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| - There have been times in my life when I would gladly have died to have the most beautiful fem in the galaxy hanging all over me. Especially if the fem were also a princess, and one who would someday be the mother of my son. OK, death is a little extreme; let's say that I would have gladly hand swabbed the public privies of DeepGuano IX for the privilege. Still, not even in my most bizarre dreams had I ever pictured that she would be hanging on me in quite this way. But this wasn't a dream. And it wasn't one of those times. But I'm getting a little ahead of myself. The escape pod appeared to be deserted. Sitting alone atop a distorted mesa, it looked like nothing so much as a chipped marble at the end of a twisted kaleidoscope. More eroded, flat-topped sand spires stuck up out of an ancient sea bottom in all directions. The pod's hatch door was open to Thrakus's poisonous atmosphere, and no one--humanoid or not---was in sigh. It seemed that any refugee from the Goliath had either died when the door cracked open on impact, or was long gone. Or maybe there was a survivor inside crouching in terror and praying for rescue. I knew I had to take a look. The mysteries of the Primordial Soup, just who had turned the colonists of Clorox II into insane Pukeoids, and how--these were just the start of my questions. Had Captain Quirk really lost his last bad toupeeoid and turned Puke himself? And what had been the final fate of the Goliath? These, too demanded their own question marks. Anyway, the pod's homing beacon was still tweeting infinite renditions of "Tikili li' somebody help me! Tikili li; somebody help me! This is a recording," to the Void. I realized that if the Goliath' were now in hostile hands (or pseudopods), she might be following the universal distress call, searching to annihilate any survivors. The beacon had to be turned off, and soon. Besides, its constant chirruping was beginning to drive me batty. So, the escape pod it would be. I checked my ART (atmospheric replacement thingy) again to make sure it was leakproof. It was, which made me breath easier. One can never be too careful around ARTs. I looked around for any sign of other lives--or potential deaths--but the way seemed clear. As quickly as I could, I made my way to the Goliath's only known escape pod. I have reflected at times on the concept of dumb luck, and have been told I possess the trait in quantity. This might be due to genetics or some inherited talent; I don't know for sure. It is all that has separated me from death or worse in more situations that I am comfortable remembering, so I don't pay too much attention to it. Dumb luck, I have painfully learned, never comes to your rescue if you wait for it; it always comes when you least expect it. And even if I have an inordinate amount of dumb luck, I don't always pay sufficient attention to where I am stepping, or into what. This trait has gotten me into at least as much trouble as my dumb luck gets me out of. It was about to get me in trouble again. The pod looked just as abandoned up close as it had from a distance. Sitting alone, a fugitive golf ball on a rogue tee, it was surrounded by straight drop-offs in all directions. Everything seemed safe enough, which was good news. So I only gave a cursory eyeball scan of the immediate area, then stuck my head inside. It was empty, as I thought it would be. Climbing in, it took only a little searching to find the homing device. Another bit of good news—it was GENERIC, a Galactic Emergency, Nominally Effective, Rescue Initiating Callbox. Generics are standard issue in most escape pods, so you see them all over space. Even I could operate one, although it did take me several tries to convince the thing to shut up and turn off. The silence that followed washed my relived ears like a symphony. Hmm, an interesting analogy. That should keep any hostiles from finding me, I thought. One more fast look outside for survivors, and if I don't find anyone, I'll transport back to the Eureka and do another lifeforms scan form orbit. That'll be safer—make that more efficient—than stumbling around down here in the poisonous air. It was not a hard decision to make; starship command and I go together well, like bright white teeth and stiffened hair on the AnchorClones of EyeVideoNews. Or soiled teeth and a tube of nacho-flavored Janitor-in-a-Jug Lite. Now back to that inattention to detail to which I alluded. Despite fumbling a bit with the homing device. I had spent little time inside the escape pod. My assailant had to have been nearby all along, perhaps even on or behind the craft. Exactly where mattered little just then. Back outside, I had taken not more than two or three steps when a live body leaped on me from behind, driving the two of us to the ground. Stunned from both the force of impact and surprise of the attack, I could do nothing for a moment but lie there absorbing strong blows to my body. And whimper a little. The punches were followed by the sensation of something attempting to remove my atmospheric replacement thingy. No breathing mask means no Roger Wilco. Suitably motivated, I swung a sharp elbow as hard as I could behind me. The feel of something organic absorbing the blow was complemented by the sound of a humanoid grunting in pain. I swung again, but this time my attacker rolled with the force of my swing, propelling both of us closer to the crumbly cliff edges that surrounded the area where the pod had landed. Hands—I could now see they were hands—came away from the breathing mask. I turned to face my unknown foe and saw those hands plunging as fists to my face. My arms blocked the blows, but they came down on me again and again. So fast were they that I could see nothing but fists and the fact that my assailant was wearing the same kind of atmospheric thingy as I, and was evidently human. Or had been once. Finally I saw my opening and got in