The Rebellion Hyperbole (The Adventures of Trek Gibbons Book 1) Read online

  “We are in the midst of a problem and we need your guidance,” Clayzon said.

  I’m all ears, baby. Well, actually, that’s not true. Don’t really have any ears! Ha! I suppose I could if I really wanted to, but never really had the need, ya know? I can hear just fine without ‘em. Anyway, what’s the problem?

  “We have recently run in to a communications sabotage,” she said.

  Aha! That explains why I lost the news feeds and such for a bit. I thought my equipment was just on the fritz.

  McCracken felt his right eye twitching. This happened from time to time when he was in the company of idiots.

  “The Supreme Commander of our military has learned that we were actually attacked by a group called The Rebellion.”

  You talking about Supreme Commander McCrackass?

  The Committee members giggled at this. McCracken glared at them, tightening his visage.

  “He is here with us, GOD.”

  Oops. Sorry, McCrackass.

  More giggling.

  So is there another attack expected or what?

  Clayzon motioned toward McCracken. “Supreme Commander?”

  “You would think that GOD would already know the answer to that question,” McCracken stated, “being that GOD is omniscient and omnipresent.”

  What gave you that idea?

  “Only every known book on the subject,” McCracken snidely replied.

  I should probably read some of these books. For now, though, rest assured that I’ve no interest in being all-knowing. Where’s the fun in that?

  “I couldn’t say,” McCracken answered. “I am merely a mortal.”

  I wouldn’t say you’re amoral, McCrackass. Sure, you’re a little loose around the edges, but—

  “Not amoral, you imbecile,” McCracken said, to which everyone in the room gasped and drew symbols in the air as if to protect themselves from evil. “I said that I am a mortal.”

  Oh, gotcha. Aren’t we all?

  “You’re not,” McCracken said.

  Compared to you guys, I guess that’s a fair statement. Well, getting back on topic, you don’t know if another attack is expected, but anyone who follows even the worst detective shows or books, or has ever seen anything regarding war, knows that another attack is likely.

  “At least we can agree on that,” McCracken said.

  Do you have a plan or do you want me to spell one out for you?

  “My plan was to start up a new investigation team,” McCracken said. The Committee ate up anything that revolved around new divisions on Quarn. “The team would report to The Committee, of course.”

  Interesting.

  “So that would make us in charge of the investigation?” Megna asked, tilting his head to the side.

  “Correct,” McCracken replied.

  Beng leaned forward. “I think that makes sense.”

  “Yes,” Megna replied.

  “I, for one,” Clayzon said, after a moment, “can see no reason why they shouldn’t report to us. GOD?”

  Doesn’t matter to me, Claybaby. Just don’t let it get in the way of our chats, yeah?

  She giggled and reddened again.

  “And we can tell them what to do and everything?” Nebby asked McCracken.

  “Well, they would report to you, sir,” McCracken answered.

  “Good, good,” Megna said as all of the committee members nodded in unison.

  “They would be at your beck and call.”

  Gleeful discussions ensued as eyes glowed earnestly. Even Clayzon’s level of reddish hue had gotten so dark that it threatened to be near black.

  McCracken let them stay immersed in their sea of power for about a minute. Then he cleared his throat and waited for them to settle down.

  “You’ll just have to handle the standard day-to-day requirements.”

  Uh oh.

  “Such as?” Clayzon asked after a moment.

  “Nothing overly complex,” McCracken said. Then he flipped a switch that brought up a 3D slide show he’d prepared for the meeting. “Let’s see: you have staffing requirements, of course.”

  Did I just hear a switch flip?

  “Nothing that you haven’t dealt with before,” McCracken said, ignoring GOD. “Just your basics, like dealing with vacations and time off, handling one-on-ones, and working with the Species Resources Department on paperwork and the like.”

  I can’t see anything. Is there a sharing ID or something? Are there pictures?

  McCracken continued, “You’ll also have to read through the daily investigation summaries, comb through the surveillance feeds, and make decisions based on anything you learn from those studies.”

