Universe ZF-001
Sol System, Milky Way Galaxy
Earth Date 2013, December 24th 23:30
The navigator was very nervous indeed.
This was something of a problem, for two reasons. Firstly, he was supposed to be guiding the spaceship on it's present course, and in this profession being nervous was likely to result in catastrophe. Secondly, he was a Vulturite, a native of Nibiru and species famed for brutality, depravity and various other unpleasant traits. They weren't supposed to be nervous, or even afraid of anything that the universe could throw at them - not even such wonderful threats as the Daleks or the Martians would make them bat an eyelid. Anything a race could do, a Vulturite would do better and then brag about it to his next door neighbour.
And yet this one was trembling in his seat, bile in his throat as his eyes darted back and forth across the screen, trying to focus on the information readouts and so on. His fingers twitched as he tapped away at on-screen buttons and dials, and a fine layer of sweat stood out on his feathered forehead. A sense of ominous dread was sitting in his chest like a block of ice, one that kep growing with every passing minute - most likely to do with the nature of the mission that he was undertaking, as well as the current destination he was guiding the ship towards. Whilst he was not a person to speak his mind, a quality that was probably instrumental in getting the job in the first place, he was more than ready to admit by now that he was ready to soil himself, had he not already done so twice.
For what seemed like the thousandth time that trip, he glanced over his wiry shoulder to observe the arrangement behind him. Most of the ship's command bridge was in shadow, as it's occupant was quite particular about light levels, so he could barely make out the outline of the throne and the person sitting in it. What little he could see, however, made him shudder - a large, heaped mass of something that lay about the footwell of the seat, catching what little light there was in periodic glints and sparkles and occasionally shifted with a dry rustling noise. Swallowing audibly, the Vulturite turned back to the screen, trying hard to look as though he hadn't lost track of his work and was just minding his own business.
Unfortunately, he tried too hard.
"What a beatifiul planet," came a silken purr, and the navigator's down feathers stood on end. "So much more colourful than home."
Too late did the Vulturite hear the scraping of scale on metal, and then something cold, dry and strong looped twice around his body and yanked him from his seat too fast for him to even cry out. Flailing madly for a moment in his panic, the navigator found himself drawn into the shadows towards the throne, then swung around to face the great window that made up an entire wall of the room and yawned outwards into space. His thin, dry eyes blinked once as he took in the view presented before him - a great orb of blue and green, frosted with swirls of white clouds and slowly growing larger within the window frame, filling the room with a dull glow.
Then he tensed as a claw, thin as a razor, drew itself along the side of his face. There was breath in his ear, and he winced at the icy chill of it.
"Tell me, navigator," came the voice. "What do they call this planet? Ee-Yarth?" The syllables of the last word came thickly, as if they were too big for the mouth forming them, but that tiny detail did noting to reassure the navigator, who was now aware that everyone else in the room was watching him. Most likely they were as frightened as he was. Some colleagues.
The Vulturite gulped. "I... I believe it's pronounced 'Earth', your grace," he croaked, well aware of how dry the inside of his beak was.
A frustrated huff blew bast his ear. "Really? But it has an 'A' in it. Oh, well," hissed the speaker, shifting in her seat a little, "I shall just keep on calling it Ee-Yarth anyway. Shan't I?"
"Y-y-yes, your grace." The navigator realised he was nodding furiously out of reflex, and managed to stop himself.
"And how much longer until we breach the atmosphere?" The claw had stopped at his neck. Not good...
"In ab-b-bout eleven Rels, your grace."
"Perfect."
And then there was a twist and a jerk, and the world span crazily for a brief moment before the unfortunate hand-for-hire impacted beak-first with his own console screen, squawking in pain as his body crumpled and slumped to the ground. Through vision blurred by his latest concussion, he espied a blue glint sliding back into the shadows, and reflexively scrabbled out of the prone position, head swimming with terror and possible brain damage as he returned to his station. Hunching over his screen, he heard a giggle from the corner of his ear, and grimaced.
"My dear," came the voice, low and dangerous. "Your unfortunate death shall soon be avenged. This Ee-yarth is soon about to have a new name..."
A scrape of claws on metal. A glint of fangs.
"Open buffet."
-------
--------
'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even-
"Fucking hell..."
...alright, with one exception. Dirk Angelos couldn't sleep.
