Ten Light-Years To Insanity

Chapter 3-1

3

The docking bay was like any other in the universe except for one minor detail. Everywhere Morg looked, armed guards roamed the area carrying the latest armament. The sheer number of armed personnel reminded Morg of how Yandan invasion brigades set a perimeter on newly invaded planets.

Thermal grenades, laser rifes, full body armor, and barrier shields were prominently displayed. There was no attempt to camouflage the weapons. The authorities wanted each new arrival to know there were limits on Feltte Six. Arriving guests were free to kill each other but shouldn’t give one iota of thought to attacking a government enforcer. When that happened, it was an immediate death penalty; no capture, no incarceration, and no judicial review. It was straight to the afterlife if the offender believed in that sort of mysticism.

“Attention, all new arrivals. Please proceed to the Process Area located behind docking slip 7K. Each new arrival can bring one weapon of choice onto Feltte Six. Do not carry this weapon to the Process Area. Provide the Process Agent with a visual of the weapon and its location on your ship. The weapon will be retrieved and loaded onto the glider transport you choose. Those who wish to buy a weapon may do so after clearing the Process Area. You will find that we have a wonderful selection of the latest weaponry. All weapons are guaranteed to be jam-proof, work in harsh environments and tested for accuracy.”

Morg was very familiar with glider transports. They were high-speed, conveyance trains which used reflective magnetic current for propulsion. He had ridden on them quite often on Yandan colony planets. What he didn’t understand in the announcement was the reference to choosing a glider. How many places could you go on this planet? He figured he would learn soon enough. In the meantime, he debated whether to take his sabre assault rife1 or leave it in secured storage on the transport. After weighing the pros and cons, he decided it was better to have his favorite weapon at his side. It had kept him safe through many campaigns. With so many unknown dangers on Feltte Six, there were plenty of reasons to have the old friend tag along.

The Process Agent was an import from another planet. Morg guessed he was Krelatian. The short and stout beings were easily identified by the grumpy frowns painted on their blue, oval faces. Krelatians were in high demand throughout the universe because of their ability to treat everyone shabbily. No matter what they were thinking they always projected a cantankerous attitude. It was amazing how many beings admitted to crimes simply because they couldn’t handle a Krelatian’s stare. To fill the dead air, true and bogus admissions came pouring out.

“Is this the sabre assault rife you want to bring onto Feltte Six?”

Morg nodded to the Process Agent.

“It will be tagged with the same serial number which has been imprinted below an undisclosed area of your body shell. This number will be good for thirty hours. If you plan to stay longer, return here for a serial number update.”

Morg turned to walk away and find the Earthling.

“Wait. Are you with the Earthling I processed before you?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Did he insult you or say something stupid?”

“Yes, but don’t worry. He won’t get off this planet alive. Remember, you are responsible for the disposal of his body. Okay, move along.”

Morg wanted to know more but the Krelatian was already processing the next new arrival.

As Morg walked out onto the glider platform he wondered what the Earthling said to the Process Agent. It was either profoundly stupid and insulting. Or, the Krelatian could pick out the soon-to-be-vaporized from among the new arrivals. Morg chose the latter explanation. After processing thousands of new arrivals, the Krelatian developed a sixth sense. It allowed him to pick out the losers after only a one-minute interview. Morg’s spirits lifted a bit knowing someone else in the universe shared his bottom-of-the-barrel opinion of the Earthling.

The glider platform was chaos and mayhem. It was jammed with new arrivals from every galaxy in the universe. Wall-to-wall beings bumped into each other as they tried to fight their way to the departing gliders of their choice. The excitement in the air was electric. To Morg, it seemed like these beings were acting like children attempting to board a ride at an amusement park.

As he watched the craziness, he scanned the entire platform for as far as he could see in each direction. In total, there were a dozen glider transport tubes labeled with destinations such as “Detroit 1967”, “Mytop 2212” and “Fragsten 2156”. Morg was well-versed in the history of the universe. It didn’t take him long to realize that these locations had one thing in common. They were all cities and countries from various sectors of the universe known for crime and violence. In short, they were historical s**t-holes of the universe.

Within a couple of minutes, the significance of the four-digit number behind the name became clear. The number corresponded to a year when the location experienced a catastrophic event. 1967 was the year of civil rioting in Detroit by its minority population. 2212 was the year the ruling family of Mytop was ousted from power and a decade of violent civil war ensued. And, 2156 was the year crime syndicates took control of Fragsten.

Morg’s initial impression of this strange world was right. Feltte Six was nothing more than a giant amusement park which catered to the scum, bottom feeders, and low-lifes of the universe. It offered every vice, crime, and form of violence imaginable. Drugs, s*x, blackmail, murder, t*****e, and despotic power were all available. New arrivals only had to reach out for the evil they desired. Then it was a contest between rival guests who wanted the same vice. Whoever was tougher and shrewder won that vice. The other guest usually didn’t leave Feltte Six alive.

