(Author's Note: An entry in the Science Fiction Writers of Earth short story contest. The first story I ever entered. I'm afraid this work is heavily influenced by Robert A. Heinlein's "The Cat Who Walks Through Walls" and Douglas Adams' "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy", as I was reading the former as I wrote it, and the original novelization was inspired by the latter.) --------------------------- "Assassin Trouble" by Jillian Parks --------------------------- It was so unintentional, I had to release that nervous, pent up giggle. "Shut up, Teedy," Ira whispered hoarsely. "Sorry, sir; involuntary reflex." "Right; now what are we going to do about this?" The room was half-dark, the only light being the lonely glow of a halogen green streetlamp from the unshuttered windows. Ira was dressed in a pair of plaid boxers, his hair askew by attack pillows. Myself, I was only in a slip, and that durned covered little. My loop hung limply at my side, dangling from my fingers. Lying at my feet and bleeding profusely all over the worn tan carpet was the so-called assassin, who unobtrusively disturbed our sleep by tripping over the footrest in the livingroom. Clearly he was after my Ira and the Equation of the Universe: they don't make blasters with silencers here. "Well, close the shutters and let's have a look at Sniper-Boy," I replied. Ira turned to the window, noting the indigo-purple sky of Ganamek was still the dead of night. I stepped as gracefully as I could over the legs of the intruder, and felt the lamp for a switch. "Shield your eyes, dear." Toasted yellow light filled the room, giving the appearance of bright candlelight. The Ganamek always try to improve on the simplicities. "You did a doozy on this one, honey-girl," he said, poking the dead man with a bare foot. "I only intended to wound him. I'm not proficient with the loop, you know." The man was clearly a Ganamek. They came from the same gene-pool as the late human race except they developed extremely chalk pale skin, day-glow hair, and no mouths. Believe me, going to a restaurant here is an experience. Remember that old Campbell's soup commercials with the alien: "If you eat where you speak, do you drink where you listen?" Our uninvited guest was bleeding his burgandy-black blood all over our carpet from the razor clean cut around his entire throat from my loop. A handy little weapon I picked up from Talsmere; their diplomats are the best assassins this side of the Galaxy. "Teedy honey?" "Yes, mon herr?" I retorted, gulping; the sight of blood-- no matter what type-- always disturbed me. "Put the loop down and go in the kitchen and make some Altarian coffee. The strong stuff. Also, whip up some breakfast when you get over your sickness. Or is that morning sickness?" "No, you old goat." Nonetheless, I dropped the loop on the coffee table and moved to the kitchen, pausing to toss my blood-splattered slip in the laundry room. Losing myself in making coffee was welcomed after my second accidental killing in three months. Altarian coffee required the right ratio of water, grounds, and wild Betelguese whiskey extract. Give too much water and it'll look like tea from Taco Bell back on Earth; put too much coffee and you're wired for seventy-two hours straight; too much whiskey and the coffeepot melts-- no sense in drinking it then. "Teedy?" "Yes, Ira-dear?" I responded. "Might as well make breakfast; we'll be up." "Will that be for three?" "Unless you invited the paper boy." "Won't accept." "Must be under twelve-years-old." I switched the coffeepot on and turned to the pantry, glancing through the larder of foodstuffs. Okay, outer space version of cornbread pancakes. . . pray it doesn't come back to life before you eat it. Otherworld food is tricky. Reflecting back upon the last three months, it has become a recurring pattern to encounter these offbeats. Since the Earth was blown up in mass genocide to prevent mass slavery, Ira and I've been shot at, blastered at, arrested, dumped out of space ships, propositioned, and outright threatened because I'm the last fertile Terran female and Ira figured out the Equation of the Universe. Alien races have tried to kill him to steal the Equation, and I've been detained for my extinct genetic heritage. Ira didn't have that excuse, he