And who could blame him? It was Christmas. Christmas! One of the greatest times of year in the history of anything! It had everything anyone could ever ask for - presents, food, presents, chocolate, presents and getting together with everyone you care about. Also, presents. Can't ever go wrong with any holiday that results in free presents, usually! Plus, it was yet another in one of the dark angel's long list of excuses to get drunk, and that was never a bad thing.
So yeah, Christmas. Which was why, at half-past eleven at night on Christmas Eve, Dirk Angelos was sitting in the shark tank of the Party Pavillion, a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand in the hopes of working up enough tiredness to get to sleep. He'd already had a can of cheap cider as a nightcap before going to bed, but it clearly hadn't worked out very well, because he was still awake when the clock rolled around to eleven at night. So with a sigh, and moving carefully to avoid disturbing his brother, he'd pottered down to solve the problem in the only way he knew how. With lots of alcohol.
Sipping from the bottle, the Dark Angel watched the sharks lazily swim in a half-awake stupor above him. The tank had suffered some losses over time - one or two sharks had passed away of old age, whilst others ended up being caught in the jaws of their larger comrades. But thanks to Pit being a billionaire and Dirk himself slowly becoming... well, a thousandare at least, buying replacements hadn't been a problem, and the tank had managed to remain stocked at a decent level. The most persistant relative had been the goblin shark, who's reputation for dunce behaviour lingered even now as he tried to swim through the glass in his sleep.
Sharks were far from Dirk's mind at the moment, however, as he glanced over his shoulder into the darkness of the living room. Beneath the shady branches of the Christmas tree glinted piles of wrapped packages, their cartoony santas and reindeers taunting the young author with the mystery of what cold possibly be lying beneath them. It brought a smile to his face to know that at least some, if not all, of the bargoers had been kind enough to send a package over, and that he had returned the favour by obtaining equally-lavish presents for them all.
Especially for Josephine.
He couldn't wait for Josephine to see what her present was.
A grin now plastered on his face, he turned back to the shark tank, lifted the Jack to his mouth and was promptly smacked in the back of a head with a nightstick.
-------
The Vulturite agent watched as his target slumped soundlessly to the floor, the beverage in his hand spilling onto the carpet. The resultant stains in the carpet would be more than proof of what had occured, of course, but by the time anything could be done it would be too late. The Lady's orders would be carried out to the letter. The celebrations would go as planned.
Kneeling down, the masked bird creature hooked both arms under the unconcious angel's body and heaved him up off the floor, slinging him over one shoulder. Barely registering the weight of his captive, he reached into one of his pockets with a free hand and produced a disc-like device from it, just large enough to fit within his claw-like hand and consisting mostly of a large button. Lifting the device to his beak, the Vulturite clicked the button down, a green light flashing as he did so, and waited patiently for a few seconds.
It isn't long before a static-laden confirmation comes from the speaker on the back of the communicator.
"This is Command Bridge to Scout Seven. Please report."
"Scout Seven to Command Bridge," hissed the Vulturite, keeping his voice as low as possible in order to avoid awakening anyone else in the house. "The target has been captured, as ordered, and I am awaiting transport back to the mothership."
"Confirmed," came the reply. "Preparing Transmat to recieve you and your captive. Stand by for transportation in five Nanorels."
"Confirmed."
Job done, Scout Seven pocketed the communicator and patiently wated for a few seconds. And he doesn't wait long - soon, the Vulturite was engulfed by a kind of yellowish light that seems to radiate from around him and fill the room with it's glow.
And when it dissapates, he is gone.
So is Dirk.
Only the sharks have witnessed this. And, being sharks, they have no idea what to do about it.
-------
Commander Varn wished, for the umpteenth time, that he didn't have to enter the throne room.
Really, nobody did. That was kind of why the rota was in place - so people could take turns to stammer out the latest news to Her Grace. But it didn't really work out, at least not in Varn's opinion, mostly because everyone was frightened of the Lady anyway. And small wonder - the poor navigator was still in the medical bay having his neck seen to for a bad case of wiplash. Just because Vulturites would work for anyone if the pay was good enough, didn't mean they have to enjoy it, and nobody on this ship really enjoyed working for a fickle, capricious female who would casually kill someone just for ruffling her dress.
