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Chapter 25 - The Dodecadence of Margbwar-12 (page 1 of 10)

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If you've ever been lost in the cosmos and wound up at a crazy kegger, you might be able to imagine how we were starting to feel. It had been several spirgs since me, Cappy and Little N had detached from the squad in search of a the quinturgeum meta-metal alloy our shuttle needed to reenter inter-space plurality. Of course, I was out for a little R&R, but all we'd found thus far was primordial scraps of cracker in the unfulfilling soup that is our bastard father, deep space.

"Looks like we might be more 'dry' than 'high'" I quipped cleverly to Cappy while alliterating in my narrative.

Little N butted in that "maybe leaving the crew behind to fend for their lives while we go off like this wasn't such a good idea." Easy for him to say, with that ball of his missing he'd never been anything more than half a man... also we liked to call him uniball, but not to his face... okay, to his face, but if you could see the look on his dejected mug when you point and scream "one-ball guy" you'd understand where we're coming from.

"Scan frequency three twenty-nine in the sedaris sector" I told them, with merely the cavalier Tek authority my gravitas required to muster. "I suspect there's something worth doing over there, and something tells me we'll find it on that frequency."

They both knew better than to question my hunches. I'd once saved an entire galaxy from being devoured a black hole, and another time found a gold mine beneath an orphanage. And as sure as Quasimoto had one, I was having one, and my hunch said to look in Sedaris.

They both knew better than to question my hunches. I'd once saved an entire galaxy from being devoured a black hole, and another time found a gold mine beneath an orphanage. And as sure as Quasimoto had one, I was having one, and my hunch said to look in Sedaris.

With five shrugs, the roll of four eyes, innumerable heavy sighs and the reluctance as can only be exhibited by two men with a total of three balls between them, Little N plugged back in to his cortexiphone and re-fiddled the tuner knob to the coordinates I'd told him.

The huge, precise, analog dial, larger than an Aztec calendar and weighing as much as a Pinto, swooped perfectly across the band until it slowed beneath his nimble, one-ball man having finger tips and rest on the sector in question... and there was a beacon ping with an interlaced message encrypted with mondalina harmonics. It said "for a good time, follow the sound of my voice, sailor."

I was right, as usual, but that's just the curse of being Tek.

"Now you're talking," I said, mostly for the sheer joy of hearing my satin pipes churn forth the butter of silkiest cliche. "Cappy, you know what I'm going to tell you?"

"But what if it's a trap," he said, exuding all the cowardice a good ship captain needs to keep his crew from being devoured by hungry space manatees.

"Then we go in guns blazing, kick ass, take whatever names they have, get our alloy on, our rocks off and fly that coup before they know what hits them in their trap-laying asses... don't we?"

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