It was snowing on the terraformed moon of Amalthea but the sky was greenish due to the cheap chemicals suspended in the human-created atmosphere. At this hour, the frozen streets overlooked by gray post-Soviet brutalist buildings were almost empty because the temperature could quickly drop below -50°C.
Wearing his thick overcoat, the Marine stood beside Melblanc Easter, the full-rabbit-Freak bearing Amalthea’s Marshal star. Both were leaning against the hood of the flying Ford LTD.
“What’s up, Doc?” Ali asked as the semi-toxic vapor coming out of her mouth turned olive.
“Shut up, you psychos!” Mel reacted, throwing his cigarette butt into the pine snow which became blue where it melted. “Get in the car,” he then ordered before opening the driver’s door. “Right away!”
“Don’t start pissing off the rabbit again,” Braun advised while opening the left rear door for us. “Vets from the Red Uprising are pretty unstable, and—”
“Don’t care. What’s all this about?” Ali insisted before stepping in.
The rude rodent turned on the engine and the loud heating system once the Marine was inside. “First of all, please forgive me about Ceres,” Braun began after sipping his cold coffee cup. The smell made Ali and me nauseous as we hated this boring-adult drink. “The seriousness of the situation forced me to take intolerable and drastic measures.”
“Everything leads us to believe that you’re repeating the same mistakes here,” I replied. Making a loud exaggerated throat-cleaning noise, Ali handed her wrists to mimic an arrest. “No solid proof could link us to the Maiden on Ceres.”
“I know. And I should have included you in Zéphyr’s hunt,” Braun confessed as his chair rotated to face us shortly after we took off. “I didn’t trust you until the whole system talked about your coup against the Lost Triads. Flatlining this son of a bitch of Xiao was a master stroke. Even the Metal Rain lost his track years ago.”
Ali’s fists clenched. The oblivious Marine didn’t know how delicate the subject was; nor that Zéphyr was deeply involved. “Get to the point,” I said.
The MP nodded, then rolled up his left sleeve. From his wrist-computer, he displayed the classified search warrant of a young female Freak. According to the file, she owned the tail, back and upper body of a fire salamander. “Her name is Sassie ‘Belle’ Salamanca. Simple trouble-free escort at the Lusty Lady until a week ago—”
“Alas, according to surveillance VHS, she has reconverted,” Mel cut off. “She blew up an Arsine’s extraction station in the heart of Jupiter. Her fireworks caused the death of a hundred technicians and engineers—including Freaks—and destroyed C$70,000,000 of goods and equipment. It’s the worst industrial disaster since Bhopal Orbital.”
“Sick!” Ali reacted to this incredible professional reconversion before consulting the news feed from her own computer she plugged into the car. “Yet, no media seems to talk about it.”
“It’s a corpo problem… or related to the Freaks Bureau of Investigation,” I grumbled. “Why did the Marine send you?”
“Because the Arsine is indispensable to the war effort against the Separatist League on Saturn,” replied Braun. “These stations represent a crucial military issue, hence my presence here.”
“The operation’s top secret,” Mel added. “A Freak joining the separatists could be the spark setting Jupiter ablaze.”
“Why do you want Amalthea to remain neutral in this conflict?” I asked. “I thought the Freaks would love to end the apartheid. Fighting the Technocracy on Saturn could be a good first step, right?”
“For now, Solaris doesn’t need a second sun,” Mel grunted, glancing at Braun who was unwrapping a bubblegum. “Social rights come after.”
“We’re now joining a ship chartered by the special services,” Braun announced before turning on the car’s radio embedded in his armrest. “Of course, if you agree, you will receive a generous bonus for your help and silence. I need you, Xiao’s bane, because I’m all alone. Mars can’t afford rogue spooks around Amalthea. We don’t want to repeat the same mistake we made during the Red Uprising.”
“We’re talking about a black op with potential heavy political fallout… and you trust us?” I jested, turning to Ali whose nose was glued to the armored window where the green flakes clung. She wasn’t following the conversation anymore and focused on the morose yet colorful skyline after stealing Braun’s bubblegum pack.
“It’s just one Freak,” Braun added. He paused while browsing the whizzing police channels. “One easy job that could save a lot of lives on this moon. The bonus is also substantial.”
“Half of it would be to shut your darn mouth, though,” Mel pursued before giving an access code through the quavering radio. “That’s the part I’m worried ab—”
“Get bent, Thumper!” my partner reacted. “I’ll do your shitty gig. But I want four fried chickens. And a coke.”
“You want four—whatever…” Braun sighed. Letting out a curse, he prevented Ali from sticking her piece of gum in her armrest’s ashtray. “And you, cat?”
“How desperate are you?” I laughed. The police vehicle began a climb towards the windborne police station that had become invisible in the blizzard. “But yes. And some dry white toast, please.”
The stealth interceptor requisitioned for the operation was waiting for us, ready to go with the Kitty clipped beneath. Once out of the car, Mel introduced us to the first crew member: a man in blue jeans with no arms but two flippers, busy checking the ship’s front thrusters.
“I’m Pingu, the pilot,” said the Freak with an orange beak supporting an unlikely pair of sunglasses crowned by long gold feathers. “I owned my nickname before this fucking claymation twat. Deal with it.”
“As for her, it’s Mute,” Braun continued. The second sailor, seated on the access ramp, was an all-around brown cicada with red eyes. She carried nothing but a Fischer Price radio-cassette suspended at her neck by an elastic sports band. “Mute is… mute since an incident during a rescue mission over Charon. From then, she only communicates through recordings. She’s the medic and mechanic. As many arms as functions, we could say.”