But then again, they didn't really have that much of a choice. There was news to be told, and the punishment for keeping secrets... well, let's just say the last crew member who kept vital information hushed up had to be shampooed out of the carpet. And it cost a fortune.
Besides, he was already walking in. No point in complaining now.
"Your Grace?"
Varn braced himself, but the chair didn't swivel round - she was obviously more interested in her view of the planet below. He didn't know wherever to roll his eyes in exapseration or be extremely thankful for it.
"Well?" came a strident retort, cutting through the air like a knife. The Commander winced, but tried to keep his composure, standing tall and straight as an officer of his rank should. .
"The last of the marked targets has been captured," he croaked out. "Scout Seven is returning with him even as we speak."
"Excellent." Somewhere, in the darkness, a tail twitched. "Everything is coming together, all is on schedule and revenge is about to be served. Quite, literally, I might add," finished the figure with a dark chuckle. "Oh, but if only I could decide on what garnish..."
This remark was not conductive to Varn's constitution at all. In fact, despite the facade of professionalism he was keeping up, beads of sweat were starting to form on his feathered temple, tricking down the side of his face and neck and into the collar of his shirt. He suppressed the species instinct to wet himself - washing it out of expensive hypersilk like this was pure murder even when he didn't have to pay ridiculous prizes to use the communal washing machines.
He cleared his throat and continued as best he could. "Your Grace, Scout Seven is enquiring as to what to do with the prisoner. I understand he is of particular interest to you, among all the-"
"You have no idea, Commander Varn." The speaker's voice was dangerously low, tinged with a sort of delicate, knife-like hissing. The Vulturite's ears shrank down as the scrape of claw on steel came once more, like nails on a chalkboard.
"So... what is to be done? Is he to be put in a cell with the- AWK!"
A strong coil had fastened itself around the commander's neck before he could finish, and the next minute he'd been dragged towards the throne as it swiveled around like a ballet dancer that had been stung in the bottom. Eyes like burning coals glared at him with a maniacal hatred, the sort that comes from letting petty grievance stew for far too long. Fangs like polished marble glinted viciously. A forked tongue lashed the air.
"You blithering birdbrain. Bring him straight to me, I said, and he will be brought to me! I want to get a good look at the man who slaughtered my husband before I deal with him, so I can see the fear on his face! And I will not miss that opportunity because you let a direct order slip through that feather duster you call a head! Now bring him to me! Is that clear?!"
Varn's voice was a squeak of terror and asphyxiation. "Yes, your Grace."
And then the work span, and he was on his back at the door, eyes rolling in his head as he fought to get his breath back.
"Now, get out of my sight," snarled her Grace, and the poor Vulturite was quick to oblige.
Once past the door, he was most relieved by the person who came around the corner. Quickly fixing his uniform so as to avoid awkward questions, he did his best to put his Lady's grace out of his mind for now. She'd be appeased, soon enough - and a lot, if the new arrival was any indication.
"Ah, Scout Seven. Just who I was looking for!"
-------
At first, as Dirk came to, he thought he was in bed.
This was not a wholly incorrect assumption to make. After all, he had apparently transitioned from drinking Jack at the shark tank to a vertical position, wrapped up in something warm and soft. So it was natural of him to assume that he'd simply fallen unconcious from all the alcohol and that Pit had simply found him and carried him to bed. Or that maybe he'd crawled back to his comfy covers himself and simply forgot about making the journey there. Easy explanation.
So imagine his surprise when his sheets unfurled and dumped him onto the floor.
"OW! Fucking hell!" he howled as he curled on the ground, now completely wide awake, hands instinctively curling up around his stomach and chest. He was quite sure that some ribs had been bruised from that particular drop - not only had he fallen quite a distance, but the floor he'd landed on had been surprisingly hard, for something that was supposed to be just plain old polished floorboards. He was probably gonna have to talk to Pit about getting a carpet to-
Wait.
He blinked, now registering the steely chill of the surface against his skin. And now, come to think of it, he was sure he could hear some kind of electronic instrument humming away in the distance - one that didn't sound like an automatic shark feeder built by Wes Weasley. His vision was still blurry, mostly from what little whiskey was still sloshing around up there, but the outlines forming in from of him did not look much like the cosy objects in his room, but instead the clinical grey walls and computer banks of... something else. He certainly didn't remember asking for a supercomputer to put into his-
This wasn't his room.
