Finkle, Out of Sorts - Chapter 4
Previously
He watched in horror as the mother-creature’s arms undulated slowly, tentacle-like. Each paused briefly as it passed the conductor’s podium, flicked the edge with its baton, then continued along its upwards circuit.
“Really, Alan,” she repeated. “I do expect better of you. So much better. How is it, son, that even in your fantasies you are not in charge, hmm?” And then she began to laugh. A deep, chortling, repulsively sensual laugh that seemed to rise up out of her bowels. In horror he turned, frantic to put distance between himself and this maternal monstrosity, but he could only run in slow motion, and every other step he tripped over one of the chairs that haphazardly littered the orchestra pit. Every time he dared to look back, she was still there, no farther away than when he had started his flight.
“Alan… Alan… Alan!” Finally, mercifully, her voice receded into the distance, gurgled and muted as if underwater.
He woke. He blinked at the ceiling of his bedroom. He could tell it was still very early in the morning, partly from the quality of light that managed to sneak its way past his filthy, smog-dappled window, but mostly because the neighborhood was still silent except for the rumble and roar of garbage trucks and newspaper delivery vans.
He sighed deeply. Another day. He stretched and yawned and rolled himself gingerly into a sitting position. His feet found the floor.
The stabbing pain in his gut had devolved into a dull, throbbing ache. Flat on his back, he was dizzy from blood loss. His uniform, formerly so pristine and proud, was shredded and sticky. But he was no longer bleeding freely, and the eerie silence on the bridge made him wonder if the battle was over and he had been forgotten.
He rose slowly from behind the control panel that had hid him during his blackout. Directly in front of him, through the smoke, he could make out Commander Armstrong, standing at Finkle’s usual post, his brave face twisted in defiant concentration. Next to Armstrong, her yellow features full of icy hate, was that mutinous skraax of an Artaxian Ambassador. One of her three eyes was leaking a noxious fluid, and in her hands! In her hands was a weapon the likes of which Finkle had never before seen. And she was holding its muzzle directly against Armstrong’s temple.
Finkle quaked with fear. Where was the rest of the crew? What impossible reversal had occurred as he lay unconscious and bleeding? How could this evil strumpet, this six-armed traitor, have managed to subdue Armstrong, illustrious and singular hero of the Imperial Star Navy?
With silent, seething impatience, Finkle pushed these thoughts from his mind. There was no time for reflection. No time for idle questions. There was only time for action, swift and unflinching.
Silently, he approached the traitor from behind. She obviously sensed no threat. She thought she was alone with Armstrong. All her attention was focused on him and the control panel. She cockily assumed victory was already hers, and for that… For that she would pay.
Finkle was now mere inches behind K’larr. Holding his breath, he made his move, his hands darting out, on perfect course to dislodge her weapon from her hands…
“Alan! Alan! Are you OK in there, roomie? Or are you drowned?” Sophie’s voice was half giggle, half scream. Alan stood crouched in the shower, ready to spring at his invisible enemy. He looked down at the bar of soap clenched tightly in his hand. The once-warm water that battered his head was now frigid, and his feet were puckered and wrinkly.
“I’m fine,” he lied. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
