Page 7 of Alien Peacock

Cerak finds the round pit that’s his seat. There’s a hiss as he sucks himself firmly into it. “And closer to you getting back in your rightful place. Finally.”

“Finally,” I agree as the turbofans spin up with a distant whine. “The end is in sight.”

“Why did you end up fighting them in the first place? Krunku aren’t usually that aggressive.”

I wiggle my wings, trying to get comfortable in the small seat. “There was a female alien. She claimed that they were abducting her. An Earth female.” Again her scent teases my nose, as if she were nearby.

“An Earth female? They are very sought after, I hear.”

“They are sought after and expensive to buy and likely expensive to keep,” I agree. “And they have a reputation for being sneaky and untrustworthy.”

“I’ve heard that, too. Apparently they will try to escape from slavery, and then do their best to mess things up for their owners or just plain kill themselves in the most destructive way possible. Those who come across them are often exasperated, it is said.”

I writhe against the backrest. “So we should do our best to avoid those females. Remind me to get a new seat at the next station. This one is makingmeexasperated.”

“I keep reminding you, Arelion. But nobody makes seats that allow for those ridiculous things you carry on your back.”

“The wings,” I grunt as I take the ship into a hover. “You know what they are. Perhaps it would be possible to fly this ship while standing up.”

“And perhaps you can install a mirror instead of instruments so you can admire yourself while flying!” Cerak suggests, his metallic voice dripping with sarcasm.

“That would be better than looking atyou,” I growl.

The ship rises on its repulsors, wobbling as the computer tries to compensate for some new imbalance.

“Are we heavier than before?” Cerak asks. “I thought the ship had learned to account for the weight of your immense self esteem. Did it really increase this much from beating those Krunku?”

“Everyone should have a healthy self image,” I tell him absentmindedly as I maneuver the ship out of the hangar and into space. “It’s not my fault that you don’t have it, trash can.”

“Do you think you insult me by calling me that? Iama Recycling And Refuse Receptacle, and proudly so. I just turned out a little smarter than my designers expected.”

“Never install an AI chip in a simple appliance,” I agree. “You’d think they’d learned that by now. How old are you again?”

“I’m six years old. Brand new, essentially. Arelion, I want to direct your attention away from yourself — sorry, I know it’s hard for you — and over on that screen. Does anything stand out?”

I look at the sensor screen that shows our surroundings as seen from a distance, with every ship and object labeled. Our own ship is marked in blue, and other ships in various tones of green to denote their probability of being hostile. One ship is outlined in a bright, toxic green. “Hmm. What is that? The Star Marshals?”

“Doesn’t look like it,” Cerak tells me. “The design is more like something from the Brapt sector.”

I zoom in on the image. “The Krunku?”

“I didn’t want to say it, but that’s what it looks like.”

The ship appears to be coming closer, so I hit the power lever. “They’re not looking for a fight, surely?”

“Do we want to hang around and find out?”

I think about it. It’s been a while since I’ve taken part in a space battle, and I might be getting rusty. Getting some practice would be smart. Taking on a mostly civilian ship with this carefully disguised warship would probably be an easy victory, but there are always risks with these things. “We’re supposedto be discreet and invisible,” I ponder out loud. “We don’t want anyone from Eo to know we’re here.”

“Then we should speed up,” Cerak says. “Space battles tend to get attention. We’ll easily outrun them and get into hyperspace.”

I push the power lever to the stop, and the ship shoots forwards. “Sounds like a plan.”

Cerak turns his upper third. “Something is loose back in the lounge. I heard something being thrown against the bulkhead.”

“It’s not the tidiest of ships,” I admit. “I thought keeping things clean and tidy was your thing?”

“Maybe. It’s not like I’m your housekeeper.”

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