"Well, well," purred a voice above him. "Handsome figure, aren't you, Dirk?"
At the sound of the hissing voice, like a gas main intent on murder, Dirk made the mistake of looking up.
 |
| Art by Carolina-Eade |
"It's a shame you're not as tall as I imagined," the thing continued as it slithered down into the command throne, scales flashing. "But we all know the best stories have a little lie in them, don't we?"
Dirk blinked again, trying to figure out why he was on a spaceship being spoken down to by a giant snake-woman. Had he really hit the Christmas Jack that hard?
"Um, no offence," he tried, mouth feeling full of fluff. "But who the fuck are you?"
"You will watch your language in the presence of-!" screeched a voice from the shadows, and Dirk almost jumped out of his skin. But at the same time, he found his hackles rising with an in-bred genetic hatred - the speaker had the grackled, throaty tones of a-
"Oh, hush, Commander Varn," the snake-thing responded, idly scraping it's talons along the arm of the throne. "It is my fault, after all - forgot to introduce myself, in all this excitement." It's eyes gazed down at Dirk with a sort of idle detatchment, as a lion might look upon an ant, and the angel couldn't help but shudder as a chill he couldn't explain ran down his spine. There was just something about this thing that didn't sit well with him at all.
"My name," it continued, with a thin sort of smile, "is Lady Glacia. Princess of the Seventh Continent, Daughter of Nibiru and, as of now, your master."
Nibiru. That was enough to get Dirk interested - no, more than interested,
fired up. Ever since the incident last Christmas, where he fought in mortal combat with a rather genocidal Annunaki, the mere mention of the planet's name was enough to put the dark angel on edge. And now here he was, a prisoner of yet another megalomaniacal somebody from that same planet! With a surge of energy born of righteous annoyance he staggered to his feet, clenching his fists, anger etched across his face as he faced down his serpentine enemy.
"If you're looking to start a fight," he snarled, wings twitching, "then bring it, bitch. I took down Fyros, and I'll just as easily-"
To his surprise, the Nibirian laughed. It was oddly musical and chiming, in stark contrast to the thin speech she'd used to address him, and that only served to derail his train of thought and make his down feathers rise in reflexive fear. And in the shadows, all around him, he was quite certain that others were laughing at him as well, in cackling tones that echoes around the room like a flock of birds trapped in a storm drain. Their mere presence unnerved him even further - he
swore he could remember what they were...
"Bless you,
no!" exlaimed Glacia as she shifted in her throne, her coils sliding along the floor in great folds. "Fighting is the
last thing I want! Messy business, hat is - never gets you anywhere!"
"But..." Dirk lowered his arms, confused. "Then why yank me out of my house like that? What's the point?"
"The
point," came the retort, low and icy, "is that I have a score to settle with you, Dirk Angelos. A score that began a year ago, on the surface of the tiny yet powerful living planet of Lauplas. A score that, in a few Macrorels' time, I shall settle once and for all, as befitting of my status as a Princess of the Nibirian race. You will pay," Glacia hissed, lips drawn back to expose cruel fangs, "for the callous muder of my husband one year to this day, Low Angel, I swear it!"
Dirk opened his mouth to reply that no, he'd killed
Fyros on Lapulas, and he was pretty sure that Annunaki and native Nibirians weren't exactly the same thing. The last time he checked, that had been the case, anyway - it wasn't hard to mistake a flaming dragon for a giant snake-person, unless you were drunk. But he got halfway through formulating that thought when another one shouldered it's way in, like a rhino forcing open it's cage door, and the resulting mental pictures made his brain scream with horror and disgust, the angel nearly falling down from the shock.
"Fyros was your
husband?!" he hollered, eyes wide.
"Move to the top of the class," trilled Glacia, a little too enthusiastically.
It was some time before Dirk could splutter out some more words. "But... Since when did Annunaki start mingling with Nibirians?!"
"Oh, about a thousand years ago." The native Nibiran's tone grew wistful as she idly curled her tail into a small spiral. "And besides, it was an arranged marriage - money, power, putting our families in good standing, blah blah blah..." Her voice trailed off, her eyes vacantly staring into the distance.
Dirk was quick to put two and two together. "I take it you didn't actually like him that much."