wasn't pure human. I closed my eyes, picturing him: tall, handsome, with a beautifully symmetrical strong body and amber cat eyes. He was human and Pleiadian mixed-- Papa Kopel couldn't keep his hands off the Earth girls. So, I'd say it was his fault his son and I were the most hunted beings in the Universe. Kopel Chapmanay is going to have Hell to pay when we find the old coot. Would you believe I was once a teenage recluse who read Tarot cards and studied the Art of Cynicism? T.D. Scheuerer at your service, last human and part-time swami. I really don't miss Earth all that much-- I lived in the freest country of them all, but America was on a one-way trip to Hell. When a society demands I.D. cards, security numbers, your mother's maiden name, and is on the verge of implanting microchips in the brain, it's time to get the heck out: society is doomed. Ira got us out, though I don't recall how (I was too confused to even see straight), and we got dumped on a ship with our "saviors". The Weshere were a surly bunch: didn't take too kindly to hitch-hikers, even though they destroyed our planet to keep the Romanans from using my race for some intergalactic army. We got tossed out in a crummy lifepod, and then Ira's quasi-cousin pirate picked us up by accident. So far, it's been one Hell of a party after another. "Found his wallet," Ira stepped into the kitchen. "How much you want to bet this doesn't say who he *really* is?" "Five pancakes," I turned, mixing bowl and spoon in arm. "You're on." He pulled the second-hand chair from under the table, the metal legs screeching against the cement tile floor. He landed gently in the threadbare seat, scooting back up to the table with more screeching. The blue rubber wallet was spread out on the hard plastic tabletop. "This says our kid's name is Steenth Mogno, age twenty- one, citizen of Ganamek, resides in Hing in the Republical of Dentor, and occupation of plumber. No I.D. numbers or street address." "A plumber in camo fatigues," I giggled to myself. "Interesting choice of wardrobe if he planned to fix the plumbing-- which I seriously doubt he was doing. Did you get a look at the blaster?" "I'm not good at identifying weapons," I replied, pouring pancake batter into a pan. "Your other talents and intelligence make up for it, Beautiful," he paused, studying my bare skin. I turned and met his amber eyes, the pupils drawn in almond slits of blackness. He snapped out of his trance and shook his head. "Sorry, got lost. I did notice the blaster: it's a 180 Lazer Pistol fitted with a pulse adapter to keep it quiet. Whoever gave him the blaster wanted as little attention as possible." "Gave it to him? You don't think he was working on his own to get the Equation?" "Hell no! One: pulse adapters aren't made or available on Ganamek, the reason being they're illegal here; two: it's obvious he hasn't had a bath in some days, he's stinking up the livingroom, must be some street punk; three: supports two because I found a gang emblem tattoed on the back of his hand." I set plates heaped with pancakes on the table as I thought outloud, "Yet, he wore the military fatigues of the Romanans." "The Romanans set him up?" Ira asked, reaching for the candied syrup. "Inconclusive, dear. If so, why would they pick a scruff off the street, dress him in fatigues, give him a blaster, a fake I.D., and drop him in our livingroom. . . on second thought, anything else in the wallet?" "Funny you should ask: nothing else. No guild cards, no driver's license, membership, library, medical, credit, or the like. No photos. Not even a set of instructions to kill us or hide the bodies. Teedy-honey, you killed him before we could find out his business and contacts." "My humblest apologies, mon herr, but he was to kill you no matter what else we'd attempt. Besides, you can only practice so much with a loop. What does it matter now?" I ended by screeching my chair back and getting up to pull two coffee cups out of the cabinet to pour Altarian coffee in. "It matters to the poor wanker in our livingroom. It *did* matter, anyway. Never thought a piece of plastic string could disservice anyone." "Talsmere diplomats know their business." "Thank-you for making coffee, darling. How do you feel on this one? You all right?" "Yeah, sure. . . " I rounded my slightly