Welcome to the Universe; or, How I Learned to Appreciate the Significance of a Thorough DeFlocking

By M. D. Tabat

Welcome to the Universe picks up where Welcome to the Galaxy left off.
Because of the fortuitous discovery that Humans are the only other species in the galaxy immune to the deadly effects of Flock, the catalyst that makes interstellar travel possible, they are now building stardrive engines on Mars for the Galactic Association of Stardrive Manufacturers and Engineers (GASME).
But the Utaalks, a race of lobster like creatures who were the first to claim the same immunity, are incensed at losing their manufacturing monopoly and scheme to sabotage the Martian factory.
Meanwhile, a clandestine military operation has been dispatched from Earth to a remote planet to test the use of Flock as a weapon of mass destruction. If the demonstration succeeds, humans will hold the key to claim dominion over the entire galaxy.
The unintended consequence of the mission is the first encounter of Humans with their long lost cousins, the Smez, the original inhabitants of Mars.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. D. Tabat
• Release date: Feb 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370077236

M. D. Tabat

As a professional scientist, I have my name assigned to thirteen patents and over fifty published scientific papers but have never been published in any popular medium including the "Letters to the Editor" section of a local newspaper. Welcome to the Galaxy is my first foray into science fiction. Originally from Wisconsin, I spent thirteen years in southern California. I now live in New Hampshire with my wife, son, dog (not named Quane) and four vintage Honda motorcycles.

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CHAPTER 1

"Give up; refuse to challenge your fate. Give in; accept your destiny. Stop struggling against the Universe’s grip on your throat. Once that pressure is gone, you will be free!"

—The First Pronouncement of Bleen

Jbx Utaalk’s mandibles clickity-clacked. A drop of condensed breath fell from the ceiling and landed on her cheek. She flinched. A shiver, beginning at her shoulders and ending at the tip of her wide tail, exposed her fear and apprehension. On her right and left, ten Utaalkians—witnesses for the execution—standing erect on their sturdy hind legs pressed their chitinous backs against the rough-hewn stone of the claustrophobic cave lit by a few small candles standing on the floor. Pincers at the ends of the spectators’ tiny arms tapped chittering gossip, like weak radio static, to their neighbors.

Stalactites, just beginning to form on the low, jagged ceiling, glowed and shimmered in the flickering light and bent ten pairs of antennae back toward their owners. The only unoccupied area in the crowded space was a narrow alley between Jbx and her target. The room smelled of brine, mold, and candle fragrance—seaweed.

Blindfolded, Djt Utaalk stood facing Jbx. Irregular gray blotches, partially hidden by makeup, on Djt’s crimson abdomen and tail fan indicated the deadly parasite consuming him from within. A slight sway to maintain balance indicated he wasn’t yet dead. His six pairs of arms and single pair of heavy claws hung limp at his sides. The fore letter D identified him as the oldest living Utaalk in the room.

Git Utaalk squeezed around the witness nearest the entrance and wiped a drip off his shoulder. The insignia of a junior council member—Utaalk’s rising sun, Adarab—was tattooed on the midsection of his chest. Shoulders back, thrusting his painted badge of honor forward, he strutted his half-a-claw-shorter-than-average body into the center of the opening and threw his arms wide.

Fellow Utaalks, he said with a commanding voice two claws superior to his audience. We cannot measure the importance of this day in claws or tails. He tapped the sweating chest plate of each witness as he slunk toward Djt. This is a moment above and beyond any in Utaalk history. Greater even than the discovery of our resistance to being Flocked. The rustling static grew louder; blinking eyestalks bubbled in and out of the skittish audience’s tiny skulls.

Holding Jbx’s wrist, Git lifted her unresisting, unarmed claw as high as he could into the air; it missed the ceiling by inches. Here is our savior. He snapped his free claw at Djt. There is our sacrifice. Today, with this action, we reclaim our birthright as the sole species in the galaxy able to build stardrive engines.

Oba, Git said, clacking his claw officiously. Let’s get on with this. The plan cannot proceed without this film.

Camera rolling, Oba Utaalk announced, with a rhythmic flutter of her young uropods. One of her eyestalks peered into the camera eyepiece; the other was covered with a thin, dark sock. An artsy red beret was pushed back on her head. An orange cravat weighted by a variety of medals attested to her award-winning professional status. Her smaller left claw pushed a squeaking crank.

The camera was a crude box covered with fabric. The crank did not advance any film-recording mechanism; a digital camera mounted behind the phony lens recorded the scene. Oba insisted that the act of creating artwork was a work of art itself, worthy of embellishment and spectacle. The camera projected over Jbx’s right shoulder, the weaponized arm. A second camera stared back from over Djt’s right shoulder to record the shooter’s movements.

