Buenas noches!  (Because it is currently night here in Burbank)

I promised you a short story at the end of my last blog, so I think I should deliver on that promise.  The thing is, I think I'll have you read it in "parts," like episodes of a TV series.  I've been writing a science fiction story for a while (me, a science-fiction story? Go figure, right?).  So I will turn the next few blogs into "story time" and if anybody out there reads this, I'd be more than happy to get feedback.  because I'm thinking of fleshing this out into an e-book! 

By the way, before we get to the story, some headlines in Ralph's world:

The Rangers are 4-1 after beating the Mariners tonight. Woot!
I made a pretty darn good halibut dinner for my lady tonight. 
I am very close to wraping a labor of love project that you will soon read about, and I'm super excited.
Mass Effect 3 may be the second best XBox game I have ever played (The original Knights of the Old Republic was hands down he best).

And so now, without further ado, her is:

The Journey of the Antares Nova - Part I

Fuljencio “Brick” Martinez did the math in his head, as he was given to do in these situations, and realized he was about to die.

Probably.

Then again, he had been known to prematurely predict his own demise on many occasions before, and fortunately had failed to be correct each time. He was half amused that he chose now to think about the questionable value of pessimism, but it did occur to him that he should really try to be more positive. He made a mental note to come back to this thought… if he managed to survive this predicament.

At his feet, he was surrounded by three open crates of plasma-wave weapons.  Sentry rifles, blasters and plasma grenades.  Enough to arm a platoon of Republic marines.  Not that they would wind up in the adept hands of that much-respected military arm of the government.  No, these weapons were earmarked for one Saloub, The Crimson Knife.  Entrepreneur, businessman and crime lord (or so he liked to call himself “lord,” while others might be more inclined to use the word, “scum.”)  Saloub had hired Brick to be his intermediary in a transaction of some importance.  The battle of crime bosses on Saloub’s world of Manas had been in a stalemate for decades, with nobody taking the upper hand despite years of escalating body counts.  Saloub was bound and determined to change that.  What better way than to upset the balance of power, and tip the advantage in his direction.  Which meant he needed weapons.  Bigger weapons than the ones his rivals possessed. And who had these?  Why, the Republic marines, of course.

Brick wiped off some of the sweat clinging to his nervous palm by rubbing it against his military leggings.  Despite having been out of the marines for years, Brick still wore some of the trappings of his former life.  It was that life that filled part of his resume, and why Saloub hired him to find the weapons.  Who better to raid a Marine installation than a former marine who knew all about their layout?  But Brick had not left the marines in the best of terms, and having access to their bases and assets was practically impossible.  So Brick hired his own contractor; his own intermediary.  A black market arms dealer named Tulop.  Tulop was a thin, wiry man – half-human and half-Kreigan.  Kreigans lived in a planet of light gravity and thin atmosphere.  As a result, their chest cavities were massive, crafted that way over eons of evolution to make home for a large set of lungs that groped to breathe the thin Kreigan air.  In short, Tulop was an imposing figure.  And he stood tall over the cache of weapons that he had acquired for Brick.  He was framed on either side by two full Kreigan bodyguards, each taller than Tulop and sporting blasters on low-riding holsters.  Brick was in the middle of a transaction that had suddenly taken a sharp turn down a very bad road.   

Tulop wanted more credits.  A lot more credits than what had originally been negotiated and agreed to. And not only did Tulop's two bodyguards look like they were itching for a good, ol' gun fight in case he didn’t get his credits, Tulop was also pointedly playing with a delayed-timer plasma grenade in his left hand.  There was a sneer on his face, and he had just raised the price of doing business five-fold. 

"We had a deal," Brick said, doing his best to show he was in no mood to re-negotiate.  Tulop slowly shook his head. 

"That was before my boys ran into a security garrison on Station Twelve that YOU said would not be there."

"I gave you the best intel I had at the time," Brick stood his ground.

"Not good enough.  Our deal was predicated on an easy extraction."

