Intergalactic Terrorist (New Dimension Book 1) (29 page)

    “We can use it to follow the dragon!”

    Giblet’s eyes narrowed. “And why would you want to follow the dragon?” he questioned. “The treasure is not for you bounty hunter. It is for the tournament!”

    “I am not interested in the treasure,” Greebol lied. “You helped us against the Sentry… and by the look of things you were victorious… therefore I simply wish to repay the favour.” Greebol did his smile.

    Giblet considered his proposal. He didn’t trust non-Dwarf folk. Too tall. Yet at the moment there did not seem to be another option. Giblet would use this ship and at the first chance would ditch its pilot.

    “I accept!” he crowed.

Chapter 43

The docking bay was still void of life. The empty ships sat quietly, making no fuss, in the dark room. All was still, all was silent.

    Into the gloom stepped Greebol, marching proudly towards his electrical.

    “What’s this pile of junk?” said Giblet. “Looks like it’s been scraped off the bottom of my giant, steel toe capped, leather boot!”

    Greebol scowled.

    “I’d be surprised if it could even take off the ground!” Wextoal chuckled.

    “The engines might,” Giblet continued, “don’t know about the rest of it!”

    “She may be a bit old and worn,” Greebol spat, not finding the jibes amusing, “but she will get you from A to B and in good time too.”

    Giblet ran his hand over the electrical’s hull. “I suppose she’ll do,” he said. “Tell me bounty hunter… what name do you give this monstrosity?”

    “She is called the King George,” Greebol said with a smile.

    “Your ship is no King,” said a sarcastic voice in the gloom. Giblet gripped his axe. Wextoal gripped his knife. Greebol gripped his crotch. From the shadows the five Elves emerged, led by High Delta officer Lemor’all. He looked at Giblet and sneered.

    Giblet shuffled on his feet, leaned in towards the Elves and began shoving Wextoal and Greebol with his elbows. “Hold me back,” he said pushing his way forwards yet in no way looking like his feet were actually going to move. “Hold me back! I don’t know what I’m capable of!”

    “Do silence your
dog
,” Lemor’all said, eyeing the Dwarf through squinted lids. He flicked his long hair and turned to Greebol. “You really should not listen to this… vertically challenged, brain-dead fool.”

    Giblet gasped. “Now come on Elf,” he huffed, “our feud isn’t personal! There’s no need to be sizest!”

    “Bounty hunter,” Lemor’all said to Greebol, ignoring the Dwarf, “you do not want to ally yourself with the Dwarf here. After all… what can
he
offer you? A rusty axe and a beard full of food?”

    Giblet looked at his axe that
was
slightly rusty. He peered down to his beard. Aha! There was
no
food! There
was
an old chicken bone however! Finding a bone in one's beard was a sign of good luck in Dwarf culture. Giblet’s confidence rose.

    The High Delta officer
continued. “The Elves can offer you much, much more. We have a ship as large as the sky with weapons more deadly and accurate than any old
axe
. Join us and we shall actually make you a king!”

    The cogs in Greebol’s head turned. Albeit not very quickly.

    “I
could
help you,” he said eventually, “but this good Dwarf fellow did just help us escape the Sentry.”

    “We would have done that,” the Elf scoffed. “All I’d need would be my little black box.” He flicked his hair and pouted.

    Greebol watched transfixed as the hair glistened like a freshly polished spoon and moved down the Elf’s back like ocean waves. He gibbered.

    “Little black box?” he said in the tone of a baby only just learning to speak.

    “A very clever device,” Lemor’all replied. “Trust me… with our black box you will want
us
to have your back. Not the Dwarf.”

    “What does it do?”

    The Elf smiled. “It seems a demonstration is in order!” He reached into his pocket, ready to use the black box on Giblet, but to his horror he found his pocket empty apart from a bit of fluff, an old tissue and a boiled sweet. Lemor’all looked up at Greebol with a tinge of worry on his placid face.

