Alien Freak - Calista Skye Page 0,49
truth,” Koyanara says. “Why, are they detecting something?”
“I’m not sure. It’s a signal that comes and goes. A blip, sometimes there and sometimes not. It reminds me of—”
“Unidentified craft, this is the Star Marshals,” a voice bellows through the control room, making me clasp my hand over my ears. “Power down your engines and stand by for a search. Resistance or non-compliance will be dealt with in the severest way.”
Outside the windshield, a big spaceship is lazily turning around and pointing large, black weapons at us.
“A blip no longer,” Koyanara says. “You didn't detect a ship of that size? Either they have crazy-good stealth, or the sensors are useless.”
“Could be both,” Zaroc mutters, turning the ship around and gunning the engines so the whole ship trembles. “Nothing else on this ship works, either.”
“What are Star Marshals?” I ask, seriously worried that a day that was starting to look up is now going to suck pretty hard, after all.
Three blindingly white bolts of plasma go right past the windshield, searing my retinas like turbocharged lightning.
“Oh Fate, that was close,” Koyanara says. “These guys are either confident about their aim, or they don't care if they kill us or not. Star Marshals are a kind of police force, Averie. They're trying to uphold the rule of law in space. It's ridiculous, because there are billions of different jurisdictions and legal systems in the galaxy. But they try as well they can, using the laws that most of the major civilizations agree with. They're strict.”
“So, we are in serious trouble?” I ask.
“Very serious,” Zaroc confirms, letting go of the controls and standing up. “Those guns could shoot right through this ship without even trying.”
“Do these guys work for the Gurandu? Or the Bululg?”
“The Star Marshals don't work for anyone but themselves,” Koyanara says. “Their idea of being space police is touchingly silly, but they have a pretty good reputation, as those things go. Mild, but firm. A steel hand inside a velvet glove, people say. They're believed to be incorruptible. So don't try to bribe them, Zaroc.”
Zaroc shrugs. “With what? If they want our Elder objects, they'll just take them. Now help me think of how to get out of this.”
The ship outside is coming closer, and the black trapeze of a docking bay is starting to open.
“I can think of a couple of reasons why they might want us,” Koyanara says. “The illegally stolen alien girl, the stolen ship, the fact that your new and mysterious Elder gun is probably banned by every treaty in space…”
“Being a great help, as usual,” Zaroc grunts. “They can’t know we have Elder objects.”
I look down myself, hoping I look somewhat respectable. But the jumpsuit is actually both stylish and functional, so I'm pretty safe there.
The large police craft is getting so close I can make out details on the hull. They’re about to engulf us in that trapeze-shaped bay. “Maybe they just want to practice their routines. It has to get boring in space.”
The windshield goes dark as we’re swallowed up by the other ship, and then there are clangs and judders as our own ship is brought to a stop inside their docking bay.
“Let’s go and welcome them,” Zaroc says. “I’ll leave my new gun up here.”
Down in the hold he slaps open the hatch, and we both stand back, looking innocent.
Four aliens enter, wearing bright orange uniforms with blue accents, helmets, and visors. They have four arms and two legs each, pale yellow skin, bulging eyes, and wide, thin-lipped faces that make them look a little like frogs.
“Star Marshals,” the leader creaks in slow Interspeech, then ignores us as they all look around the hold, probably noting the cages and the heaps of old weapons on the floor.
“What seems to be the problem?” Zaroc asks.
One of the aliens turns to him. “We picked up a tracking signal coming from this ship. It’s flagged as stolen property. Indeed, it’s coming from this hold. To be specific, it comes from this alien here. A female?” He looks me up and down.
Zaroc stiffens beside me. “She’s not anyone’s property. Notice that she’s carrying a gun.”
“She is, indeed,” the Star Marshal agrees. “And yet the signal does come from her. She was reported stolen from a world owned by the Bululg.”
I’m pretty much done being talked about in the third person. “I was not stolen. I came of my own free will.” Well, they can’t possibly know the truth about that.
“The Bululg feel that your will is