Excerpt: Plutonium Road

The retching from the aft head took Trenton Clemmo’s momentarily off the controls.

“Cut that shit, would ya, Stanford?” He called towards the back of the craft. “I need you up here for the re-entry program and guidance.”

“I can help you, Trenton,” said Norm from the control panel speaker.

“No thank you, Norm. Bartula can do it.”

“You know I can do it, too, don’t you? I would like to help, you know.”

“Yes, I understand that, Norm,” said Clemmo, slightly exaperated at the computer system. “I appreciate your offer, but I want Bartula to operate the re-entry program with me. He needs the exercise and I need him to help when we perform the return entry.”

“I see.”

“Yes. I’m sure you do.” Clemmo operated a few switches on the control panel. “Besides, we never know when there will be an emergency on re-entry. We may need your help managing those kinds of emergencies. Having Bartula at the controls will free your processors to work on those emergencies.

“I understand, Trenton. Well, I’ll be right here. Just let me know if you need any help.”

“Will do,” said Clemmo.

“Any help at all,” said Norm.

“Okay. Gotta go now, Norm. I need to keep an eye on these controls now. We’re only about 100k above the surface now.” Clemmo flicked off the speaker volume on the control panel to eliminate the awkward conversation endings he usually had to endure with Norm.

“He can be quite a pain in the ass,” said Stanford Bartula, stumbling through the hatch to the control cabin and falling into his co-pilot seat. “Did you cut the speaker?”

“Yeah,” said Clemmo. “Strap yourself in and start the secondary re-entry procedures on your end. We’re at 100k right now and there’s not much time before landing.”

“Aye aye, cap’n!” retorted Bartula, sliding two fingers across his forehead in a mock salute.

Clemmo glanced at Bartula. “You look like crap, Stanford. How many times have you barfed now in the last two hours?”

“Why do we always have to make an appearance via space, anyhow?” asked Bartula. “God damn, but space travel makes me sick.”

“You know why. These people are more impressed when we use the space entry technique. You know, flashing lights in the sky, a roar, laser cannons, all the hot sci-fi shit.”

“I understand,” said Bartula. He wiped some spittle from his chin. “That trip around Jupiter and the sun always wipes me out, though. I’ve been making these trips for five years now, and it still wipes me out.”

Clemmo made an adjustment to the trim controls, now that he was feeling the forces of thicker atmosphere running over the tail spurs of the craft, and chuckled. “That’s why I like you, so much, Stanford. I appreciate having you with me on my adventures, because I always know what to expect from you.”

Bartula smirked and kept at it: “Why can’t we just pop in right where we want to go, make our maneuvers, and get the hell out? Why do we always need a big space production? Doesn’t Vaximon have access to inner space technology? Couldn’t he get us here through one of the wormholes he funded?”

“Yeah, probably,” answered Clemmo. “This wasn’t one of his bigger projects, though. Inner space technology is ungodly expensive and is one he only spares no expense on for his bigger initiatives.”

“Look. All I know is that Norris Vaximon is one of the wealthiest people on the home world. Why he can’t spare for inner space technology on all his projects, I don’t understand.”

“Let’s just say it’s cheaper to pay for a few extra airsickness bags than it is to pay for inner space jumps to this world.”

Some clicks and beeps emanated from the console. Bartula scanned the gauges. “Do we need the close object force field?”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Clemmo. “I checked the planet profile before re-entry. There are only a handful of satellites in close orbit over this world. I’ve tracked them all and we’re at least a half-hemisphere from them.”

“No sense in expending the energy reserves, then,” said Bartula as he clicked off the close object force field. “You have the landing coordinates entered into Norm yet?”

“Yes. We’re landing in a place named Oliver Springs. It’s in the United State of Tennessee.”

“Ah, the northern section of the Americas,” said Bartula as he made another adjustment to the tail spars. “We seem to go there an awful lot on these trips.”

“So much seems to happen on that part of this planet. Our reference digests seem to always point to this landmass in this part of the hemisphere.”

“This time are we at least in a section where our natural life support systems aren’t taxed?”

“Yes, Stanford,” said Clemmo as he initiated the retro thrusters. “This area has no indications of what the inhabitants call ‘snow,’ although they occasionally get ‘icing freezes.’ We should have no issues with that, though. The time of the year for this hemisphere is called ‘June’ in their annual calendar. The weather is supposedly pleasant for our body types.”