    “Where is this brilliant box?” asked Greebol, slowly snapping from the strange intoxication the Elves seemed to pass on to everyone who glanced at their marvellous hair.

    “Erm…” the Elf squirmed, “it’s… it’s… right here!”

    Lemor’all removed his hand from the pocket and held up nothing. Greebol, Wextoal and Giblet stared in confusion.

    “Can you not see it?” the Elf said with a guilty grin on his face. “Of course you can’t! It is an… invisible black box!”

    “An invisible
black
box?” repeated Giblet sarcastically. “If it is invisible then how do you know it is black?”

    “We just do,” Lemor’all snapped. “Do not question us little man!”

    “Who are you calling little?” Giblet fumed. “I may be smaller than you but at least I don’t look like a pansy girl!”

    The High Delta officer shunned the last comment with a flick of his hair and scoffed. “Say… aren’t you a little short even for a Dwarf?”

    That was it! Too far! The Elf had gone too far. Giblet flipped. He dove at Lemor’all, axe spinning in his hand. The other four Elves moved like a whisper on the wind to protect their commander. They drew silver swords that matched the hull of their ship and blocked Giblet’s attack. The Dwarf was not put off and continued to beat and batter at the wall of swords, desperate to smash through to Lemor'all’s slimy face.

    The first blood was shed as Giblet knocked one of the Elves backwards onto the impressive ship with the system five security generator. The Elf sizzled and sparked for a moment until its charred remains became a constant fixture on the ship’s hull!

    Greebol and Wextoal, bored of what was clearly none of their business, scaled the steps to the King George and entered. The electrical powered up, the thousands of tiny flashing lights blinking on.

    “We
are
going after the dragon aren’t we?” asked Wextoal, rubbing his scrawny, hairy hands.

    “
We
?” came Greebol’s response.

    “You’ll find I’ll come in handy. If I understand your way of thinking you have no plan to give that treasure over to either the Dwarf or the Elves.”

    “And what makes you think that?”

    Wextoal smiled. “It’s exactly what I would do!”

    Greebol gripped hold of the steering square. “The thing is you old swine… if I let you come along then I will have to share the treasure with you. That does not sound like a good thing to me.”

    “You owe me Greebol,” Wextoal spat. “Besides… you might need
this
.” He reached into the pocket of his large dirty overcoat and brought out Lemor’all’s little black box. Wextoal, ever the thief, had slyly pick-pocketed the Elf almost seconds after they had met. He also had the Elf’s insignia badge, wallet and hairspray.

    Greebol was impressed. True, Wextoal was a little bit crazy and unpredictable. True, Wextoal did have serious hygiene problems and tended to moult everywhere. True, Wextoal is said to have mated with his own grandmother. But he was a hell of a thief.

    Perhaps he
could
come in handy… at least until Greebol no longer needed him.

    “Welcome onboard!” he said with a smile.

    The King George began to rise into the air, wobbling slightly after its rest. If you can imagine what a slightly squashed, shelled hard-boiled egg would look like, should it be floating above the ground, then you can imagine the King George’s current appearance.

    There was a loud clash as Giblet dove at the electrical’s door. He rolled inside, a mess of horned hat, chain mail and beard.

    “If that offer still stands then I’d like to come with you,” he said to Greebol.

    As the Dwarf had a homing device on the dragon, Greebol accepted.

    “Trouble is,” Giblet continued, “we’ll have to get going right now!”

    A bright, flashing, weapons blast narrowly missed the electrical’s roof. The Elves had opened fire!

    Greebol instantly steered the electrical upwards, above the city and into the dark rain clouds, the Elves’ silver ship watching them.

    “We will not get very far away from these Elves,” Greebol muttered, “with that giant monstrosity above our heads. No matter where we go on this planet they will be able to find us…
and
destroy us!”

