Chapter 1
The Future
Headquarters, Earth Protectorate Force
Captain Sagan Carter crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. The man whose profile she'd just finished reading would never go for this crazy idea, and that certainty raised concerns about his motives. After watching for another full five minutes, she switched off the recording to take in the real drama unfolding throughout Los Angeles.
The vid screens mounted in every conceivable niche of the office now advertised the Mr. Interstellar Feller pageant. Everything from mouthwash, male cosmetics, clothing and even prophylactics were being sold as the brand names used by the pageant contestants. Several times she heard a biography about Electra Galaxy. There was a detailed account of how the woman had risen from almost abject poverty to her current status as male pageant diva. Included in all the hype was the fact that Electra owned most of the downtown area of Los Angeles, including the exclusive, ultra-chic Stardust Hotel, right in the heart of the city. Since that hotel would house all the contestants, Sagan's interest was in studying blueprints of the place. Detailed knowledge of its layout would stand her, as an undercover operative, in good stead. From those same building plans, she'd learned that the entire top floor, including a huge private ballroom and entertainment suites and offices were all located for Electra Galaxy's private use. All but a few of the remaining one thousand rooms and suites were booked.
More publicity on the vid screen followed. In every area of the city, females of all ages, shapes, colors and sizes, waving human or alien appendages, were holding signs welcoming incoming contestants. Banners flew from every lamppost, noting the pageant dates as August 15 through the end of the month. Electronic kiosks located in shopping centers flashed the pageant location as the new Los Angeles Coliseum, built as a domed facsimile of the Roman structure bearing the same name. Camera crews from local news stations littered the Stardust Hotel where the contestants would stay; from Sagan's perspective, they resembled flies hovering around excrement. Men and women bearing hair-styling accoutrements and costume trappings were scurrying from one boutique to another.
She finally turned off the vid screens in disgust. About to voice her misgivings, she turned to the only other person in the room—her supervisor.
Overchief Lement Snarl held up one hand to stave off her dismissal. "I know. I know what you're going to say, and you can keep it to yourself, Sagan. From our side the deal is done."
She let out a long breath and tried to reason with her boss just once more. "Sir, I've read a bio on this man from Oceanus. There's no way he'd be willing to let us do this to him." She pointed to the now blank video screens behind her. "Those men are not the kind of people he'd ever associate with, let alone compete against. I can't envision any creature with half a brain going for this…idiocy."
"He'll do it, or he'll turn around and take a very long journey home. Until his planet's Supreme Council backs down on their demands for trade exclusivity, he isn't supposed to set one foot on our turf. Shuttle pilots, mechanics and workers from Oceanus are welcome as always, but this enforcer is here only at our consul's discretion." He shrugged and wearily swiped a hand across his face. "Dammit, I don't like this any better than you, but his cooperation in this scheme might just make it easier for his world and ours to come to some diplomacy or barter agreement. So far, his leaders have been absolutely implacable about their demands. Yet, here they are practically demanding our cooperation in allowing one of their law enforcement people to follow a lead to Earth and investigate it." He sat down and straightened a scattered pile of paperwork on his desk. "No. If he wants his investigation and his planet demands it…and it seems they do…then this officer from Oceanus is going to have to agree to this cover. Otherwise, he can get back on his ship and let us kiss his alien butt good-bye."
Sagan waved at the empty brown leather chair before her supervisor. "May I?"
Snarl nodded readily and leaned forward to hear whatever she might add.
"Sir," she began. Then, sinking into the ultra-luxurious leather seat and straightening her shoulders, she saw that her supervisor's expression was less than malleable. "I have to assume this officer doesn't know what's been planned for him. Is that correct?"
Snarl nodded. "It is."
"May I be so bold as to ask…who's going to tell him?"
She watched as her supervisor placed his elbows on his desktop, clasped his hands together and shot her what she could only describe as a wickedly evil grin.
"You're not serious!" she blurted.
"Since you're the officer chosen for this duty, you'll be the one informing our, uh, law enforcement guest just what his cover story will be." Snarl stopped speaking, opened a file cabinet with his right hand, extracted a folder and plopped it down on the desk. He shoved it at her. "Your cover is set as well. He knows one of us will be meeting him, by whatever means he chooses to land, but that's about all."
Feeling trapped and reluctant to look at the file, Sagan only did so when Snarl poked the folder at her again. It was now sitting precariously on the edge of the desk. Swallowing hard, she picked up what she assumed were her instructions. When she was done reading, she gently placed the papers down and glared at her boss. "Tell me this is a joke of some kind. Please?"