  Is this thing on? Maybe I’ve been disconnected? I can hear all of you…can you hear me?

  “And finally, each of you will have to write daily reports to be filed with both Internal Security and my office. Those reports are to be handwritten—”

  “Handwritten?” yelped Beng.

  “On pre-defined forms,” McCracken replied with a nod. “It’s a snap, really. Shouldn’t take but four or five hours out of your daily activities.”

  Hello?

  Silence.

  I guess I’ll just call back later—

  “Sorry, GOD,” Clayzon said loudly, while blinking. “We got caught up in the forms and graphs that Supreme Commander McCracken was just sharing with us.”

  Oh, right on. I couldn’t see it, but it sounded like a lot of work. I’m not sure I’d take on that amount of work, if I were you.

  “Well, GOD has spoken,” Clayzon said, looking relieved. “While we would normally love to be involved, we have to follow GOD’s judgment on things, you know?”

  At least there was something useful coming from this GOD joker.

  “We could have them report to Internal Security,” blurted Beng.

  But didn’t you say that Internal Security is completely clueless?

  “We didn’t say that,” Clayzon replied, looking shocked. “We just said that they hadn’t found anything yet.”

  My bad, Claybaby. Still, sounds to me like you shouldn’t stick a new group under a group that hasn’t found anything. It’d be like asking a piece of paper what’s on the other side.

  “True.”

  “So are you saying that you don’t want this group to report to The Committee or Internal Security?” asked McCracken.

  “I believe that’s what GOD was inferring,” Clayzon stated.

  Yep.

  “He proves his wisdom yet again,” Nebby said.

  “Then the group would report to me?” asked McCracken as if he wasn’t so sure that was the best idea. Of course, it was the best idea, but it would only go smoothly if The Committee had suggested it.

  “It’s the only sensible course of action,” said Clayzon. “Right, GOD?”

  That’s my take.

  “Hmmm,” McCracken said, fighting to hold in his mirth. After a few moments of feigned thought, he began to nod. “I understand your position on this, but are you absolutely certain that you want this new group to be controlled by the military?”

  “Will we have to write any reports if you control the new group?” asked Beng.

  “No, sir.”

  Megna put up one of his long, steel-tipped talons, causing McCracken to again fully face the Awkian delegate. “What about daily meetings?”

  “The military would manage those,” McCracken answered.

  “And studying investigation summaries?” questioned Nebby, who was now sitting back in his chair.

  “My team would handle those as well.”

  “Then I would say,” said Clazyon, “that we are certain that this new group should report to you, Supreme Commander.”

  All Committee heads were nodding in unison.

  “I appreciate your confidence in me and my team, ma’am,” McCracken started, “but I must insist on having full autonomy here. I already have a full plate, what with the war and all—”

  “You’ll have c
omplete control.”

  McCracken stared off into space, trying his best to act concerned. “Fine,” he said, finally. “As long as The Committee agrees to give me full control and agrees to completely fund the new group, then I’ll do it.”

  “We agree,” Clayzon said, standing in front of a sea of exuberant faces. “What will this division be called?”

  “I hadn’t really thought about it,” McCracken said. “How about The Investigation Division on Quarn?”

  “No, no, no,” Megna exclaimed. “We can’t have that! That’s a marketing nightmare.”

  “Agreed,” Clayzon chimed in. “I would say that it must be a branch of some sort.”

  I like the sound of a branch, too. It has that official ring to it, you know?

  “I agree with GOD,” Beng said. “A branch would be fitting.”

  Nebby stood—this time on his chair—and said, “How about The Branch That Investigates Things?”

  “It’s not bad,” Clayzon said with a shrug, “but it’s a tad drawn out, no?”

  Nebby harrumphed and plopped back into his chair, bouncing a bit.

  “What about The Quarn Detectiving Branch?” asked Beng.

  “Yes, yes,” Clayzon said. “I think you’re on to something, but I don’t think that ‘detectiving’ is a word.”

