Читать книгу Space Patrol! - Sarah Nicole Nadler - Страница 7

Bilderbus considered himself a fair man. He knew many called him cruel; some would say he was a ruthless man, but Mr. Bilderbus knew he really had others’ best interests at heart. And if his plans meant the demise of small children and lapdogs, well—the world was safer without so many people in it anyway. It was hard to control billions of people; Earth would be much better off, he was convinced, if there were only a few thousand or so on the planet…or just him.

Seated in one of his many sumptuous offices, this one in the heart of Los Angeles on the coast of what was once the United States of America, he sighed and relaxed back against his leather easy chair. The rumbling massage balls slowly rolled out the kinks in his upper back while he contemplated his own ingenious. A small pile of grapes, exotic cheeses and mini scones sat to his left within striking distance of his chubby fingers and he occasionally selected one to taste. He liked food, did Bilderbus.

The World Security forces had quelled much of the fighting that had erupted over the election some months ago, and he and his fellow Jesters had devised a neat trick to distract the masses from the colossal civil unrest. Bilderbus thumbed through the reports. Yes, the giveaways of free virtual reality games had indeed allayed public concern. Commerce was at an all-time low, and suicides tripled in the last four months, but ah, well. You couldn’t please everybody.

He was just dozing off when a whoop sounded over the alarm klaxon above his view screen. Bilderbus started quite violently, sloshing red wine on his jiggling belly which he blotted at hastily with a silk napkin before pressing a fat forefinger to the communications toggle.

“What is happening out there?” he demanded irritably. He thought he had rather earned his rest today, having just come through delivering a speech on the importance of the Jester educational programs. Hard work, speeches.

“Unidentified craft,” came the tense reply of a defense analyst, “Bearing 30-degrees north. They’re closing in,” the sexless voice added emotionlessly.

“Well, blow it up, or something,” he snapped crossly, “I’m trying to nap!”

“How primitive,” an amused voice said from behind Mr. Bilderbus. He started again, this time sloshing a good portion of the red wine down his front. With a muttered curse, he turned to survey the room.

Standing on the hearthrug was a werewolf. Or at least, that was Bilderbus’ first impression when he turned to look. The creature stood there looking very peculiar indeed—a long snout full of sharp teeth, dark beady eyes and two long ears pointing up completed the appearance of a man with the head of a jackal. Below his collar he was humanoid, although his skin all over was an odd steel gray. He wore a long white pleated skirt that left his torso bare and his strong muscular legs ended in hind paws. He bore a striking resemblance, in fact, to a statue Mr. Bilderbus had once seen in Egypt.

He fumbled with the arm of his easy chair for the toggle that would alert Security, “Help!” he gulped, “There’s an Egyptian god in my bedroom!”

That done, Mr. Bilderbus faced the werewolf squarely, feeling inadequately prepared for whatever attack might be forthcoming after his panicked call to Security. Yet no attack came and after a moment he relaxed enough to notice an air of regret in those canine features.

In fact, the jackal-headed man standing on his hearthrug seemed so truly disappointed in him that Mr. Bilderbus slipped unconsciously into that frame of mind he always assumed when dealing with hostile press. The paparazzi in particular could be absolutely devastating on a hesitant response, so Mr. Bilderbus seized control of the conversation with a positively cheerful, “Ah! It is you!”

The creature looked not unpleasantly surprised at having been recognized, which Bilderbus took as encouragement to go on, “My dear sir, please forgive me—I was a tad distracted when you arrived. Secretary must have forgotten your appointment,” he made a show of frowning in the direction of the door, simultaneously tapping a large calendar screen on his desk.

“What was our appointment for…again? Here,” he added, gesturing, “Do sit! Can I get you a glass of sherry?”

He followed up with a poured glass and a cheerful nod of encouragement to “drink up”, absently hoping this would occupy the fellow long enough for Security to save him.

“That will not be nethethary,” The werewolf had a distinct lisp, which took Mr. Bilderbus aback. It was so at odds with his otherwise powerful appearance that the President stuttered a hasty, “I…I’m sorry?”

“I am here to dithcuth termth for your planetary inclusion in the Galactic Trade Company clientele,” the werewolf lisped.

His air was a tad bit snooty, Mr. Bilderbus thought, especially for someone with rather too much tongue in their voice.

“Indeed?” he inquired, having as of yet still no idea what the creature was talking about. He pretended great interest—that being the art of politics after all.

“Yes,” the werewolf affirmed, “I believe you are now the ruler of this planet?” he gave a small nod of respect—one sovereign to another, which Bilderbus did not overlook in spite of his very great confusion.

“Ah, yes well,” he hemmed for a moment, stalling for time. It did not seem prudent to admit to holding office before a jackal-headed body builder. Who knew what the creature’s intentions were?

And yes, there it was. From the other side of the door came the sound of many rapid footsteps and half a dozen heavily-armed OWSF officers burst in.

The One-World Security Force was infamous for its corruptibility, but they wasted no time asking bribes from this creature—they surrounded the werewolf and held steady guns trained on him as their sergeant barked, “Stand down!”

“I thay!” the werewolf cried, backing up a step, “That is quite unnecessary I am sure,” he held up his hands to show they were quite empty, “Mr. President, this is no way to begin negotiations! We are here as an invitathun,” he particularly stressed this latter, a fine spray of spittle shooting out as his canine tongue attempted English.

“Perhaps,” Mr. Bilderbus said slowly, “There has been a misunderstanding.”

“Yeth! I do believe so,” the creature nodded.