There were only two rules in the theme parks. If you killed someone, you were responsible for disposing of the body. You could hire someone to cart the corpse to the incineration station or take it yourself. It didn’t matter. The remaining rule was that government enforcers were untouchables. They were off-limits to assault, battery, harassment, and back-talk. If they gave an order, it was followed without question. Failure to follow these simple rules resulted in an immediate death sentence carried out by an enforcer squad.

Otherwise, there were no rules governing what was allowed in each theme park. It was the law of the jungle. If you wanted something another being had, you could buy it, steal it, or kill for it. If you chose to murder your opponent, it was best to ambush him in a surprise attack. No one was going to condemn you for not playing fair.

Broadcasted glider departure announcements increased in frequency. New arrivals, from the last couple of spaceships landing on Feltte Six, raced to get to their glider departure gates. Pushing and shoving, fist fights, and countless arguments broke out in all areas of the docking platform. Morg expected to see at any moment the Earthling involved in some type of altercation. He figured it was only a matter of time before the Earthling’s obnoxious personality rubbed a mercenary, tough guy, or all-around badass the wrong way.

As each glider departed for its destination, Morg became more concerned that he lost the Earthling. He was beginning to think the Earthling boarded an earlier glider. He might be on his way to one of the cesspools where he would lip-off to the wrong being and get himself vaporized. Morg wouldn’t hear anything about the Earthling's death until the government got around to sending him an official death notice. That might take days and would be a courtesy notification because Morg was his arrival mate. The only thing that would speed up the process was if Morg had to dispose of the body. Regardless of the circumstances, the Earthling’s death would thrust Morg into an untenable situation. What would he do? He would be a disgraced warrior who lost his mate, family, career, and home planet.

“Paging Morg from Yanda. Officer Morg from Yanda. Please respond. Weapon pick-up for Mr. Morg from the planet....”

Morg’s head pivoted to the direction from where his name was called. He was lucky that his ears were shaped like parabolic dishes. This made his hearing very sensitive. His superior sense of hearing more than compensated for average eyesight and smell.

Fifty-yards away, he spotted the Earthling in front of the Detroit 1967 departure dock. He was talking with the Feltte dock employee who paged Morg. In the employee's hand was Morg's assault rife. Even from this distance, Morg could tell the Earthling was trying to con the Feltte departure clerk out of something.

Morg came up behind the Earthling in time to hear the Feltte departure clerk say, “Sir, I can’t give you this assault rife. Your embedded serial number doesn’t match with the serial number on the rife.”

“Aw, come on. The owner of the rife is a friend of mine. I promise to give it to him when I see him at the Detroit 1967 park.”

Morg was standing close enough to see the Earthling remove a couple Cannis capsules from his pants pocket and offer them to the clerk. “Here, take these. You’ve worked hard and deserve a reward. Give me the assault rife, and these are yours.”

The dock clerk’s eyes opened to twice their normal size when he spotted the Cannis capsules. He couldn’t stop staring at them. He knew they were worth a small fortune. At least twice his yearly wage on the black market.

“Okay, but you have to promise not to tell anyone. I could get in big trouble letting you have a rife registered to another being.”

The Earthling reached out to take the rife from the clerk, but his hand never touched the weapon. Morg stepped between the two crooks and grabbed the rife and Cannis capsules.

“Son, I suggest you take your dishonest a*s out of here, right now. And, so you know, I’m Morg from Yanda and this is my rife. Now get.”

The departure clerk was shaking with fear. Not only was Morg a mean-looking SOB but all it would take is one word from the Yandan to get him fired or vaporized. He waved his serial number validator over Morg’s left arm in one quick swipe and then turned tail and started running.

Morg slung the assault rife over his shoulder and grabbed the Earthling by his left ear. Squeezing the earlobe between his pincer thumb and forefinger was all it took to get the Earthling squirming and whining. “Morg, stop Morg. That hurts like hell.”

Morg didn’t care how much the Earthling complained. He was so pissed that he considered exerting more pressure and watching the Earthling either pass out or soil himself.

“Pick up your tote bag, jerk-off.”

As the Earthling gingerly bent over to grab the handles on his bag, the platform announcer said, “Last call for Detroit 1967 glider. Board immediately at dock 24L. This is the last glider for Detroit 1967 today. The crime rate in Detroit is 93.3. Have a favorable trip.”

“Morg, we have to get on the Detroit glider.”

Without letting up on the earlobe pressure, Morg asked, “Why?”

“Because that’s the park I signed up for. I don’t know a lot about the other parks, but I’ve read a lot about early Detroit history.”

“How did you pay for it, with more Cannis capsules?”

“Morg, the glider doors are closing. Come on, pal. I’ll tell you how I paid for it when we get on the glider.”

Morg debated whether to board the Detroit glider. If they didn’t go to the Detroit park, where the hell would they go? At the last moment, Morg pulled the Earthling by the ear onto the glider. He whimpered the entire way and when Morg tossed him into a double-wide berth, he grabbed his ear to make sure it was still attached to his head.

“Good god, Morg. Was that necessary? You damn near ripped my ear off.”