"Oh, please," Brick now sounded annoyed.  "You know full well that there are no easy extractions from Marine installations."

"Nevertheless, I lost some valuable men and equipment that I now need to replace.  And if you want these weapons, you need to pay the REAL price of their acquisition."

Brick was in a pickle.  He had to think fast.  Saloub had paid him half up front for the heist, but Saloub also thought Brick would be running this operation solo, and not hiring another party.  Brick not only didn't have the money to pay Tulop the extra amount, he had no way to authorize the increase with Saloub without exposing himself and his inability to get the job down on his own. 

"Come on, Freighter Captain," Tulop teased.  "One painless swipe of your card and you get your guns."  One of the bodyguards produced a currency card reader and held it out to Brick.  "Otherwise, not only do you not take the guns... I collect compensation for my lost assets the hard way."  Tulop's eyes rolled up to the freighter that Brick stood in front of.  "I'm sure your ship will yield some excellent capital."

"You're not touching my ship," Brick breathed, his nervousness turning to anger.

"Then pay up."

The next two minutes felt like two hours.  Brick was outgunned and outflanked, but he wanted to take the one chance in a thousand that he could draw his blaster faster than the two goons flanking Tulop, shoot each into oblivion, and kick Tulop in the arm so he could drop the grenade before it was armed.  It was like something out of a cheap holo-drama, but it was the best plan that entered his head -- and it was the worst idea he could have come up with.  Fortunately, before his fingers twitched perceptibly to his holster, chaos exploded around him.

There was a sudden flutter of wings everywhere.  A cacophony of distinctive cackles filled the air.  Brick jumped back; taken by utter surprise as a half dozen chickens ran and flew out of the ship from the ramp behind him, zigzagging their way over the cache of weapons and in between the legs of the Kreigans. They, too, recoiled in surprise and shock. Seconds later, he heard the recognizable gruff voice of Cook hitting a high note as he yelled, "My chickens!  Dinner is getting away!"

Brick was not slow to recognize the opportunity handed him, which he suspected almost immediately was not one caused by chance or serendipity.  He would commend Cook later. If they got away.  He drew his blaster lightning-fast, aimed it at goon number one, and squeezed the trigger. A bolt of blue energy speared itself into the alien's chest, knocking him down.  Now Brick began to run backwards, up the ramp of the ship. He swung the blaster to his left and aimed at goon number two.  Zwap!  A second bolt of blue plasma took the enemy down.  By now, Brick was half-way up the ramp.  His eyes caught Tulop.

Tulop had not reacted as quickly as Brick, but he was far from flat-footed.  He was flipping the trigger on the grenade.  Brick's eyes went wide.  He aimed the blaster at Tulop, but realized in an instant that it was too late.  The grenade had been armed.  Tulop tossed it toward the ramp, simultaneously turning and running clear of the explosion that was to come.  Brick flirted for a nano-second with the idea of firing his blaster at the grenade, and hoping to destroy it before the timing mechanism detonated it.  But before he could take such a desperate act, a blur swept past him, blocking his view.  It was Cook, jumping down from inside the ship, and swinging a long fly fishing net in front of him like some sort of eccentric battle sword.  Brick recognized the long device as an archaic tool Cook had used in their travels to catch underwater critters.  Now, Cook was using it to catch a grenade.  The long pole arced over Cook's head, until the basket at the end caught the deadly projectile.  The netting stretched to its limit.  Brick closed his eyes instinctively.  He waited for the grenade to blow. His wait lasted longer than he expected.  With his eyes closed, he missed Cook's quick flick of his wrists as he jerked the pole forward.  Cook was a brawny, broad man in his late forties, with the rage of a hundred burning suns seemingly fueling his always-renegade demeanor.  It was this power that must have helped him at this great time of need. Like one of those cricket players from the ancient land of Great Britain, he propelled the grenade back in the air and away from the ship..."

TO BE CONTINUED

Enjoy the day.  You deserve it!