The crossbow pistol shook as if it were trying to wriggle free of Jbx’s grip as she raised it and aimed the barbed arrowhead between Djt’s antennae. A hubcap-sized medallion hung from a length of coarse twine tied around her neck. JBX was emblazoned in block letters across its face. Every 3.21 seconds, the inscription morphed into another galactic language, to ensure her name would become infamous throughout the galaxy.

The top-secret operation was organized by an influential handful of individuals stretching from the top of the planet’s government to Git, Jbx, and the witnesses in the cave. Even the crossbow was an illegal import. Weapons were not needed on Utaalk. The urge to kill had been bred out of them in the centuries since they had begun building stardrive engines for the Galactic Association of Stardrive Manufacturers and Engineers (GASME). Their monopoly on engine construction had made them all rich. Utaalks, rock-crawling dullards that they were, spent their money surrounding themselves with shiny, wriggly objects. A parade of galactic peddlers presented the Utaalks with overpriced, well-polished gewgaws proclaiming the latest item to be the most sought after bling in the universe.

They were never heard arguing.

Honey, did you buy the Galaxyball tickets?

No, dear, I thought you did.

Honeyscrum, the pot is at seventeen quintillion credits. We really don’t want to miss this one.

But, dearscrumgrunt, you know the odds are so long, you are almost as likely to win if you don’t buy a ticket.

I know the odds, my little honeyscrumgruntdist, but I asked you to buy the tickets.

Never in recorded history had one Utaalkian taken the life of another. There had never been a need for murder.

Until now.

The livelihood of all Utaalks was threatened; their single-commodity economy, their very civilization, was on the verge of collapse. All because of an upstart species—a newly discovered life form on the edge of the galaxy called Human. By a cruel galactic circumstance, they were also immune to the toxic effects of Flock, the principle catalyst in stardrive engines. The same stardrive engines they once had an exclusive contract to build, precisely because Flock was a fatal poison to every species in the galaxy except them.

Until now.

The Humans had to be neutralized and discredited. The plan was simple. But first an example had to be made, for the greater good of all Utaalkians.

Shoot, Jbx, Oba clacked. Now!

Jbx retracted her eyestalks to cover them and twisted her antennae to drown out the chittering of the witnesses. She drew a shaky bead on the mental image of the location where she had last seen Djt standing. If the operation was successful, Djt’s name would be praised as a sacrifice, savior, and martyr for her race; Humans would be undone, and they would once again become the most important planet in the galaxy. Utaalk would forever have the upper hand in dealing with GASME, not the other way around.

Jbx’s claw clenched. The crossbow recoiled. The arrow flew true and severed Djt’s head cleanly from his body. When she opened her eyes, green tomalley ooze, an eruption from the severed neck, dripped off the ceiling onto the arrow’s feathers. The tiny head rolled into a corner and the eyestalks turned white. The sightless eyes stared at Jbx.

Git was gleeful at the accuracy of the shot. Did you get it? he asked.

Oba ran her antennae through her mandibles, the expression of arrogance.

But of course, Jbx said. I am a professional.

The witnesses crowded around the corpse and blocked Jbx’s view. A whiff of brine confirmed the group had already ripped open Djt’s tail and were feasting on the meat. Their society believed that by eating their dead, the dead would—on a cellular level—become part of the living and survive on from one generation to another, thus guaranteeing immortality. Besides, they tasted pretty good.

Jbx watched Git and Oba muscle their way through the crowd. She was not hungry, and the newly stitched incision over her waist segment still throbbed painfully. She rubbed the sutured section, imagined the poison imprisoned within, and weighed the possibility that the Humans might detect and expose her mission.

Did anyone bring the Zzyzx sauce? asked Thc, the youngest of those present and, as teenagers tend to be, rude and insensitive to the gravity of the situation. However, in Thc’s defense, it was considered tasteless and gauche to assimilate another Utaalk without a decent sauce.

Of course, bibs were optional.

CHAPTER 2

"Be wary of your Position. If Truth does not fit your Understanding or fulfill your Expectations, you must have taken a wrong turn at Reason."

—The Sixth of the Nine Nuisances of Bleen

The glass enclosing the two-story Miriam Wu Memorial Atrium was doped with a variety of heavy metals to absorb the solar particle radiation that would fry Human tissue, even though Mars was half again as far as Earth to the Sun. Mars did not have a strong enough magnetic field to trap those energetic particles and generate auroras, so common to northern earthly latitudes.