"Sorry. You're now the official manager of Mr. Keir Trask. It's supposed to be some kind of Earth-sounding version of his real name." Snarl tried to pronounce a name several times but couldn't.
Sagan picked up the file, opened it and said, "The man's real name is Keirstrandst T'raskchrdtniq. Of course, that would be the Earth pronunciation. How they'd say it on his world is pretty damned incoherent. There's a lot of clicking and wheezing that really gets stuffed between the syllables."
"Whatever," Snarl muttered. "You'd think these people, who love to brag about their advanced intelligence, would buy a few damned vowels. The hen-scratch representing their language doesn't indicate that we're supposed to have the same, star-roaming ancestors. Christ! Other than their coloring, they could be us. Our physiologies are amazingly the same, but look at this crap that passes for a language and look at how they so conveniently forget our common ancestry to act so frickin' superior. Where the hell did a people so physically similar come up with this dialect?"
Sagan simply sat and waited for this inept, insecure ranting to pass. The Oceanuns' language had nothing to do with the fact that they shared the same internal organs with humans. But her boss had to get his bias out of his system.
Snarl quickly cleared his throat and continued, "At any rate, this captain will be posing as the newest entrant to the Mr. Interstellar Feller competition, and happens to be representing the planet Oceanus. As we see it, the cover is perfect."
"We?" Sagan choked out. Others had agreed?
"Myself and a discreet handful of Earth representatives. In the interests of law enforcement, we've approved this story. That's the only way any Oceanus cop is going to be allowed to set foot on Earth until some kind of diplomatic trade compromise can be arranged. Oceanus can't have things all their way and expect us to bend over backward when they demand it. Besides, the competition is open to any man from anywhere in the known universe, as long as he qualified under his own world's competitive rules. Even the planet Ussar is sending their pageant representative along with their runners-up. There's been publicity about it for weeks. And if a planet of thieving, no-good, conniving cutthroats can send representatives to the pageant, then—"
"Sir, I realize all this is true. This year there are representatives from planets that most folks have never heard of. But I highly doubt Oceanus ever had a male beauty pageant—"
"I can see where you're coming from," Snarl interrupted. "Such an event would be cause for unbelievable scorn and derision in Trask's neck of the galaxy. His people view such pursuits as unworthy. But don't you see? That's why no one from his home planet is going to care that he's representing them. Protesting his appearance as a contestant would be even more undignified as far as the Oceanus hierarchy is concerned." Snarl thought for a moment before continuing. "I'll have my staff leak it to the tabloids that there were no contests held on Trask's planet and that he's decided to represent his people on his own. As I understand it, there are a number of contestants who've done the same thing. Under the existing rules of the competition, this is allowable. His late entry in the competition is a result of his last-minute decision. He can say that his motives are to break with his world's superior bearing and make nice with the lowly Earthlings. I leave it to you to get the details straight when the press questions him, as they most certainly will."
"Yes sir, that could work. But, with all due respect, Trask would probably be incapable of passing himself off as any one of those conceited asses I watched parading around in the video. It's my guess that he's going to tell us where to get off, even if he was given his orders recently and can't get out of the assignment now."
"If that's the case, you can escort him back to the nearest transport station to catch his ship home. He has no choice."
"Sir, surely we could make an exception and allow him to operate as a law enforcement liaison to Earth. Just this once?"
Snarl shook his head determinedly. "No. If we make an excuse for him to come here hunting one criminal or another, then we'll have to do so for cops from every other half-baked world that hasn't signed diplomatic treaties. We'd have every bounty hunter and armed alien lawman from here to the Crab Nebulae wanting access to our turf, obeying no laws but their own. And possibly putting our citizens in jeopardy." He snorted. "We've stretched the rules far enough. Though we need his planet's help in fighting pirates, they need us, too. We're wise enough to realize it; their leaders simply want us to make the greater sacrifices. They think we're as backward as hell and that it's beneath them to be collaborating with primitives," he finished angrily. "In short, they want us to give and give—"
"While they take and take," she finished.
"Precisely." Snarl leaned forward and put one index finger against the top of his brown oak desk. "You're not just acting as this man's manager in a beauty contest; you're serving as an example of the kind of officer and citizen we want the Oceanuns to know. We want Trask to fly his ass back home when this is all over and give a brilliant report on just how in control of our enforcement system we are."