    “Then it’s a good job we don’t need to stay on this planet,” Giblet said looking at a scanning device attached to his wrist. “It seems the dragon has left Baggus’Regious.”

    On hearing those words, Greebol pulled up sharp, thrusting the electrical upwards, through the planet’s atmosphere, giant blasts from the Elf ship narrowly missing them or skimming off the surface.

    With an almighty ear bursting
pop!
the King George burst through the atmosphere and out into space, escaping from the might of the Elfin ship, away from the fat planet and out into the distance.

Chapter 44

Superintendent Stort watched in annoyance, although in no way showing he was annoyed, as Greebol’s electrical disappeared from view. His men lay in agony by his side, rolling on the ground clutching bruised ribs, bleeding noses and the occasional leaking gut. The Dwarf had promised to kill Stort, which of course had not happened. Many had tried to kill him and all had failed. Stort was not an easy man to get rid of. The Dwarf had done a good job on his men though.

    A loud, deep boom rattled across the city as the Elves large silver ship slowly began to turn. It powered its thrusters, far too close to the ground, and took off away from the planet, burning two schools, a park and a brothel in the process.

    One final act of damnation from a number of strange events, one of the Elves ships thrusters backfired, sending a tiny spark down towards an impressive looking building in the centre of the city. It flew through the open window and hit one of the silk curtains. For a moment or two, the little spark hung there, swinging back and forth, before it decided, with a small sigh, to burn down the entire building.

    Stort slapped his hand over his eyes and waited for the inevitable to happen.

    Several moments later, the Governor stomped over to him coughing wildly, his face covered in soot.

    “You let the terrorists get away?” he spluttered.

    “So it would seem,” Stort responded, lighting a liquorish cigar.

    “I will see you are fired for this despicable act!”

    “Very good sir.”

    “They burned down my house Stort!” the Governor screamed. “My overly large, excessively expensive, ridiculously impressive house!”

    “I’ll see it gets rebuilt as soon as the terrorists are caught.”

    The Gumthar stomped his feet. “Not good enough! I want my house rebuilt now! This very night!”

    “But the terrorists sir?”

    “I am taking you off the job Stort,” he said sadistically. “I am taking this one to the Overseer himself!” And with that he strode away.

    Stort was worried, but in no way showed that he was. The
Overseer
? Getting the Overseer involved in anything was dangerous business. Stort almost felt sorry for Greebol and his terrorist friends. Almost.

    They were in real trouble now!

Chapter 45

The head of some wild beast lay lopsided on the soft ground, its tongue rolled out of its mouth, its bloodshot eyes turned upwards. There was no body attached to this head. It looked peaceful in a horribly morbid way. It probably didn’t die peacefully but it seemed at ease now. The man staring at this bodiless beast was also at peace. In fact it was the first time in what seemed like forever that he was.

    Charlie Pinwright felt happy here.

    It was a strange place to feel happy. Most would be screaming or crying or both. When he had first opened his eyes he had absolutely no idea where he was. He sat in a large, damp cavernous space. It was dark. Very dark. He could only just make out the walls, which were pink and moist. The floor was wet, soft to the touch and sticky. Large white curved pillars ran along the walls and the floor was scattered with bones, rotting flesh and thick blobs of off smelling gunge. Every now and then the whole area would shake and loud belching noises would erupt from the dark chasm ahead.

    If this was heaven it was a major let-down.

    Then slowly, as if sand was passing through an egg timer, he began to realise just where he was. He was like Jonah and the whale. Or Pinocchio for that matter, but obviously not made of wood.

    Charlie Pinwright was sitting inside the belly of the dragon!

    And he was not alone. An’ishia sat nearby, taking deep breaths with her pretty eyes closed. Vegora Vrall was crouched by one of the large pillars (which Charlie now realised to be bones) throwing a small white ball against the side over and over again. Charlie soon realised that it was not a ball he threw but some sort of skull. He shuddered. Professor Amirous was in here also, awake now and studying the surrounding area. He had mostly ignored them since their arrival. It was not that he was being ignorant, just in ‘scientist’ mode, too busy studying for small talk.