Another debilitating environmental factor for the Human habitation of Mars was the low gravity; a 150-pound person on Earth weighed 57 pounds on Mars. As attractive as it sounded to the gastronomically obsessed, they would indeed feel much lighter, but over time their bone mass would deteriorate. If left uncompensated, the lack of gravitational acceleration would reduce an ordinary Human’s bones to twigs. Upon return to Earth, their own weight would crush them into a boneless jellyfish.

To prevent muscle and bone degeneration, every visitor and resident was custom fitted with a set of balance weights to maintain tone and strength. They were designed to be worn as simple bands on wrists, elbows, ankles, and knees, with a collar on the shoulders to correctly compress the spine, and a second belt for the hip. Alternatively, personal clothing was designed with pockets at the same strategic points to hold and hide the balances. The elite had theirs fashioned from gold or platinum. Existence on Mars was to be as earthlike as possible.

Back patting, small talk, and polite laughter occupied the famous group of Humans waiting behind the curtain for their momentous introduction. The year was 18 AQ (after Quane).

Eighteen years before, Quane, the devilish traveling junk seller, had appeared in low Earth orbit to sell his stardrive engine technology in exchange for the DNA blueprints of two hundred thousand species of Earth’s animals and plants.

Richard Winn, the first to meet Quane, was gray, frail, and gaunt. Hunched over and blanketed in his wheelchair, he smiled wanly at his former International Space Station crew. Though just fifty years old, the debilitating effect of his exposure to Flock sixteen years earlier made him appear twice his age. His reaction to Flock, being the first person exposed to the toxin, was the most intense. As the infection spread from person to person, it became less and less debilitating. Ultimately, it acted as a Human antidote against the poisonous red dust, and Humans became the second species in the galaxy immune to Flock, the principal catalyst for the stardrive engine reaction, which enabled interstellar travel.

Oh my god, Richard wheezed. I still can’t believe you’re all here. His grip was less than a light breeze on Fedor’s emaciated wrist.

Fedor Yashin, who had been the material scientist on the ISS when Quane had arrived to sell Earth a stardrive engine, was suffering an aggressive bone cancer caused by his exposure to ionizing radiation during his years in space. His wild thatch of white hair had been defoliated, revealing a landscape of liver spots and cysts, and a meandering lacework of spider veins. His face was gaunt, the tight skin resisting his forced efforts to blink and close his mouth. His tongue darted in an out in a frantic attempt to keep his lips moist.

Instead of riding in a wheelchair, he was connected to a contraption of his own design. It was a metallic exoskeleton that enabled him to stand erect or bow as desired by use of hydraulic actuators with hinges at critical joints. His ankles were tied to other actuators, which lifted and placed each foot in a rhythm and speed selectable by a thumbwheel under his index finger.

You’d have a hard time starting without me, Fedor said, wincing as he winked. Neither he nor Richard wore balance weights.

Nancy Wahl, a member of the same ISS crew and the first documented person to ever lay eyes on an officially confirmed extraterrestrial spacecraft, shuffled nervously. Her long blond hair had been trimmed to a short pixie. Although GASME had assured Humanity that the atrium and manufacturing facility was impervious to all dangerous ionizing radiation, Nancy could not overcome her instinctive fear for the health of the eight-month-old fetus incubating in her womb. On her return to Earth after Quane’s visit, she began a deep-fried relationship with the manager of The Varsity Drive-in. There was nothing like potential parenthood to bring one to the altar of responsibility. Besides, doctors could not put compensating weights on her unborn baby.

Richard, you know we all love you, Nancy said, finally over her schoolgirl crush for him. This is all way more than we hoped for. And it was all thanks to your sacrifice.

Because of that sacrifice, GASME and the manufacturing arm of Stardrive Engines, Inc. (SDEI) had constructed a manufacturing facility on Mars and staffed it with Humans. The Martian facility had broken the monopoly of the lobster-like species from a rocky planet called Otkin Adarab Utaalk because they had been the first—and until the discovery of Humans, the only—species resistant to Flock. As a result, Earth was quickly becoming one of the richest planets in the galaxy.

Nick Danthier, the accidental but not altogether reluctant discoverer of the secret to operating alien stardrive engines, moved from the neck up. His head turned, angled, and posed to create a lifelike display of the latest model of his upscale line of personally autographed sunglasses. The collar of his leather jacket was upturned, and his thumbs were hooked into his pants pockets. The jacket was culled from a new line of designer clothing he was promoting. The enhanced stitching around the weight pockets emphasized a Yeah, I was on Mars. What’cha gonna do about it? attitude—whether or not the owner had actually set foot on the red planet.