“Let us take it from the beginning,” the Earth President said diplomatically, “Where did you say you are from, exactly?”

At just that moment, the analyst who had first warned of the approaching aircraft spoke again over the intercom, “Mr. President, the unidentified craft has ceased its trajectory. It seems to be standing by.”

“Ah, yeth,” the werewolf nodded sagely, “It is awaiting further instructions from me.”

“And what are your instructions, exactly?” the Chief of OWSF demanded.

The werewolf straightened himself up to his full six feet. He was of a height to the human men in the room, and seemed very strange there, Bilderbus thought, with his deep gray skin and jackal head. Quite out of place, really.

“I am Anubis, your new Reprethentative for the Galactic Trade Company,” he gave another small bow.

“Representative of what, exactly?” Bilderbus asked, curious in spite of himself. He thought he knew all the minority groups lobbying on Earth currently, but had never heard of this one.

“And, erm…what is the Galactic Trade Company exactly?”

In reply Anubis made a grand gesture with the hook-ended scepter in his right paw and a beam of light shown forth from its tip. The light shimmered and twisted into a holographic image of Earth and a tiny voice rolled forward a narrative tale for his edification.

“Earth,” the tiny voice squeaked.

“Third planet in its system, carbon-based life including one known sentient species. Primitive cultures cover six of the seven major landmasses, no significant habitation of oceanic surfaces. See note under Europa for a list of alien residency,” the voice added with a trill at the end as though it were proud of its recitation.

“Explain Galactic histhtory, last thousand yearth or so,” Anubis directed.

“Galactic Trade Company,” the staff stated in a rich contralto voice, “Seat of commerce for the Milky Way galaxy over the last 76 thousand years. Originally began as a trade venture throughout the Centauri system by Rex Fitterdorf—a Jerz from the planet Jeropul, distant cousin to Rasha the Terrifying,” the voice paused and then continued, “Current CEO Cle-zea ab Dul has no criminal background or record of governmental graft. Last test for illicit substances was Tuesday—passed.”

It seemed odd to Bilderbus that the company tested their CEO for illegal substances on a regular basis, but being a Jester himself and used to doling out illegal drugs to appease the masses, he nevertheless pressed on.

“Very well,” he began.

To his surprise, the Chief of OWSF now leaned in and whispered in an undertone, “Mr. President, I think these are the guys you Jesters sell slaves to. You know, the off-world project?”

“Ah!” Bilderbus had been briefed on this. The Court of Jesters, by the interference of certain citizen protection groups, had recently been deprived of the authority to detain and torture the population. Feeling thwarted, they had instead resorted to secretly selling Earth’s denizens off-world.

“Well, if we’re already engaged in commerce with you, why are you here?” He asked peevishly. It had been a nice nap, after all.

“Due to recent unfortunate thircumstances, our clandestine arrangement is no longer possible,” Anubis said smoothly, “The cat is out of the bag, you might thay. I am here to negotiate termth for your inclusion as a company client.” He gave another polite bow.

Now the Chief of OWSF spoke to the alien visitor, “Does this have anything to do with the “space-napping” of that kid in Switzerland this morning?”

“I’m afraid so,” Anubis said in an air of extreme disappointment. He sighed and waved a hand idly in the air, “A slaver ship trying to exit your atmosphere ran thmack into Space Patrol. Unfortunate timing. Now, of course, in order to avoid unnecessary fees and any awkward questions, the CEO has directed me to pretend that Captain Nask was acting of his own accord. He will be spaced, and you and I have the unpleasant business of enacting a cover-up. Very inconvenient.” He shook his head in displeasure.

“But I can assure you, Mr. President,” Anubis gave another polite bow, “The CEO is most thertainly looking forward to meeting your chosen ambassador. Now, shall we discussth who that will be?”

“Oh! Yes, of course,” Mr. Bilderbus wrung his hands, wishing for the first time he still had one or two of those advisors he had so eagerly fired. It would be convenient to have someone on hand to blame for any poor choices, if nothing else.

“GTC polithies demand a certain level of character and sense of discretion in a planetary ambassador, I’m thure you underthtand,” Anubis said smoothly.

“Oh yes, yes.” He nodded, still thinking.

“And by law, no ambassador may be elected who has passed the age of puberty,” Anubis added with a flick of his paw as though this were to be expected.

“Wait, what?” Bilderbus stuttered, flabbergasted.

“Why, it is the law,” Anubis widened his round canine eyes in great surprise at the Earth President’s reaction, “How else are we to determine the correct latitude of opinion and opennessth of mind that is so apparent in the young?” he asked philosophically.

“You want someone you can manipulate easily,” Bilderbus muttered under his breath, seeing through this dirty political ploy.

“It is the most logical tholution,” Anubis argued, “Children are more likely to pick up the nuances of galactic interrelations quickly—a fact that could sthave you time and quadrillions of credit,” he nodded sagely at his own sanguine hint.

“Credit, do you say?” Bilderbus’s eyes shown greedily for a moment. How much money could he possibly gain from this venture? Surely there was treasure out there in space, and opportunities for commerce unlike any here on Earth.

“Yesth,” Anubis nodded. If he noticed Bilderbus’s drooling reaction he pretended not to, “But come—we thould choose an Earth delegate.” He stood and gestured for Bilderbus to proceed him toward the door. The OWSF, still surrounding him with weapons trained on the alien man, shifted around to point away from the Earth President while still keeping Anubis within their sights.

“Oh, stand down,” Bilderbus said belatedly.

Nodding to Anubis, he led the way to the Situation Room down the hall, wondering at the same time how he was going to find a child he could control.