PLANET MAGAZINE

Illustration: “Exodus” © 2005 by Carl Goodman

Ablad Cuvapor relaxed his outer docking tubes and allowed the Melkan female to deposit her spherical ovabiche in pleasant parallel tones inside his plastique receptors. So long as his explosion was contained, he felt no need to warn the Melkan servants preparing his afternoon meal in a nearby shaft. He sipped methane capsules and stroked her folded appendages as she sexed him, covering her delicate tendrils lovingly with an erotic designer shield for protection. So easy to deceive these Melkan, he thought, since telepathy was forbidden here. Of all the visiting dignitaries, his status as Ambassador from Xaros was least suspected of skullduggery by the indigenous, simply because of the way he looked. To the Melkan, Ablad resembled a clownish species on one of their moons, one notably low on the sentient index. He was equated with fools. Reality was far different.

But during secondary orgasm, a dismal anomaly penetrated his thoughts in the form of an urgent message from one of the Xaros peripheral colonies, Emeppe. The voice was that of an old friend, Pagli Oraset, and the communication disturbing. Having already duped the Melkan into believing they would receive favored trade status in return for sharing myrd, a much desired purple, phosphorescent dye that sold well throughout the Confederation of planets, it irked him to be forced to reveal what he was hearing.

“Something wrong, Ablad?” asked Kerennial, his assigned stimulant. “Am I not performing up to your expectations?”

“Not you, bushla. Keep depositing. It’s just a time-sensitive elimination ache. Perhaps if you could switch tubes to accommodate a different propulsion filament. That’s better. I do believe you are making me pregnant.”

Pagli’s information became worrisome at once as his disciplined mind dismissed the female’s ministrations.

“The Cave of Winds unsealed an hour ago. The Gurnia are heading in your direction, Ablad. I suggest immediate evacuation.”

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Illustration: “TimeShare” © 2005 by SenthilKG

The possibility of faster-than-light travel has fascinated astrophysicists and propulsion engineers, as well as science fiction writers. With the arrival of gravity-drive thrust, the possibility becomes a probability, with apologies to Albert Einstein. Trials are under way.

Sara J. Iverson, Ph.D.
Space Corps Gravity Laboratory

Time is not a constant, Scully.

— Fox Mulder

1.

A Mozart piano trio nudged Kevin Pauley to grudging wakefulness. He levered an eyelid open to view the alarm clock’s display. “Sara Jo, it’s only six A.M.”

A blink of dark eyelashes over intense gray-green irises. She brushed tangled tresses back from her face and drew the bedclothes to her neck with the demure sweep of a hand. “Busy day. Gotta get rolling.”

Kevin eyed an exposed slender hip. “You have a tattoo? Hadn’t noticed that before.”

A faint blush. “Ancient history. I chose the Space Corps logo on a dare after a few too many brews at a Delta Tau Chi beer bust. It’s the old NASA emblem.”

She tucked the nude extremity under the sheets. “Show’s over. Gotta go fix some gray roots.”

Kevin pulled on his trousers, stood, stretched and gaped a cavernous yawn. “Prematurely gray is sexy.”

Sara stomped to the bathroom, trailing a bed sheet. “Gray is bullshit. I’m only thirty-four.”

“I surrender. I’ll make coffee.”

“Some toast too, love. Gotta be briefed before the eight A.M. space station shuttle. First sublight trial with the G-prototype.”

“Why are you doing this? You’re a Section Chief!”

Dr. Iverson slurped coffee and spread oleo on a slice of rye toast. “I’ve been Dr. Lynch’s associate for six years and I have supersonic flight training. She agreed to let me do the test flights.”

A blue and silver Air Force sedan eased to the curb outside. “Your ride’s here. Drop me a subspace note, okay?”

She grabbed her laptop and pecked Kevin’s cheek. “Can’t. Security’s too tight.”

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