  Beng scratched his neck. “It’s not?”

  “Mine was better,” Nebby said.

  “Yet,” Clayzon said, after a moment of pondering, “it’s just not quite there.”

  “It does seem to be missing something,” Beng was forced to agree.

  It was silent in the room for a minute as McCracken shook his head wondering why it mattered one way or the other, but he didn’t care what they decided to call the damn team as long as they agreed to let him run it.

  I know I’m just GOD and all, but how about something different, like the Gordo Galaxy Detective Agency?

  “Nice,” Megna said in a tempered tone.

  “Very nice,” agreed Beng.

  Clayzon’s face was all aglow. “I love it!”

  Thanks, Claybaby. I do try!

  “Supreme Commander McCracken,” Clayzon said triumphantly, “the new team will be called the Gordo Galaxy Detective Agency.” She then seemed to catch herself, as if remembering that The Committee had just voted to give him complete control. “Um, assuming that you are okay with that?”

  “It’s fine with me,” McCracken said, “but I’m not going to say the Gordo Galaxy Detective Agency every time. I’ll just call it The GDA.”

  “But shouldn’t it have a G in there?” asked Nebby.

  “I dislike saying two letters of the same type,” McCracken replied. “Besides, you’ll know what I mean.”

  “Oh,” said Nebby while smiling mischeviously. “I had no idea you had such an aversion to speaking the same letter in sequence. This must be difficult for you, seeing as though your full name is Monty Melvin McCracken.”

  McCracken glared at him. “That’s precisely why I find it difficult.”

  “But we need that extra G in there, Supreme Commander,” said an emphatic Beng.

  “Why?”

  “Well,” Beng began, “let’s say that the department was to go to a convention outside of our galaxy.”

  “Okay?”

  “And when they arrive, they are announced as merely the Gordo Detective Agency.” Beng was staring at McCracken, but the supreme commander said nothing. “The people in the room may think that it’s just a personally owned detective agency headed up by someone named Gordo!”

  “Excellent point,” said Nebby.

  McCracken took a deep breath. “Are there a lot of these conventions about, then?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted Beng, “but since we’ve never had a galaxy wide detective agency before, there’s never been a lot of need to look into it.”

  “Fine.” McCracken cracked his knuckles and tilted his head from side-to-side, releasing tension. “I suggest a compromise. Whenever the department attends an intergalactic conference, we shall require them to use the full Gordo Galaxy Detective Agency moniker. Internally, however, we shall just call it the GDA.”

  It was Beng’s turn to look annoyed. “It’s just not…”

  “Alternately,” McCracken interrupted, “I can relinquish control of the department and all of its reports, meetings, vacation planning, and so on back into the hands of The Committee.”

  “GDA?” Clayzon said, looking taken aback. “That does have quite the ring to it!”

  “Suddenly,” Beng said with a gulp, “I rather agree.”

  Nebby nodded quickly. “Yep!”

  I have to hand it to you, McCrackass, that does sound sporty.

  “And who do you plan to put at the top of this agency, Commander?” asked Clayzon. “Under you, of course.”

  McCracken paused. He knew that the answer would shock the Committee. Fraud or not, the man McCracken was about to name was known throughout the Gordo Galaxy as the best investigator of all time.

  “Trek Gibbons, ma’am.”

  Gasps all around.

  You’re talking about the author?

  “That’s correct,” McCracken answered, “though I’m shocked that GOD wouldn’t already know the answer to that.”

  “Are we talking about the Trek Gibbons?” asked Clayzon.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “The author of Destruction on Bethcore Five and To Catch a Zoolath?”

  “One and the same, ma’am.”

  The guy that wrote Pertinent Closure?

  It took everything in McCracken’s power to keep his composure. “Yes, it’s the same Trek Gibbons.”

  That’s awesome. He’s my favorite detective writer. I’ve read everything from him. I can’t believe he’s going to be on Quarn!