trembling fingers over the coffee cup, taking it up to my dry lips. The soothing, hot-toasted coffee and burning whiskey gushed in my mouth and down my throat in an encompassing rush. My nerves quieted, and my mind softed the imprinted death image into a mass of multi-color. Ira's quasi-cousin Sherlock Sign said Altarian coffee and Betelguese whiskey were a necessity after traumatic events; they calmed mental agony by filtering out negative brain chemicals associated with trauma. Sherlock further explained what is regarded as "trauma" is really the mind's panicked reaction to what was taught to classify as "abnormal". Ira whistled absently, which brought me back to breakfast and the wallet. "What is it, dear?" "Galactic bank notes worth forty- thousand credits. Found 'em in a poorly sealed secret pocket." "We'd be worth more than forty-thousand. Must be an advance. It just occurred to me: somebody's going to be pissed-off if we're not dead." He leaned back and replied, "You know, you're right. Any suggestions?" "Me? Nah, I'm just cook and 'light-speed whoopee wench'. You're the captain." "You mean I'm finally in charge of this shin-dig? Great; three more pancakes, please." "We could be targeted for a nuke bomb, and you want more pancakes?! I don't believe it, you whirling--" "Miss Transitional Dream Scheuerer--" "DON'T use my first name!" "I apologize, my sweet, but it's so pretty. Teedy, as I was going to say: no use panicking in the middle of the night. If it calms you, I'll call Sherlock and ask him if he's tired of warming his hooves in the green sand. I'm sure he wouldn't mind an adventure." "Yeah, I know. I don't feel safe with a corpse in the livingroom; his buddies might come back later to see what's wrong when he doesn't show back up home." "Well, pack up our stuff and get dressed, 'whoopee wench'. I'll call the pirate." "Yes, my captain." Fifteen minutes later, after a quick shower and quick dressing, I heard Ira greeting Sherlock in the livingroom with, "Hey, cuz. Watch out for the blood; can't track it through the house, you know." "What the Hell happened, boy?" I pulled my terra cotta-colored locks away from my face into a ponitail, then checked over my jeans and knee-length Ganamek trenchcoat-- assigned myself passable. Quick steps through the back hall, and I entered the livingroom to find Ira in demin shorts and his worn Project A-ko tee-shirt. His black satchel was slung about his neck and shoulder, resting on one hip. Sherlock was down on one goat-leg, examining the corpse by sight and minimal touch. "Yup, cut through the muscle and airway; almost got the spinal cord. Miss Teedy, for an eighteen-year-old girl, you have one Helluva way of accidently killing people." "Thank-you," I replied. "I think." Sherlock straightened up, smoothing his kilt over his goat's legs. "Ira, this incompetent assassin was after you, and I'm sure his bosses are going to miss him in a bit. I suggest we all head out and let Watson take us to a seedy asteroid diner somewhere." "Sounds good to me. Ready, Teedy?" "I need to cut the lights out. Where's my loop?" I located it where I dropped it on the coffeetable seemingly half a lifetime ago. I tied it up in my ponitail, careful to avoid cutting my fingers. Sherlock whistled. "Weee-oooo! Sure beats the time you knocked the Galactic Vice-President's head off with a Listerine bottle." "It was an accident, just like this one!" I defended myself, doing the dance of the bumblebee through the house, turning lights off and unplugging appliances. I returned to the livingroom, walking the edge of the pool of blood. The puddle now seeped half of the carpeting; evil of me, but the burgandy-black went perfectly with our over-stuffed emerald green sofa and broken-down royal blue recliner and footrest. I clicked the lamp off. "Ira?" I tapped his shoulder. "Yes, dear one?" he turned, smiling gently. "What about the wallet?" "Plumber-Boy's? Got it in the satchel; no use wasting money on a corpse, he's not going to use it." "Are we ready?" asked Sherlock. Knock, knock, knock. Everyone became as dead silent as the body; simutanously, our three heads turned toward the front door. "Want to answer it?" I breathed into Ira's right ear. "Hell no." "Maybe they'll go away," Sherlock hoarsely whispered in my right ear. He draw an