Sagan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "So, I'm the diplomatic guinea pig, is that it?"
"You're one of our most decorated officers and highly qualified for the assignment on a number of levels. I wouldn't put just anyone on this mission."
"You knew nobody else would do it," she said, and watched him try to suppress a laugh.
"Look at it this way. While you might have to work with this man, who in all likelihood will be a superior, swaggering prick…as all Oceanuns I've ever run across are…you're still in charge. This is our planet, after all. He plays by our rules or he goes home and won't get his man."
Sagan stared at her supervisor for a long moment.
"What?" he curtly asked.
"Maybe we're wrong about him. How do you know this particular Oceanun is a swaggering prick? All you've ever dealt with is their diplomats. Maybe this guy is different."
"I'll tell you how I know. First, he's an Oceanun. Second, he's an Oceanun," Snarl repeated.
Sagan paused a moment. "Not to sound insubordinate, but why do I get the feeling I'm being hustled?"
Snarl laughed heartily. "You're paranoid. I'm not hiding anything."
She glared at him, picked up the paperwork and scooped it all back into the file. "I'll need to do some more research on Trask."
"Remember…as far as we're concerned, you're away on vacation. Only a handful of people will know what you're really up to. It has to stay that way. If the media gets ahold of our little operation and the special consideration we're giving to Oceanus, all our collective butts will fry…not to mention we'll lose the smugglers and their cargo."
"I understand, Overchief." Sagan got up to leave then turned at the office door. "This guy is going to be awfully visible as a contestant."
"Since he refused to hide the telltale markings from his planet through the use of temporary cosmetic surgery or makeup, this was the best we could offer," Snarl replied.
Sagan frowned and left her supervisor, paging through the paperwork again. Something wasn't adding up. Why was so much importance being attached to these smugglers? Politics aside, it made no sense. Still, submitting to this farcical cover should boost her career—if she could pull it off. Unfortunately, the mission depended on the cooperation of a man with a reputation for being unyielding. Captain Keir Trask had been charitably described as rigid. To make matters worse, she—a reputed loner who'd come from a background where the only three people she'd ever cared for had lied to her—would be forced to trust a total stranger.
***
The Oceanun enforcer—soon to be known as Keir Trask—looked over his information again and handed the electronic programmer back to his second-in-command. As he'd ordered everyone to speak English to keep the language familiar, he did the same. "Everything appears in order, Navigator. Lay in a course for Earth's moon. We won't go any farther in this vessel."
His best friend and lieutenant, Da'nequwit— now to be called Datron—regarded him with interest. "Wouldn't it be easier to just land on Earth, Captain?"
"No. We'll shuttle to their surface. I don't want anyone to see this enforcer ship. There's too much at stake."
Datron turned to make arrangements for the new orders then addressed Keir again. "Request permission to speak freely."
Keir carefully regarded the bridge staff, motioned for Datron to move closer, then nodded to indicate permission was given.
Datron took a deep breath. "Sir, this mission is asinine. We've already been forced to adopt more easily pronounceable names and speak the Earth language just to accommodate the ignorance of their population. That's insult enough. Now we're being inflicted with this infantile cover. It's degrading. I'd like to say we'll have a good laugh over this stupendous adventure in the future, but it's so far beneath us as to be harmful. Even if we pull off the entire mission without a hitch…"
Keir shrugged. "It's the best way to find the smugglers. Certainly it'll be much easier than choosing some other Earth occupation as a cover. We'll be right in the thick of things. That should shorten our stay on this backward little rock considerably. That alone is worth the imposition, wouldn't you say?"
"I suppose," Datron said. "But we'll never live it down."
"Think on this," Keir suggested with a smile, "we at least have the satisfaction of knowing it was an Oceanun diplomatic trick that put us in the middle of the assignment. Leading the Earth Protectorate to believe they came up with this entire scheme should be worth a few laughs on the way home."
Datron waved his hand in a conciliatory gesture. "Yes, I'm well aware that Oceanun representatives lured Earth Protectorate envoys into this agreement. But that won't make the acting any easier. Or the revolting stunts in which we'll be forced to engage. Every law enforcer in the Oceanus Protectorate…including those of my home world…will be laughing at our expense. Or they'll find what we've engaged in so distasteful that they'll have nothing to do with us in the future."