    Charlie stood and tripped on a pile of bones below him. From the rusty chain mail the deceased wore, it was clear that this used to be a Dwarf. Charlie wondered how he had died. It seemed as though his flesh had been boiled from his bones.

    Charlie stretched. He was relaxed. A strange place to be relaxed but no stranger than the rest of his current life. Perhaps time for a little sleep. He chose a spot next to what looked to be a large rib and settled down on the hide of a dead woolly looking beast that, with your eyes closed could almost pass for a nice comfy rug. His eyes began to close. Sleep. Proper sleep.

    “What do you suggest?” An’ishia’s voice broke his slumber and Charlie popped open his eyes. If it had been anybody else he would have screamed at them. He smiled.

    “Take that daft grin off your face,” she snapped and sat down next to him, rather closer than Charlie felt comfortable with. “We are in a dire situation here pink skin. We need to find a way out.”

    “Do we?” Charlie responded, his voice squeakier than it ought to have been.

    “We can’t live the rest of our lives inside a dragon stupid,” An’ishia growled.

    Right now Charlie would be quite happy to set up home here. He could imagine his life… house made of bones… An’ishia could be his wife… they could have a family together…

    “You're going to have to do something about this,” she said, startling Charlie from his happy fantasy.

    “What could
I
do?” he replied.

    “I don’t know. You are a terrorist after all. You should be able to come up with something.

    Charlie sighed. “I’m not actually a terrorist,” he admitted. “The media blew that all out of proportion. Everything that I may or may not have done was completely by mistake. I’m a nobody. I’m a nothing. Just a stupid pink skinned Human way out of his league.” He lowered his head ashamed.

    To Charlie’s surprise, An’ishia slipped one of her delicate green hands into his. She smiled at him. Charlie’s heart bloomed. Even here in the depths of a mystical beast’s stomach, the lovely May’orn managed to be the most beautiful woman in creation. She was perfection from the hair on the top of her head, all the way down to the boots covering her feet.

    It completely baffled Charlie how she remained spotlessly clean yet he was covered from head to toe in Dragon's innards.

    “I have to admit you didn’t really seem the type,” An’ishia said sweetly. “But don’t put yourself down about it. Not being a terrorist probably looks much better on your C.V. than actually being one.”

    Charlie smiled. “Marry me,” he blurted.

    “Sorry?”

    Charlie fumbled. “I said… erm… oh sod it! I don’t know the things I say anymore!”

    “Multiple Dimensions have collided Charlie. I don’t think anyone really knows what to say anymore. Now come on… think of a way to get us out of this. I really don’t want to have to raise my child in here.”

    Charlie nodded his head slowly. He did not understand why she was being so nice to him. It was confusing but he liked it. It made his heart flutter.

    The dragon’s stomach bubbled, forcing the beast to belch. Now, for an average person, the smell a burp gives off can only be described as revolting. A Dragon's burp, who’s mouth is about the size of a double decker bus, can only be described as absolutely, disgustingly revolting. However, being inside the belly of a dragon when it burped could only be described as death via smell that made you physically want to tear off your nose and pour cement in the resulting hole.

    Charlie agreed it was time to go.

    He picked up a large, spiked bone from one of the dragon's dead meals and patted it in his hand. “I suppose if Vrall could use this to pierce the side of the dragon we could all climb out and -”

    “Not a wise plan. It’s not your fault of course, you would have no way of knowing as you are not an expert like me but please feel free if you wish to decompress us all,” Professor Amirous butted in unexpectedly.

    “What do you mean?” snarled An’ishia, clearly irked by the scientist.