  “That is rather impressive, Commander McCracken,” said Clayzon.

  “Let’s hope so, ma’am,” McCracken replied, knowing full well that it would not be impressive in the least. “Let’s hope so.”

  The Arrival

  Trek sat near the window of his private suite aboard the transport vessel that was taking him to the Quarn space station.

  It was a chance at a new life, in a manner of speaking. Considering that he had been moments away from losing his life at the hands of a disgruntled Moxoyarian before Supreme Commander McCracken stepped in, Trek could essentially call this a new life. He had zero interest in joining up with a new detective agency, though. Not that his thoughts on the subject mattered all that much. The fact was that it was an offer that he couldn’t refuse. Whatever it was that McCracken wanted out of him, Trek would have to find a way to deliver. It was literally a case of do or die.

  His right-hand man, Herboghedianizagithan—or, as Trek called him, Herb—was the only creature that stuck by him through thick and thin…no matter how hard Trek had tried to shake free from the whiny worm. Apparently, Herb had even attempted to save Trek from the clutches of Riggo by telling them all that Trek had the Yaxian Flu. It was Herb’s only ammunition—he was a Flejnarian, and all Flejnarians were hypochondriacs. They were also the best in the known galaxy when it came to pharmaceuticals. They had pills for everything, including one that had succeeded at curing the common cold. Trek held the belief that Herb’s constant fear of sickness was the primary thing that made the Flejnarian sick. Herb went through life in a constant state of either “having caught” or “in the process of catching” something. It was just who he was.

  “Oh, great,” Herb said, sitting next to Trek. “There’s the wondrous flotilla in all its glory.”

  Trek groaned, knowing what was coming next.

  “Do you have any idea how many beings are on that station?” Herb asked.

  “Don’t care.”

  “Nearly one million,” Herb said. “One million. Just imagine the germs a teapot like that contains!”

  Trek gave his best blank look. Herb didn’t seem to notice.

  “To make matters worse, it’s not just one r
ace. I mean, I could handle going to another planet. That’s not so bad. You’ve got one group of people to deal with. You learn their ins and outs, what kind of bacteria they carry, get inoculations, and then pump your system full of as many drugs as it can handle.” Herb shook his yellowish head. “Dealing with every race all in one spot, though? It’ll take everything I have to not come down with something deadly. Same goes for you, you know?”

  “I did come down with something deadly,” Trek replied dryly. “Fortunately, the cure turned out to be a job at this place. If I get the sniffles in the process, I’d say I’m still better off.”

  Herb, obviously ignoring Trek’s point, gestured at one of the red buildings that sat adjacent to the space port. “That’s their infirmary. One can only imagine how disgusting that place is.” He then pointed across to a smaller white building. “That’s their center of disease control. Ha! They couldn’t even cure the common cold and they’re housing various strains of deadly bacteria? It’s insanity!”

  “You’re being ridiculous, Herb.”

  “Am I?” Herb asked with a huff.

  “Yes.”

  “I think not. I’m simply stating the facts. I mean, just look at that thing. It’s not as if there isn’t plenty of space to grab some type of bug. That floating beast is nearly one hundred miles long. Ninety-seven-point-two, to be exact. It looks like a damn cigar! And you know what happens to you when you smoke, right?”

  “All sorts of bad things.”

  “All sorts of bad things,” Herb repeated. “Couple that with its width and the eleven levels of working and living space and you’ve essentially got a large city. You know what’s in cities?”

  “Germs,” Trek stated with a sigh.

  “Germs. And what about their water supply system? You don’t see any fresh, flowing streams, do you?”

  “Nope.”

  “And the air system? It’s not like there are a bunch of trees in there soaking up the bad and spitting out the good.”

  “I suppose not,” Trek said, only half listening.

  “I’ll bet they don’t even have proper hygiene rules.”

  “I’m sure there are other Flejnarians on board.”

  “Hah! Any Flejnarian stupid enough to climb on to that thing is in serious need of therapy.”