Keir turned to look at the video screen, noting the passing planets with only moderate interest. He'd seen so many. "So long as we get those weapon-smuggling vermin, I don't give a Kreskian's green knobbly ass what anyone thinks. When the Earth officer greets me and describes my cover, I'll act the part of the enraged Oceanus enforcer to the hilt. The Earthlings must believe they put one over on us. And that I only learned of my assignment when I was too close to Earth to refuse it. In that way, their agency won't know exactly what we're looking for until it's imperative that we tell them. Earth's Protectorate is too backward to get their hands on that kind of advanced weaponry. I don't care what our comrades think. I will find those responsible for taking those Ache blasters."
"I realize the importance of this mission and I'll do my part, Captain. You can rely on me. But I doubt I'll ever be able to wash the foul taste of this experience from my mouth. I'd almost rather be subjected to body worms from Vargus than this travesty."
Keir chuckled at his friend's sour tone. "Just remember your role, and don't ever address me as sir, Captain, or any other title when we meet on the Earth's surface. You'll shuttle in ahead of me. Your cover is set. You're arriving from your home world of Valkyrie. You're a contestant who quarreled with your manager and fired him. We won't know each other until introduced.''
Datron sighed heavily. "Aye, sir."
Keir focused on the slow blinking lights of the ship's communication center. The steady flash helped him mentally entrench his new name and that of his second-in-command. Every flash, he silently repeated the pseudonyms Keir Trask and Datron Mann, while pushing back their real, most honored Oceanun and Valkyrian names. The new names had to become very comfortable. It wouldn't do for someone to call out and get no response because he and his partner didn't recognize their aliases.
At least they were lucky enough to understand common Earth speech, so neither he nor Datron would need a universal translator. While the devices had been in existence for some time, Earthers rarely used them. Many among their population suffered serious lesions from the temporary cranial implants. For some strange reason, their brains didn't seem adaptable to the small translation microchips. As a result, aliens landing here often found communication problematic. It was incumbent on every alien landing on Earth to have his or her translator implants attuned to English—or learn the language, as Keir had from a very young age. Conversely, Earthers never seemed to want to learn any others' languages in return. They also never showed any interest in improving translator technology so communicators would be safe for them. Keir found this lack of motivation to be arrogant. Simply because they couldn't use the devices currently available didn't mean they should force everyone else to speak what was now Earth's primary language. How hard could it be to learn a few sentences, in several alien tongues, just to be polite?
Further increasing his annoyance, Keir shared Datron's disgust about the assignment. Even though he had chosen this most recent course of action, the current case demanded the most unusual and denigrating tactics he'd ever suffered. If it hadn't been so important, he would never have agreed. And he hated to rely on his best friend's loyalty. No other enforcer would have ever accepted this duty. It made it worse that he knew his friend would never have refused his request for help, no matter the circumstances, and Keir still couldn't enlighten Datron regarding all the truths of the case.
Yes, it was bad enough that thugs had stolen illegally-built Ache blasters. The weapons were aptly named. By inhibiting the formation of an enzyme known as Acetylcholinesterase—abbreviated in Earth English by the letters AChE, or simply ache—they killed their victims after several incapacitating minutes of excruciating agony. Those inflicted with the beam from an Ache blaster died the way pests do when exposed to a short spray of insecticide. There was always a painful, contorting convulsion before breathing halted. Victims always knew horrific suffering during the last few moments of their lives. But those insidious weapons were only part of the matter. Someone had taken something much worse—the Lucent Stones. Objects so powerful that no one could know they'd been taken—not Datron, not his Earther allies, not anyone. His orders on this matter were exacting.
Keir considered the ease with which his foes had been able to smuggle their goods from port to port and planet to planet while under the guises of contestants and while on their way to the competition held on Earth. He, too, had to take on that same identity as a competitor. In such a way, he intended to avoid discovery as an enforcer, just as the smugglers joining the Mr. Interstellar Feller contest had eluded detection. Because each of the contestants had been vetted by the contest sponsors—Ms. Electra Galaxy and her backers from a company producing Pluto Pillow Mints—no law enforcers took the time to thoroughly check them or their luggage. It was assumed competitors were above such dastardly deeds. To be honest, most enforcers wouldn't credit the kind of men competing with the intelligence it took to smuggle anything. But while Keir usually shared that belief, there were some exceedingly conniving and deceptive entrants this time.
Keir leaned forward. "Put us into hyper drive, Helmsman. I want to be in the orbit of Earth's moon by this time tomorrow." And get this force over with as soon as possible.
The ship's helmsman nodded. "As you command, Captain."
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