“Great! Finally, a project with a decent location. That’s good news.” Bartula checked his readouts. “Looks like it’s time for the vertical thrust adjustment.”

“Check. Well, here we go.”

“Wait a minute,” said Bartula. “I see something here on the long-range scanner. Do you see it?”

Clemmo checked his scanner. “Yes. It looks like a group of humanoids. Wait a minute, let’s get Norm in on this.” He flicked the speaker control on the control panel. “Norm. Are you reading what we’re seeing on the long range scanner?”

“Affirmative, Trenton,” replied Norm the computer. “I’m reading a dozen humanoid forms within a one gradient area. It appears they’re mounted on…confirming…confirmed…they’re mounted on internal combustion machines called ‘motorcycles.’”

“I remember reading about those machines during my project prep work,” said Clemmo. “They’re two-wheeled conveyance vehicles of this planet. They’re usually a non-conservative conveyance, though.”

“Trenton,” interjected Norm. “It appears as though two of the humanoids are on a collision course. Projected impact is 45 seconds.”

“Trenton,” said Bartula. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That we might have an opportunity here?”

“Exactly. A little flash and dazzle to impress the natives?”

“Let’s do it, then. Cancel the vertical retro thrust.” Bartula made the adjustment to the control panel. “Norm, arm the laser cannon. Heavy stun setting.”

“Affirmative, Trenton,” replied Norm. “May I suggest strobe announcements during our approach?”

“Good idea, Norm,” said Clemmo. “Let’s turn their night into day, then turn their day into hell.” He chuckled at this thought.

“So,” said Bartula. “Plan 5? “

“Yes,” said Clemmo. “That’s the one.”

“Approaching target,” interjected Norm. “Laser cannons locked on the motorcycles. Ready to fire in ten seconds.”

“Start strobes in five seconds,” said Clemmo. “Norm. Lock in just on the northbound motorcycle. And include lateral stunning fusillade.”

“Affirmative, Trenton. Commencing strobes…now.”

From the control windows, Clemmo and Bartula saw the landscape light up. Random nocturnal animals scattered from open fields to tree cover. The ship swept over the roadway, a blast of laser cannonlight emanating blue over the landscape.

Norm had trained forward video capture from the cannon on the target. It displayed on the control panel. The two aliens on the craft watched dispassionately as the cannon blew the front wheel off the northbound motorcycle. The rider, clad in a black leather jacket and blue jeans, held onto the handlebars for as long as he could, as the bike bucked and rocked under him. He finally flew over the handlebars and into a ditch.
The passenger in back of him, arms wrapped around his torso, lost grip and flew beyond the rider into a tree alongside the ditch.

“Shit!” said Clemmo. “Norm, give me audio from down there.”

“Affirmative, Trenton.”

There was a second of static and phasing, then the aliens in the spacecraft heard the commotion on the ground. Various yelling and commotion amongst the humanoids.
Norm started an automated isolation process on the voices and attenuated the background noises. Suddenly, a voice cut through.

“My god! They killed Jackie!”

Another voice: “Jim, let’s get out of here!”

Clemmo and Bartula watched as the southbound motorcycle spun around and headed north at high speed.

“Cut the audio, Norm,” snapped Clemmo.

Bartula slumped back in his chair. “I hate it when we start a project with collateral damage.”

“Me, too,” said Clemmo. “Norm, cut the strobes and disarm the laser cannon.”

“Affirmative, Trenton.”

“Norm, are you reading the homing signal from the cache yet?”

“Affirmative, Trenton. It’s emanating just east of Oliver Springs, just outside of town.”

“Okay, Norm. Set our landing coordinates to the signal beacon.”

“Don’t you want to survey the area first for an appropriate landing spot?” Bartula asked Clemmo.

“No need. This cache was placed discretely.”

One of the good things about working projects for Vaximon is the company always sent scouts to the various planet sites to check the locations and lay of the land. In this case, a discrete placement meant the lay of the land was literally checked for optimal ship placement at entry.

Once placed, the advance scout would set a homing beacon on the cache of money, local maps, and any other paperwork and documentation that would assist the aliens. Project runners like Clemmo and Bartula could slip in from space un-noticed and find an optimal landing spot without calling a lot of attention to their craft.

“Okay, then,” said Bartula. “Let’s start the vertical retros and get this thing parked.”