Mute waved, then dug into her crinkled wings to select a first cassette she jammed into her oversized childish radio. A mediocre quality advertising jingle welcomed us.
Ali had stars in her eyes facing this Pickle Family Circus A-Team. “Rasputin. This is the coolest gang I’ve ever seen…”
Mel, Pingu and Mute almost made us forget that they were veterans of the Metal Rain, Luna’s special forces and, therefore, ruthless killers in the Gods’ pay. In other words: not our friends. At all.
The interceptor, named Noah’s Ark, dusted off shortly afterwards with Pingu and Mel in command. We quickly headed towards the deep atmosphere of the gaseous planet where the refineries produced Arsine. It took us less than two hours at ultra-high speed, thanks to the Marine’s new Baltimore-XXV post-nuclear reactor.
“How are we going to flush this Belle Sassie out?” Ali asked while freeing herself from her harness. Taking me into her arms, we started to cross the round deck to reach the ladder leading to the cockpit.
Beyond the windows, the black horizon turned ocher and orange. We bathed in a veil of spices. The clouds were streaked with gold lightning and changed color with the heavenly winds: sometimes pink, sometimes brown. Their voluptuous dance was as mesmerizing as it was dangerous.
“Let’s start by dodging these storms,” Mel started, “and—”
The dashboard suddenly turned red. A loud alert caught the attention of the two pilots who ordered us to come back down and fasten our belts again. My human and I jumped below as the interceptor rushed straight into that Underworld sky.
“Is it me or is this asteroid on fire?” we heard Pingu ask through the com channel. “Computer? Check the orbiting cluster drifting our way.”
“It’s not an asteroid, it’s going far too fast!” said Braun, sitting in front of us next to Mute who had just turned on the deck’s screens—that way, we all followed what was happening outside. “It looks like a titanic ship!”
He was right. The Buzz Aldrin, former flagship of Venus kryptonians, was throttling towards Jupiter’s core. Its side cabin and the huge spheroid tanks were subject to a frightful fire.
“Krypton is inert. Why is it burning?” I asked as the video turned blurry because of the high velocity.
“Requisitioned by the Techno-Marine, it must have stuffed up on Arsine,” replied the MP. “We must stop it!”
“This is an Interceptor not a cruiser,” Mel, eternally in a bad mood, shouted through the com. “This thing is ten thousand times bigger than our aircraft! And I do not board a furnace like that!”
The computer issued a new alarm before a red circle appeared on the screens. This innovative system, overlying the video signal, warned us of a monopod ejection from the Buzz Aldrin.
“Let’s get it,” I suggested. “A transporter of this size doesn’t catch fire alone! My word, your Belle Sassie must be involved.”
Swearing like McEnroe, Mel told Pingu to dock the monopod as Mute left her chair despite the high speed crushing us. Thanks to her six legs and external skeletons, the giant cicada could quickly reach the hold beneath us and, under Mel’s orders, prepare the medical unit and its bunk for the survivor.
“Interceptors are damn fast,” Ali peeped while catching her breath once the ship finally slowed. “I could hear the sugar crystallizing in my brain!”
His face contorted with pain, Braun crossed the room to unstrap her. “Are you guys alright?”
“Yes!” I responded, thrilled.
“Let’s bounce!” he pursued, rushing with us to the sliding pole leading downstairs.
In the side airlock, between the clamps of the telescopic arm, the emergency capsule was charred. As Mute and Braun extracted its occupant, we noticed that this one was in critical condition.
“Is the dude alive? Why do I smell roast chicken?” Ali asked as the cicada and the Soviet laid the survivor on the bed. The whole room indeed stank like gas and garlic—burning Arsine.
The medical mini-droid which carried out the analyses was nevertheless reassuring: “Well—well—well. Toxic smoke inhalation. Few burns covered with dark soot,” it recounted as its sharp appendages meticulously applied restorative gel and a micro-compress.
Helped by Braun, my partner wiped out the soot covering the body which turned out to be a strange woman: “Are the two pairs of boobs normal?” worried my human while discovering the particular anatomy, just like the rest of the crew.
“Peculiar... And it’s not only soot!” I said. “We’re removing some skin!”
“We’re idiots! It’s Salamanca!” the Marine cried.
The salamander-woman’s black and red scales were visible under the superficial burns. After a quick check on Ali’s wrist-computer, the survivor’s FID did match the Freak’s data Mel provided us. We had caught our saboteur without any effort. That was indeed the most underwhelming job we ever did.
“Well—mission’s over…” the MP sighed as the marshal handcuffed the terrorist.
“Mute, watch over the girl and call us when she wakes up,” commanded the rabbit. “I’m going to see if Pingu can determine the trajectory of the kryptonian. We can’t let a burning ship orbiting at this speed around Jupiter.”
Mute snooped behind her back to get out a tape. “D’oh!” mistakenly coached a cartoon voice.
The marshal wished us goodbye before heading for the cockpit while rolling a cigarette. Braun took the time to escort us back to the Kitty, accessible through a hatch on the main deck.
“Sorry to have made you release Hermann for this,” the Soviet apologized. “You will still get your part of the reward.”
“That’s fine!” I said sarcastically. “We’re just going to put together another show—or an opera—to drive him out again! We thought about the Beauty and the Moron. Interested?”
The Soviet couldn’t retort. Several loud noises suddenly resounded beneath us. There was then a metallic squeak followed by a cry covered by Braun’s curses when he rushed to the pole. Mute laid on the ground of the room we left a few minutes ago, her wings wrinkled, but alive. The medical module had been ransacked and the small robot ripped apart. On the bed was laying the handcuffs, all twisted and bloody.