arm around me in fatherly protection. We stood there, motionless, when the heavy pounding hit the door again. It was accompanied by a stern voice of stick-in-the-mud authority. "Open up, Chapmanay, this is the Hier City Police. We need to question you and Mistress Scheuerer on a matter of city-wide security." Ira turned his head, pressing his lips to my left ear. "Teedy, where's the fire extinguisher?" "Kitchen," I breathed. Ira left my side, and I was alone with Sherlock and a corpse in the livingroom and the police on the other side of the front door. "What's he doing?" "Getting extinguisher." "Bloody clever." I was still puzzled as to what Ira intended to do with an extinguisher, but I was shortly answered when I felt his forearm nudge my ribs. "Chapmanay! We order you to open up!" "DIE, PIGGY SCUM!" he screamed. throwing open the door and letting the CO2 lose on the police. I let out a war whoop, dragging Sherlock by the kilt as Ira pulled me by the belt of my jeans. We ran over four foamed officers, one of them making a grab for my hair. Instead he caught the loop; it slipped through his fingers to the bone, and snapped out of his skin at the knob. The last I heard from him was a groan, and the spokesman screaming "Get up and chase them! Somebody get on the comm and tell HQ Chapmanay and company escaped!" I looked back and caught sight of what confirmed my passing thought concerning the spokesman. Ira released my belt and I let go of Sherlock; we all ran down the green-lit street, and ducked into the alley between the hair parlor and dry cleaners. I pressed my back to the wall of the parlor, the guys followed my example. The only sounds were police sirens and our own anxious breathing. "Did you guys get a look at the cops?" Sherlock asked. "They're not Ganamek," I gasped. "They have mouths." "No day-glow hair, either," Ira added. "I saw one cut his fingers on your loop," Sherlock gingerly drew it up by a knob. "May I see, Teedy?" "Sure." He studied the plastic minutely down to the knob. "I knew it. Ira, look, it's not the black cherry color of Ganamek blood." "No, sir. Looks like Romanan; they have that peculiar shade of teal." "EW!" I squealed. "Is it in my hair?!" "Quiet!" Ira clasped a large hand over my mouth and I bit him. "OW! No, it's not, just on the loop." "What now, boss?" I asked no one in particular. "Can't stay here forever," Sherlock commented. "Ditto," Ira concurred. "Where's Watson?" "In the shipyard, gettin' bored off his thrusters for sittin' like a junk pile. We're off?" "We're off. We over-stayed our welcome on Ganamek." He got up, digging a red and white polka-dotted kerchief out of his pocket. He tied it over his dark brown hair and added in a pirate accent, "Avast, ye scurvy Romanan dogs! Prepare to be shot!" Sherlock drew a blank to the Earth pirate joke. Just as well, since Ira was already making his way down the alley. Sherlock offered me a calloused hand and pulled me up to my feet. We caught up with Ira at the back end leading out to the main street of the neighborhood. The street was bare, save for an occassional transtaxi, and the dead, rotted leaves lying in the damp gutters. The purple sky was still a rich shade of plum with the milky way stars glittering like rhinestones. "All clear," Ira whispered, and we scurried across the street as three mice nervous of the patiently watching feline. We slipped through another alley, then moved east through backyards; all the while avoiding carnivorous pet flora and killer guard fauna. . . along with fences whose paranoid owners installed everything from barbed wire to eight foot walls. Sherlock had the leg power to jump any of them. Ira and I could only climb and pray none were electrified. "What's that sound?" I asked. Whump, whump, whump, whump, whump, whump, whump. . . "Sky trackers!" Sherlock looked up, and found the black mosquito systematically sweeping a searchlight over and through the neighborhood. "Hurry up!" Ira yelled. We ran across the last yard of the block, then stopped abruptly when we faced an eight foot wall. Sherlock made a flying leap and pulled himself on top, turned and leaned over to our side. Ira picked me up by my knees and I grabbed Sherlock's outstretched hand. He pulled me up and turned to hoist Ira up on top with us. Sherlock hit the ground