Glacia huffed through both nostrils. "Oh, of
course not! The man was such a
frightful bore - always going on about his plans for conquest and subjugation! Almost never at home, fighting some wretched war on the other side of the universe - never even a birthday card! On top of that," and here an almost rebellious smile curved across the Princess' features, "he was, I believe the saying goes, a genocidal prick."
"You got
that right!" Dirk couldn't restrain a small laugh at the innapropriate language, feeling slightly more relaxed now that the reptillian princess seemed calmer and more genial. In fact, it seemed to him that, despite holding a very obvious grudge against him, seemed far more reasonable and willing to talk it out than Fyros had been. Perhaps this wasn't going to be so bad - after all, if an Anunnaki's wife was this much more friendly than the Anunnaki himself, they couldn't hate him that much.
He was proved wrong very quickly.
"But he was still my
husband!"
Before Dirk could react accordingly, the Nibirian suddenly shot out like a whip, and sharp claws flashed through the air like scimitars. The angel gasped with pain as his face was suddenly struck, staggering backwards from the force of the blow as his stomach lurched sickeningly. As he swiveled on the spot, clutching his stinging cheek, Glacia rose up into the air on the great length of her tail, eyes shimmering with both the dim lighting and a rage that could melt ice caps, before diving down to glare at him from eye level.
"You
murdered him," she snarled, practically shouted. "
Humiliated him and
robbed him of his dignity, and then
vaporised him as if he were no more than a common lowlife! By killing him, you have impugned my honour as his wife, insulted my name as much as you insulted his own! And no-one insults a Nibirian, native or Anunnaki, and walks away free! You will suffer for this, angel, and I will personally ensure you are suitably punished!"
Despite the shock of being attacked and the fright caused by his hostess' change of demenaour, Dirk remained defiant. He didn't believe much in honour - to him, it was a dumb concept that let people get away with really dumb shit, or stopped them doing the right thing out of sheer stupidity. So no, Glacia's motivation didn't impress him in the least. And despite the fact she was practically shrieking in his face, not to mention that she'd just sliced him open, he refused to let himself back down for a second.
"So, what are ya gonna do?" he growled, ignoring the feeling of blood tricking down his face. "Line me up in front of a firing squad? Rip me limb from limb? Fry me with some kind of death ray?"
"As fun as those sound," hissed Glacia, scales scraping on the metal floor, "I have something far better in mind. You Ee-Yarth people have a celebration as this time of year, do you not? Well, so do we Nibirians - and I have special preparations to make for them this year. And I brought you aboard especially for them - not that you'll be able to appreciate it in any way, of course."
Dirk blinked, bewildered. "Okay, firstly, it's pronounced
Earth. Secondly,
the fuck is
that supposed to mean?"
A toothy grin spread across the Daughter of Nibiru's face.
"You shall see, very soon."
Then she snapped her claws, and figures emerged from the shadows - tall, gangly things covered in feathers, with cruel, hooked beaks and blank, staring eyes. As one, they assembled in a ring around the low angel, blocking off escapes of any kind as they slowly advanced on him, brandishing truncheons, knobbled clubs and other assorted implements. At the sight of them, Dirk felt anger flare in his mind, and he looked upon each one of the uniform-clad soldiers with disgust and hatred.
"Vulturites," he snarled, teeth and fists clenched. "You hired fucking
Vulturites."
"Oh, they are merely hired help," crooned Glacia as she slowly backed awat. "Not that it was diffucult, you understand - show them money and food and you'll have them eating out of your hand." And with a dignified movement that hardly belied her earlier seething rage and possible mental complexes, she resumed her seat in the throne, smirking with palpable triumph.
"
Now you can throw him in a holding cell."
-------
"Oof!"
That is the sound of a Dark Angel impacting with the far wall of a large holding cell, for those of you who are interested. As Dirk slumped to the floor, holding his ribs, the Vulturites loomed in the doorway, derisives sneers on their beaks.
"You're not getting out of this one, Angel," hissed one, elicting a cackle from his companion. And then the door swished shut, the magnetic lock sealing with a decided "click", and whatever witty retort Dirk has in his throat died away as his tormentors laughed away down the corridor. And it occured to him that it was going to be another one of those days, where things had gone slightly out of control and there wasn't much he could do to stop it just yet.