a weak punch of my own. Again we rolled over and punched. Rolled again, punched again; alternately clinging and swinging, getting closer to the edge each time. At last, the cliff must have tired of the predictable turns and lack of resolution to our combat. It crumbled away beneath us. We both screamed. We both began falling. There was nothing left to do but panic, or watch your life replay before your eyes, or both. Since I had seen both features too often before, I began groping for an alternative. One grasping hand found a strong, solid outcropping of rock and without thought (I'm much practiced in moving before thinking), I grabbed, caught, and was able to wrap both of my arms about it. It held. Then my enemy found something to hold onto. My boot. It held, too. My leg and my arms thought otherwise, then decided to join the instant fad. My armpits considered ripping out, then popped back into place. That hurt-a lot. Daring a peek down, I saw that the two of us were dangling hundreds of meters above the next stop. Vertigo began paying a courtesy call. It was then that I saw just who had attacked me. You remember my fantasy of the most beautiful fem in the galaxy hanging all over Roger Wilco? Her name happens to be Princess Beatrice Wankmeister, and it was she who was hanging from leg. There she was, the woman of my most colorful and interesting recent dreams; someday lover and mother-to-be of our son. I could feel her touch and imagined our future together. But only if we could find a way back up to the top of the cliff. We looked at each other, finally recognizing who was beneath the breathing masks. I clicked on my communicator. "Princess. Ambassador Wankmeister. It's me, Roger Wilco. Don't you remember me?" "Wilco. Of course. The amusing one back at StarCon Academy. The conqueror of the Awesome Sarien Menace and Flotilla of Doom, and all of that. Do you hang out around here often?" "That was not funny. Why did you attack me? We followed your beacon, and I came to rescue you. But I had no idea it was you." "I didn't know who you were. I thought you were one of Pukeoids in human shape. And speaking of rescue, do you have any ideas what to do next?" One of her hands slipped a little. "You know we don't have much time to talk about this." We had even less than we thought. Flup! Something viscous and slimy splattered into the cliff just meters away from where we hung. I glanced back over my shoulder. From surrounding mesas, Pukoids stood like obscene green blobs and shooting gloop at Bea and me. Heck, Pukeoids are green blobs. It was hard to tell how many there-there could be 3 or there could have been 30. Few sapients count in situations like that. Whether mutated colonists, former crew of the Goliath, or a unique lifeform of their own, fine distinctions didn't matter at all just then; If something's shooting stuff at you from guns, you can be pretty sure the stuff is nasty. Flup! Splat! Sploosh! The quality of the Pukoids aim wasn't very good, but they were making up for it in quantity. More shots from the Pukoid's phlegm throwers splashed near us, a little of one hitting the princess. "Oh!," was the single muffled sound she made in reaction to the hit. "Wilco to Eureka. Wilco to Eureka. Cliffy, transport us out of here. Can you read? Cliffy, beam two of us out of here now!" Subspace static was the first answer. "Cliffy, Princess Wankmeister is with me. We're under attack. Get us out of here." This time I got a reply. "Cliffy here, sir. The transporter is not responding. We're trying to fix it now. How long can you hang on?" The gloops started coming nearer again. "That was not funny, Cliffy. How soon until it's fixed?" "We really need to take it back to StarCon, sir". "Cliffy!" My connection to the Eureka disappeared. Most of our hope went with it. I looked down again at Bea, made a decision I didn't want to think about, took a deep breath (which I was afraid would be my last conscious one), and let go of the outcropping with one arm. We began to swing slightly. I looked the princess straight in the eyes. "Grab hold," I said. "I think the top of the cliff is just above us." I motioned for her to grab my hand for support so she could shimmy herself up my body as if I were a rope or some organic climbing structure. If Beatrice could scramble over me, she might make it to the top. And if she made the top, she might be able to pull me up. And if not-if not, my final memories would be of her body clenched to mine. As the Lone Space Ranger might say, "There are worse ways to go, pardner." Far worse. Bea saw at once what I intended. She had begun looking for new holds on my leg even before I reached down. She immediately reached up and grasped my hand. Her touch was eternity made flesh. Despite our precarious circumstances, I felt that I had been holding her hand forever. More likely, I'd be holding it for the rest of my life, a short-term prospect for both of us. We began to sway even more. "Care for a lift?," I asked her. Now, undue physical strength and I are not very comfortable together. We tend to shun each other, like certain lavatories and cleaning solvent. I have learned adequate agility and efficient bipedal locomotion, true; but I'd be flattering myself to say the power of my body was anything out of the ordinary-if that. But that day, Beatrice was as light as a feather duster to me; I hoisted her body easily through the sky until she could grab my shoulders. The single hand that supported us drew unknown power from the spark of her touch on the other. First, one arm wrapped about me, then the other. Then she pulled herself up along me as far as she could --- , and I grasped the cliff again with both of my hands. Farther still she climbed as the salvo of slime continued without pause. At last, she stood on my shoulders and climbed above me to ... "I'm up. Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back."
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