Welcome to Percotran -Part XXVI

By Richard Davidson

The outrigger canoe cut silently through the water for about half an hour, when it rendezvoused with the S. S. LuluBelle. The Chief Naval Warrior, whose name couldn’t possibly be translated into English, or any other present day language, loaded Alexander, unconscious once again aboard. The Chief Medical Warrior’s daughter took Alexander below deck, and set to work attempting to afford another recovery for the weary time traveler.

The Shaman and the Chief Naval Warrior climbed back into the outrigger canoe, and paddled deliberately towards the direction the enemy had been sighted. After a short time, they came across the floating body of Captain Citidroid 3745.

“She is dead?” asked the Chief Naval Warrior.

“She is dead, but not for long enough,:” answered the Shaman, clutching her tightly to his chest, and clamping his mouth over hers, holding her nostrils tightly shut. Her chest heaved a few times, and then she began to breathe on her own. The Shaman was from a line of healers that went back 60 generations. It would take more than a simple case of drowning to come between him and death.

Captain Citidroid 3745 didn’t speak Bahinian, so she couldn’t advise the two men that attempting to attack the S. S. Barnswallow was nothing more than suicide. Of course, she didn’t even know that was the plan, or she might have jumped overboard and made a swim for it.

Her head ached miserably, most likely from the millions of brain cells that had been destroyed during the brief time she had been dead. The Shaman’s breath stunk mightily of half digested fish, and now, she had a taste in her mouth that was far more repulsive than anything she had ever imagined.

“Don’t you see that ship?” she shouted, sounding to the two warriors like a barking dog. Up ahead loomed the shape of the S. S. Barnswallow, now piloted by Admiral Badson, most likely, moving slowly through the water with enough detection scanners running to snap a few of her synaptic links with Home Office.

That was probably just as well, as the Home Office was experiencing an unprecedented power fluctuation that was sending Citizen/Employees scurrying from power coupling to power coupling like hummingbirds to Honeysuckle Roses, in a frantic attempt to stop the Eastern Power Grid from overloading.

Captain Citidroid 3745 had never been disconnected from The Network before, and although intensely frightening, she sensed freedom for the very first time in her life, and she thought that maybe, just maybe, she liked it.

“Look at that,” marveled Badson.

Corporate Seaman 882 looked at the approaching outrigger canoe with amazement.

“Shall I fire a neutron pulse at it, sir?” asked the overeager sailor.

“No, no,” gurgled Badson, “they can lead us to the man we’re looking for.”

To his surprise, the Shaman stood up, and hurled a spear, that impaled Corporate Seaman 882 against the wall of the forward cabin. Badson couldn’t believe the power and accuracy of that throw.

“My God, that must’ve been 80 yards!” Badson said with admiration.

“I sure didn’t see that coming,” were Corporate Seaman 882’s last words.

Badson was laughing out loud at the sheer folly of attacking a fully equipped Pirate Ship with spears, even if the enemy had no way of knowing it was loaded with some of Bogotron Affiliated’s most advanced weapons. He ducked as he considered the hundreds of ways he could kill these men, and then, to his surprise, he could see the outrigger canoe no more.

He felt a strange chill.

Couldn’t be fear.

Could it? Badson felt an uncharacteristic moment of confusion at the thought that these primitive islanders could pose some kind of threat to him, and tried his best to shrug it off. He decided to try communication.

“Ahoy there,” he called over the ship’s PA.

“This is Captain Rumsoak of the S. S. Barnswallow. We wish you no harm. Please bring your craft to the Port Bow for negotiations.”

He was greeted only by the sound of the waves lapping against the ship’s hull.

Suddenly he heard screams from the stern of the ship, and then a crewman called out, “Admiral, we’ve just lost three men!”

“We’re about to lose one more,” he thought, as he shot the crewman who had referred to him as “Admiral.”

These idiots were either going to get it right, or he would be continuing this journey as a solo mission.

If, indeed, there even was a mission any more. Admiral Badson was far more interested in finding Alexander than he was in such a ridiculous exercise in futility as attacking Percotran International.

Badson had much more on his mind than the future of the mission, however. The enemy was clearly aboard the ship, and the Hypersonar was detecting a torpedo sub only half a mile to the West.

“All remaining sailors will don protective clothing for a full neutron sweep,” he announced, giving the crew exactly 8 seconds to do so.

Eight seconds is an extraordinarily long period of time to a Bahini Warrior, and before the sweep could begin, Badson was enclosed in a netting made from some of the strongest, stickiest substance he had ever encountered.

It was the same type of spiderweb Alexander had inadvertently used for a sail, as the Bahini had been using it for centuries. Badson heard a familiar voice.

“Good to see you again, and so soon,” Captain Citidroid 3745 said menacingly.

I’d say my new friends got the drop on you today, my fine Admiral.”

“I’ll show you a drop,” snarled Badson, activating the Upper Deck Genital Mutilators with his mind.

He was sorely disappointed when nothing happened.

“The primitives have already gotten control of the Database,” laughed Captain Citidroid 3745, enjoying this far more than she’d ever enjoyed anything in her life.

“The Company will never allow you to get away with this treason,” Badson seethed, spitting blood.

“I am no longer fully linked to The Company,” Captain Citidroid 3745 said rationally, “and it seems to me you’ve known how far out of their element they are all along.”

She leaned casually against the railing of the bow.

“I don’t know exactly what it is my benefactors want, but I’m getting the impression they’re not too fond of you.”

A voice came from the rigging above.

“It’s nothing personal,” said the Shaman, who already had a rudimentary knowledge of the ridiculous dog language they were speaking.

“Business is business. We will take you to the man you wish to see.”

Then a strange thing happened. The shadow of a large bird; perhaps an Eagle blocked the sun from Badson’s face for a moment, and then the most amazing man he’d ever seen was beside him. If Badson hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn the man had gills.

Below deck, Seaman First Class 533 was watching all this on a small, circular monitor.

“Don’t worry, Admiral; I’m still with you.” He began the sequence for the anti-personnel lasers, which were calibrated not to affect officers of the Bogotron Navy. He never even considered the fact that he himself was not an officer.

“Stand down,” barked Captain Citidroid 3745.

“That’s an order!”

Seaman First Class 533 had never felt such inner conflict before. This had been his CAPTAIN, after all, but his captain had committed High Treason against Bogotron, and was clearly outranked, anyway. He calmly finished the sequence, just getting the last keystroke in as Captain Citidroid 3745 tackled him, filling his mouth with blood as he bit squarely into his tongue.

With the speed of a hungry Bobonex, the Shaman and the Chief Naval Warrior leapt over the railing, and into their outrigger canoe. Small fires burned throughout the ship as the lasers completed one Superscan after another.

“I, Seaman First Class 533, being of sound mind and body, do bequeath...” Seaman First Class was reciting into a hovering Camudoc, “my worldly possessions to my son, Citizen/Employee 4358677BG; except for my brain, which should go to the Bogotron Research Facility.”

The lasers whined to a stop as a Thermal Cannonball blasted away most of the port wall, very nearly taking the Seaman’s head with it.

His utter despair and hopelessness suddenly turned to bitterness and anger that he’d never see his family again, and he bounded up the stairs to the upper deck, three at a time. He suddenly knew who it was he most wanted to save, and it was himself.

He leapt overboard, and swam for exactly seven feet before the shark bit into his chest, crushing six of his ribs, and puncturing his lung.

Badson still believed he could win this battle; and just might have, if he hadn’t suddenly lost all movement in his limbs. The last thing he noticed as he fell to the deck unconscious was the tiny dart sticking out of his neck.

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