"Well," he grumbled as he picked himself up. "What a lot of bollocks."
"You can say that again," said a voice like silver bells.
Dirk froze.
Then he turned around, and laid eyes on a familiar face, decked in a very familiar green outfit with an equally familiar jingle to the bells.
"Merry Elf?" he gasped.
The small, brown-haired figure looked up sheepishly at him. "Not just me, Mister Dirk. I've brought friends as well." And from behind him came two other familiar faces - a somewhat taller figure, solidly built and with enormous hands like cinder blocks, and a petite young girl with chocolate-brown locks and a distressed twinkle to her eye. All three of the elves regarded him with mized expressions of relief and sorrow, and Dirk didn't know wherever to be amazed or horrified at their presence.
There was a long silence.
"Some reunion, huh," rumbled Punchy after a while.
Dirk nodded. "So ol' Ice Queen caught you guys as well, huh? Figures she'd want to get back at you guys as well."
"She's quite mad," muttered Merry, head lowered. "Madder than her monstrous husband was, I fear. Kringle knows what terrible plans she's got in store for us."
"Hey, don't worry, guys!" Dirk knelt down to meet the elves at eye level, smiling as encouragingly as he could. "I saved you guys once, and I can do it again, right? No crazy snake-lady is gonna get the best of us, if I have anything to say about it!"
On hearing this, Punchy gave a little whoop of joy. "That's our Dirk! Fightin' talk, all the way!"
"But remember," trilled Maisy, batting her eyelashes, "you still owe me a kiss!"
It was Dirk's turn to grin sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. "Yeah, about that-"
"This conversation is irrelevant."
Dirk froze.
Then he looked to his left.
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| Dalek 2002 render by Rob Semenoff |
"OH, JESUS CHRIST," he screamed, "IT'S A FUCKING DALEK!" And he promptly back-pedalled to the opposite wall of the cell, pressing himself against it in a vain attempt to merge with it and vanish.
"Cease your hysterical screaming," grated the Dalek as it rumbled towards him, head lights flashing with each syllable. "I am incapable of harm."
"Incapable of-?!" Dirk's terrified rant immediately stopped as a glint of metal caught his eye. Looking reflexively down, the angel noticed that the Dalek's gunstalk was crooked and buckled, the glass focusing lens shattered beyond repair and the main barrel a sorry, crumpled mess. Relief washed over him, although it was a small relief considering he was still locked in a small room with a member of the most genocidal race ever.
"They broke his weapon, Mr. Dirk," Maisy chimed in, simultaneously reassuring yet nervous. "He can't do anything to hurt us."
"Yeah, right," hissed Dirk, wings still crossed low behind his back in fear. "The fuck is he doing here, anyway?!"
"I am a prisoner, like yourself," came the reply. "I was abducted from my station and brought abord this vessel. My subspace-communicator is damaged - I cannot send out a distress signal to my superiors."
"Probably best you didn't." The idea of a whole fleet of Daleks swooping down to raze the entire planet at Christmastime did not settle well in Dirk's mind. And the unblinking stare from the alien's eyestalk aimed right at him wasn't helping him to stay calm, either.
"But why would Glacia capture you?" enquired Merry, tilting his head to the side. "That doesn't make sense - you haven't done anything to offend her, surely?"
"Negative." The Dalek's eyestalk swivled down to observe the tiny elf. "Daleks do not intrude in Nibirian space - the distance between our planets is too great."
"Wait a moment..." Dirk's voice was hesitant as he spoke. "If that's the case, then why would she go out of her way to abduct you?"
The Dalek turned to stare at him, but gave no answers. The elves were staring uo at him too, just as confused, and Dirk realised a rather nasty idea was creeping into his head, bit by bit. He took a deep breath, figuring this would need some explaining - it was just the ghost of an idea at the moment, but the implications were not pretty at all.
"See, Glacia can't just be after us. Me and the Elves, I mean," he added hastily. "If she's caught a Dalek as well, then that could mean she's got other species as well, from different planets, galaxies or maybe even universes. All of them locked up in this dungeon of hers. And she mentioned something about a special celebration, when she was interrogating me - some kind of freakish parallel to Earth's Christmas that she's apparently making big preparations for, and I'm supposed to be a big part in it.
"So, what I want to know is... where do you lot fit in?"