facing the street. I was hanging off the wall, getting ready to drop when the searchlight swept over and centered on us. Ira used a colorful metaphor as he stood above me on the wall. I dropped to the dewy grass with him right behind. "We're almost there!" Sherlock took my wrist. "Anybody got a Cloak of Invisibility?" Ira quipped, grabbing hold of the tailend of my trenchcoat. We ran across the intersection, surrounded in a halo of bright white light. Hell, they spotted us, no use hiding out now. Scaling a chainlink fence to the shipyard was our last obstacle. "Chapmanay! If you, Sign, and Mistress Scheuerer give up, we can assure you of fair treatment. Continue, we will be forced to use deadly measures." I thumbed my nose toward the sky tracker, then dove under a tinker of a shuttle craft. Ira and Sherlock scooted under as well. "Never thought I'd reach my end huddled under a pile of flying junk," Sherlock remarked sarcastically. "Hell, I'm only fifty!" "Where's Watson parked?" Ira asked him. "Eh? Two rows over on the left, three ships back." "And there's a searchlight that can pick up us moving between ships," I added. Ira drew his knees up to his chin, staring off into space with his unblinking cat eyes. Sherlock traced his fingers over the cement until he picked up a rubberband, and proceeded to toy with it. I watched him pluck the band, completely lost in staring at the simple knick-knack. He stretched the dingy band back then released it to vibrate back to his fingers in a dull twang. "Ira! I have an idea!" I exclaimed. He snapped out of his thoughts as the spokesman announced through the megaphone, "You have fifteen seconds to surrender, Chapmanay!" "What is it, Teedy?" he asked. "You have your slingshot?" "Yeah, sure, why?" "Give me, please." He opened his satchel and dug around until he produced the plastic slingshot with the balancer arm brace. Meanwhile, I had located the three-inch diameter quartz crystal I used to read fortunes with as a swami. I kissed the ball and nestled it in the sling strap. "*Our* futures are relying on you," I whispered. I crawled out at the last few seconds, poised behind a glide wing. I raised my arm up to the center of the light source. I pulled the strap back as far as it could stretch. . . and released it into a hundred mile-per-hour flight toward the sky tracker. A crash of glass. The area went dark. A single bullet struck the wing just two inches in front of me. "Good God," Ira breathed in awe. "Let's go," I said, heading off in a run to Sherlock's trusted sentient ship Watson. "Damn you, Scheuerer, I know it was you, you Earth scum! Where are you?!" Sherlock banged Watson's entry door and yelled, "Wake up, Watson, the game's afoot!" "Okay, okay, you old dinkwad. Don't bust my shell," the ship groaned and the door lowered to the ground. I scrambled up the steps, followed by Ira, and Sherlock pulling up the door behind him. I hit the back passenger seat, letting Sherlock and Ira take the pilot and co-pilot seats up front. "What's up, old man?" Watson asked. "Romanan troops after us." "*Again*?" the computer sighed, lighting up panels nonetheless. "I tell you, you should've dumped that loser cousin of yours and his pinko girlfriend on the first ball of dirt we crossed." "Can't do anything about it now. Doors fastened?" "Check, boss." "Everyone strapped in?" "Yeah." "Yup." "All systems go?" "Check. Sherlock, they're shooting at my shell." "Then let's get out of here!" "Compliance." I felt three-gee force press me into the seat as Watson made a straight-up jump about two thousand feet in less than a minute. Watson tilted up forty-five degrees and took off spaceward. When we left Ganamek space, Sherlock finally told Watson to level off and head to the nearest seedy diner on any asteroid. Ira unfastened his belts and turned effortlessly in his seat to look back at me. "You okay, Teedy-honey?" "Yeah, fine. You, dear?" "Never better; although it's getting pretty frustrating we can't set up housekeeping for long," he looked wistful, drawing his fingertips softy down my cheek. "What kind of a life is this for my new bride? Always on the run. . . " "No regrets, my love. We are where we're supposed to be in the Universe." He smiled gently. The panorama of stars behind him shone as they have billions of years before.