Dude, Nick gently slipped a spare pair of his ultra-exclusive glasses onto Richard’s face. Wear these glasses for one minute, and we’ll both make a truckload of money from the increased sales.

Thanks, Nick, Richard did not have the strength to refuse. After many years of speaking engagements and product endorsements, he simply nodded when offered a new source of income. Every new spring of money diffused, like water through a river plain, into his too-many-to-count charitable nonprofits. His largest fund by far funded a small army of investigators dedicated to finding and paying the hospital bills of any injured Dia’Bolos. Quane had vanished after leaving Earth, and Richard was obsessed with finding and thanking him for his contribution to Humanity’s success.

Miriam Wu, leader of the Galaxy Quest expedition eleven years earlier and negotiator of the deal bringing stardrive manufacturing to Mars, was a bit grayer and heavier but still radiated a motherly self-confidence, inviting all into her intellectual but nonjudgmental embrace. The waiting list for her advanced graduate classes on exobiology was five years deep and growing. Her lecture circuit was booked solid for seven years. At fifty years old, and after months of objectively probing her endocrine system, she deduced that she had met the man with whom she could rationally survive cohabitation and childbearing, as long as they were quick about getting it on. She radiated subjective, teary joy for her personal situation and even more for the company surrounding her.

Richard, Miriam caressed Richard’s shoulder. None of this would have happened without you. You are the one responsible for all of this, the ascendancy of Earth and Humanity. Her sleeve shifted, revealing a wristband covered with images of endangered Earth animal species.

Nancy fought back the tears welling in her eyes. As she dabbed the corner of her eye with her sleeve, she heard a sniffle. Fedor was staring, unblinking, up at the ceiling. He wiped his finger under his nose and it came away wet.

Chuck Martin, the muscle on the Galaxy Quest expedition, stood to the side while the others jabbered and laughed. A spare tire from easy living was beginning to inflate above his waistline, and his hair was a touch longer than military grooming standards demanded

Arriving early, he had paid his respects to Richard and reviewed the security arrangements. Life had been predictable after his return from the Galaxy Quest expedition—promotions, medal-pinning ceremonies, plaque presentations, and selfies with grinning generals and politicians. He was little more than a photo op, arm candy to advance careers. Daily facial massages relieved the cramps from the forced smiles. Cold compresses on his eyes erased his frosted vision from the barrage of flashbulbs.

Chuck had instantly accepted the offer to be security director at the Martian facility as the means to escape a life as a two-dimensional prop for the selfie culture.

A dull, muddy suspicion had nagged the backfield of Chuck’s attention since his landing on Mars. Urged by reflex, he reached up to touch the Saint Christopher medal he had appealed to for help during the galaxy mission with Miriam and Nick, but his fingers grabbed his reading glasses instead. The medallion was now part of his military trophy case. He smirked at his foolish forgetfulness, and then frowned. Successful soldiers knew to trust their instincts, honed and sharpened by months of physical and mental challenge and deprivation; survival might depend on a split-second look into the future, aka intuition. There was a game afoot.

A six-foot-four-inch, droopy-eyed, bearded giant, usually assigned by promoters as chief roadie to the most exclusive and highest-priced entertainers, strolled onto the stage where the small group waited. If his nametag had been pinned right-side up, it would have read BOB. Bob’s wristbands were weighted with pointed steel spikes; his elbow bands displayed flaming skulls. The unseen images on his shoulder and hip bands had been banned in nineteen countries.

Ahem, the giant grunted to call the group’s attention. Blasé from overexposure to the celebrity of the greatest rock stars of Earth, he never looked up from his clipboard. One satisfying perk to this assignment was that without his weights, in the privacy of his quarters and the company of groupies bent on prying backstage passes to their favorite bands on their next vacation on Earth, he felt 114 pounds lighter. Curtain up in one minute.

The stage was a temporary structure created for the presentation of the six most influential people in leveraging Earth from boondocks to galactic prominence. Arguably, Quane, the alien who had sold Humans the technology to become galactic celebrities, should have occupied an exclusive stage two levels higher. He was, however, unavailable for the ceremony despite the money, favors, and influence Richard had paid, begged, and leveraged for his discovery.

When queried about Quane’s whereabouts, GASME representatives shrugged and turned their heads away. Human scout ships using state-of-the-art stardrive engine technology, the first off their Martian assembly line, confirmed that Quane’s name and location was a mystery to every alien they encountered. Richard refused to admit that his greatest mentor and Humanity’s greatest benefactor