There was a long, tense silence as angel, Dalek and elf tried to figure out the mystery.
Fortunately, the tension was broken by an announcement on the tannoy, crackling over the speakers in the corner of the room. As one, the prisoners turned to look at it, wondering what sort of an announcement it would be.
Unfortunately, the voice coming over the tannoy was that of Lady Glacia.
And, as Dirk listened to what was being said, his face slowly went paler and paler with horror.
-------
"Good evening, loyal subjects!
"This is your Lady speaking - Lady Glacia of Nibiru, Princess of the Seventh Continent, with an important announcement! As you're aware, the celebration dinner for this year's Independance Festival takes place in about three Macrorels, and attendance is mandatory for all crew and staff - failure to attend is punishable by execution. Unless you're one of the three-hundred current sufferers of the Jovian flu, in which case the cost of your portion is being docked from your pay. I didn't put this together so you could let it go cold, you ingrates.
"Anyway, I have some very good news to impart - the menu has now been completed! A copy has all been sent to your personal data pads for your perusal, and you are expected to make your selection of food and send it back to our main computer so we can prepare it for you. Don't want to end up like last year where we couldn't make enough chocolate pudding so some of you ended up with the custard instead! Honestly, how was I supposed to know you'd all froth at the mouth and die? Your fault for not mentioning your allergies on your CV's...
"So, this year's looking to be the biggest Independance Feast so far! We've got a wide range of dishes and delicacies from across the galaxy, including:
- Dalek tentacle soup with fresh bread!
- Korath gizzard a la carte!
- Lapulas Elf fricassee with salad garnish and Spiridonian mint sauce!
- Chocolate and diced dryad pudding topped with marzipan and nutmeg!
- Imported Plesioth liver creme brulee!
- And our centerpiece for tonight - Low Angel rump roast with parsnips, roast potatoes and Spicy Angel Wings!
"This has been your Lady and master, saying... Happy Frosttime!"
Click.
-------
"She... she wants to
eat us..."
A long, awful silence filled the cell. The Dalek hadn't moved from it's position, but it's eyestalk was staring intently at the speaker. Merry and the other elves, by contrast had taken to hiding behind Dirk's legs, trembling in fear and hugging each other to try and keep each other calm. The Dark Angel himself, meanwhile, could only stand there, wings twitching in horror as he tried to digest this latest bit of news concerning his predicament. Not only was Lady Glacia, the alien who'd taken him onto her ship, extremely angry with him for killing Fyros, her husband by arranged marriage...
...but she wanted to
eat him!
As pert of her race's
annual celebrations, no less!
He was beginning to understand how a turkey feels.
"Guess I was right," muttered Merry from somewhere behind him. "She's even worse than her husband, after all."
"As if being burnt alive wasn't bad enough," sobbed Maisy, ger voice laden with hysterical fear. "But now we're going to be roasted and eaten instead!"
"Well, she's not roasting
my rump," burst out Dirk, "and
that's for fucking certain! I'm getting out of here before that happens!" At this determined shout, the elves looked up at him, eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and hope.
"But how?" Punchy emerged from his hiding place to look at Dirk properly, eyebrows high with bewilderment. "This place is locked up tighter than a Boxing Day moneybank! And they've probably got guards on patrol as well - what if they catch us?"
Dirk turned to look down at the elf, eyes set with classic Kobber determination and righteous anger. "Don't worry about that," he growled. "Vulturites might be foul, disgusting and a whole lot of other rude names I could use right now, they're also dumb as shit. If there's an excuse to get drunk, they'll drop everything to do so - they're probably getting pissed right now, not even paying attention to us."
Also stepping out from behind Dirk's legs, Merry fixed both of his eyes on the door. "But what about
that?" he enquired.
Dirk blinked, realising he'd hit something of a snag. In his enthusiasm to defy yet another Christmas-ruining villain, he'd completely forgotten one of the most basic steps of a prison break - figuring out how to break out in the first place. And it was going to be tricky - the door was completely smooth, with no evidence of handles or locks on it, or even any buttons that would give a clue as to how to open it. It was also probably made of some fancy material that repelled magic, as well, so that was out of the question, and nobody in the cell had any explosives or cutting implements on them as far as he knew. Looking at the souleless, grey lump of metal that stood between him and freedom, the Dark Angel was not omly completely stumped, but also felt a little hopeless.
