Porthos had chosen our path well. Instead of slamming into a tree, or worse yet, another herd of meat-eating cattle, the kitten and I clawed and slid our way down a mud-encrusted incline, splashing to a stop at the bottom of an overgrown ravine. Due to its location in the middle of a rain forest, the ravine had no choice but to be filled with scuzzy water, complete with the required complement of UBCs: unidentified bump-and-I’ll-eat-you critters.

The kitten decided my head had a more likely chance of staying above water than the rest of my body. Tiny claws in your skull can be a real motivator. So can strange things sliding by your leg. Without waiting to try to identify the unidentifiable, Porthos and I swam toward the far end of the ravine, where there appeared to be a clearing above water level.

The brush and trees had been hacked away to make room for a shuttlecraft. I didn’t recognized the hull, but I did recognize the towering aliens headed my way.

“What were they?” Big Ears asked. “The aliens I mean.”

Archer shrugged and thought fast. “Nausicaans. Very
big
Nausicaans.” He stretched his hand toward the ceiling. “At least twice your height and ugly enough to curl the hair on your grandfather’s head.”

Big Ears touched his bald head. Shran gave a knowing nod and said, “Nausicaans can be very temperamental.”

Everyone around the table mumbled their agreement.

Pond scum gave way to mud. We crawled on our bellies until we reached a small stand of brush, where our surveillance team reconnoitered. I plucked and squished only five or six leeches. My leech count was down, but the mountain-size mosquito bites more than made up the balance.

A pair of Nausicaans squished through the muck, loading boxes and containers marked with the P&P insignia onto the shuttle. Bound to the shuttle’s loading-ramp strut was a gray-haired carbon copy of Cari Fetchalot.

I looked at Porthos. He looked at me. We shared a partner-type thought: There was no way to know how many more of the big thugs might be waiting inside. “You have a plan?”

I needn’t have asked. Porthos was a pro, and pros always have plans. He disappeared into the bushes and reappeared a moment later, dragging an enormous black cloak. The kitten promptly started inspecting the material for more leeches.

“You expect me to play Nausicaan?” I took one whiff of the fragrant fabric and declined. “I’m not wearing anything that smells like rotten petunias.”

Porthos gave a low bark of disgust. He sniffed the air. Eyeballed the kitten. Vanished into the jungle.

This time he didn’t reappear.

I’d just about decided to charge in with phase pistol blazing when birds exploded out of the jungle. A black and brown beagle blur hurtled into camp, followed by a very large, very irritated jungle-type cat. A cat that looked remarkably like the kitten curled up in my lap.

Nausicaans flew one way, crates flew the other as the cat twisted its sinuous length through the tangled mess. The cat yowled, a low, angry sound, and the cuddly kitten in my lap turned into a bundle of teeth and claws. The kitten headed toward Momma while I took advantage of the situation and slithered closer to the captive woman.

No reinforcements came off the shuttle to help the opposition. I studied the pair closely: one Nausicaan was a real giant, with a bushful of hair and heavy leather vest. He towered over the smaller Nausicaan, but the little guy wasn’t intimidated. The smaller one’s headful of tightly woven braids stuck out like frozen snakes as he zapped the burly one with something in his hand. The big one leapt forward, drawing a double-edged sword from his belt.

That’s when I noticed the beagle-size box creeping along the ground.

Fortunately, the Nausicaans’ attention was still focused on the cat. She dropped to her haunches and slid to a snarling stop. Her tail lashed from side to side, scattering leeches and leaves.

I slithered to the next crate and crouched in position, nerves singing with adrenaline.

The box moved in rapid bursts without slipping or sliding. It stopped the moment a Nausicaan glanced its way, moved forward when the aliens returned their attention to the angry cat.

I’d have to get him to teach me that little trick.

Mud flew every which way as the kitten dashed between its mother’s legs. The jungle cat snarled once more at the Nausicaans, snatched the kitten in her mouth, and disappeared back into the jungle. Two crates stood between the captive and my hiding place. Mouth dry as the Sahara desert in spite of the humid air, I banana-slipped to the next crate, peered around the corner, and prepared to make my final run.

That’s when I realized even heroes make mistakes.

My stomach clenched like I’d been gut-punched as the big Nausicaan sidled over to the box and settled into a prime lid-snatching position.

“Porthos!” I did a sliding forward shoulder roll—a move only possible in extreme muddy conditions—and raised my pistol.

But I was too late.

The Nausicaan snatched the box with one hand, leaving Porthos standing naked in the humid jungle air.

So much for the beagle stealth-box method.

Porthos attacked the huge alien’s ankles. I drew a careful bead, but before I could fire, the phase pistol flew from my grasp. Pain racked my shoulders as someone wrenched my hands behind my back. I’d forgotten one of the prime rules of engagement: Never lose sight of your opponents, especially the smaller ones. The stench of rotten petunias assaulted my sinuses, and my knees buckled.

Porthos renewed his attack. He ducked in, nipped at the Nausicaan’s ankle, dodged out again, but the beagle’s precision timing was off by a fraction of a second. The Nausicaan landed a blow upside Porthos’s head, sending the little beagle sailing into the side of the shuttle with a hollow thud.

Light glanced off the double-edged sword as Porthos’s attacker prepared for his final charge.

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned a sword.” This time it was White Beard who interrupted. He took the pipe from his mouth and frowned. “What kind of sword?”

Big Ears piped up. “Nausicaans have all kinds, lots of them really old. The double-edged serrated blades are very valuable.” He sucked on his teeth and grinned.