    “I mean,” he continued, not looking at either her or Charlie, “that this dragon is in flight. Through space I should add. And at light speed. From the design of the interior of this creature it is likely that it cannot fly at such speeds in gravity but in the vacuum of space it must be able to -”

    “Ahh I Can Hold My Breath!” shouted Vrall as he grabbed the bone and reached up, ready to thrust it into the side of the dragon.

    “Doubtful,” said Amirous. “Besides… it is a little more complicated than that. One can only hold one’s breath for so long. Plus there are the temperature factors to consider. It is almost zero Kelvins out there. You would freeze instantly. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” It wasn’t that the Lampan meant to be offensive. He just knew that he knew more than other people. And he was right.

    “Oh well,” Charlie said cheerily. “As long as we can stand these pungent smells, and let’s face it, we all smelt worse on Baggus’Regious, I guess we will just have to wait until the dragon lands on another world.” 

    “Alas, once again I am the bearer of bad news,” put in the professor. “From the hydrochlori
c
acidic residue covering this entire area, I would say we are near to this creature’s small intestine. It would appear that the basics of this stomach are slightly different to ours. From the small glands we can see on the surface, it seems that the digestive enzymes rise up through them, basically flooding this entire area thus breaking down any food substances within.”

    “So in other words we’re screwed?” An’ishia snapped.

    Amirous nodded his wrinkled blue head. “In other words… yes.”

    Silence descended in the area. Glum was the general sentiment. Vrall threw the skull once again but it hit a rib and cracked in two. A split skull. That was the way everyone’s heads felt. Splitting.

    Professor Amirous approached An’ishia excitedly, rubbing his hands together.

    “Princess?” he said as he drew closer. An’ishia glared at him. “I hear you are pregnant,” he continued, “and I was just wondering… could I possibly have a feel?”

    The beautiful May’orn was shocked. This was the last thing she had expected him to say. Most people who knew tended to give her a dirty look and ignore the subject.

    “Well…” she began but did not have time to finish her sentence as Amirous had already lifted up her top and was rubbing his blue hands on her green stomach.

    “Fascinating,” he mumbled. “Amazing. Fantastic!”

    “I don’t see what’s so great about it,” she grumbled.

    “You don’t?” asked the professor in shock and for the first time looking into her eyes. “This is an amazing thing! There is life growing inside you! Of all the remarkable things in the galaxy this, one of the most simple, has to be the most astounding.”

    “You try finding out you have something growing inside
you
then have to inform your non-understanding parents and then tell me how
astounding
you think it is.”

    Amirous frowned, but not from what An’ishia had said. He pressed her stomach harder and in various areas.

    “What is it?” she asked. “Tell me you’ve discovered it isn’t a baby after all and is just a bit of trapped wind.”

    “Who is the father?” he asked, concern deeply growing.

    The princess blushed. “Not sure,” she began. “If I can explain then -”

    “No need,” the professor interrupted. “I have no desire to hear of your permiscuousness. Just answer me this… what species was he?”

    An’ishia was stumped. Wasn’t it obvious? “May’orn of course!”

    “Erm… I don’t think so.”

    An’ishia was stumped again. “Of course he was! To get pregnant to any other species then I’d have to had…” and she whispered it, “
sex
.”

    “Yes,” said the professor. “That is generally the case.”

    “Everyone knows that May’orns do not take part in such filthy activities. We are far too respectable for that. What we do is much more graceful… and less sweaty so I am told.”

    “I am sorry Princess but you are wrong. From what I can tell from feeling the variations in your womb through your abdomen… this baby is only half May’orn. The other half is definitely not.”

    An’ishia was getting angry. “Who are you to tell me who the father of my child is? I think I would remember if I had ever had…
sex
… with anything. I can assure you my garden remains untouched by any man!”

    Professor Amirous sighed. He put a hand on the Princesses shoulder. “I am sorry your Highness but you
are
mistaken. I don’t know how it has happened but that child
is
only half May’orn.”

    She looked at the Lampan, still in denial and asked, “Then what species do you think the other half is?”

    And he told her.