And then the Dalek, silent until now, swivelled to face the angel.
"I have been performing preliminary scans of the ship's structure since my capture," it growled in it's trademark staccato tones.
"The technology is Nibirian in origin, but includes facillities borrowed from vessels of other races."
Dirk sighed in irritation. "
Very bloody useful, mate. Now tell us something that would help us
escape."
"This prison is Dalek design. The doors use magnetic locks manufactured on Skaro."
Magnetic locks. At those words, something clicked in Dirk's head, and a memory popped up like a duck at a shooting range. A few days ago, bored and not in the mood to wrap presents, the dark angel had slumped onto the couch and endeavoured to watch the first thing that came on TV, no matter how rubbish. By sheer coincidence
Daleks Invasion Earth 2150 A.D. had been on BBC2, and although the film wasn't
bad, he'd still found himself falling asleep during parts of it. But one time, when he was awake, he remembered Peter Cushing opening the doors of a cell by...
Quickly, he turned to Merry and the other elves. "You guys got anything plastic on you?" he asked. "I think I got an idea on how to bust out."
"I don't think so, Mr. Dirk," said Merry, and Punchy also shook his head likewise. But Maisy was already digging through her pockets, and before Dirk could blink she'd produced a large, flat comb from sonewhere on her person. The tiny elf held it out between thumb and forefinger, just high enough so Dirk could take it without bending down.
"I always carry one with me," she explained as the angel took it from her, examining it closely. "Just in case I need to fix up my hair."
But Dirk was already running towards the door, kneeling down as he reached it and examining the bottom of it. From what he remembered, there would be a certain lump in the door that indicated the presence of the magnetic- ah-
hah, there it was! Now, all he had to do was force the comb, point-wise, through the-
Yes!
With a click and a swoosh, the door opened, and both angels and elves scrambled out of the cell, nearly falling over each other in their haste to get into the corridor that formed the prison bay. As a bunch they all collapsed against the opposite wall and flattened themselves against it, fully expecting alarms to start blaring and patrols of armed guards to come stampeding around the corner with guns loaded and blugeons drawn. But after half a minute or so, waiting with baited breath, the four were shocked to see that absolutely nothing of the sort was happening, and didn't seem likely to happen in the near future. Not a single Vulturite showed up, and there wasn;t even so much as a flashing red light to mark their escape.
There was a long, awkward pause, in which the Dalek glided slowly out of the cell, seemingly non-plussed by the other's brief moment of panic
"...but why-?" Punchy began to say, but trailed off.
"That's probably how the door works," Merry tried, staring at the cold, square room he was in just a moment ago. "They probably just cut the power to the lock every time they open it, so there's no way to tell if-"
"Are we escaping or not?" cut in Maisy, sharply.
"Actually," muttered Dirk after a while, "I've been thinking - why do we have to just escape? I mean, assuming we manage to sneak past the gaurds and, I dunno, find drop pods back to earth or something. Assuming we succeed in all that. What's gonna stop Glacia from hunting us down when she finds out we've flown the coop and bringing us back in?"
"...So what do we do, Mr. Dirk?" piped up Maisy, after a moment to mull this over.
"Well," replied the angel, "if we're gonna dick a Nibirian over, then we gotta go all the way." Picking himself up from the floor, he turned to the Dalek, who had been amusing itself by counting the rivets in the walls. "Oi, tinpot - please tell me you downloaded a map of the ship during those fancy scans of yours."
"Correct," boomed the Dalek, the volume of it's voice making the evles jump to their feet out of shock.
"I was successful in downloading the schematics of the ship via remote hacking."
"Fucking ace." Dirk clapped his hands together, grinning. "Can you display them holographically?"
"I obey."
The travel machine's manipulator arm tilted upwards, the outer edges of the plunger glowing blue with light. There was a brief flash of light and, before the eyes of the other four, a large replica of the ship materialised above the plunger, spinning gently in the way of all holograms. Leaning over, Dirk beckoned the elves over, who crowded around him with fascination as he began to modify the hologram, pushing and pulling to enlarge it and cutting parts away into cross section with a casual flick of the wrist.
"Guys," chuckled the angel, "we're going to
steal Frosttime.
"And this is how we're gonna do it..."
TO BE CONTINUED...
