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The Chikyuu Contaminant
Chapter 2
Kami-sama was the deity of Earth, which unfortunately meant he had to play by certain cosmic rules that included one preventing him from directly interfering with Earth's inhabitants. That didn't mean he couldn't influence Earth's denizens, however, with dreams and portents. Or just by inserting a stray thought here and there, a mere suggestion that a certain course of action would be appropriate at this point...
"Or," snarled a voice from Kami-sama's right, slightly above him, "you could stop giving me a headache and just tell me what the hell you want."
Kami-sama opened his eyes. Floating right at the boundary of Heaven was a dramatic figure. In a green face framed by large pointed ears, narrowed eyes regarded him without amusement. The forehead sported curved, knobbed antennae where a human might have eyebrows. A thick white cape snapped in a non-existent breeze. The Demon King, Piccolo, had come to visit his other half and polar opposite.
Earth's God and Earth's Devil stared at each other for a long minute.
"Well?" growled Piccolo. "You called this meeting."
Kami-sama sighed. Doing something as direct as asking Piccolo for a favor went against his natural inclinations and probably violated some sub-paragraph in the deity handbook. "Piccolo, why don't you come down...?"
A harsh, bright smile flared across the Demon King's face. "Air's a little rarified for me, 'God.' Just get on with it."
Kami-sama hesitated.
Blowing out in annoyance, Piccolo snapped, "Would it help if I told you I already have the kid?"
Over Piccolo's shoulder, a small hand waved hesitantly. Then, as tiny fingers grasped handfuls of the white fabric, a small face peeked over the broad shoulder, emitted a squeak and ducked down again. Turning his head, "Told you I knew God," said Piccolo in cold amusement. "Didn't believe me, huh? Relax, kid; your dad knows him, too. He's even spent some time in this place." Glaring at Kami-sama, he muttered an addendum; "Explains why he's such a wuss most of the time."
Kami-sama blinked in surprise. Normally everything that happened on Earth was open to his eyes, but he had been preoccupied with things galactic and, anyway, one of the prerogatives of being the Devil was that Piccolo could occasionally sneak one past him. "What are you doing with Gohan?"
Piccolo shrugged, setting off alarmed squeals as the child apparently scrambled for handholds along the shifting cloak. "Gohan's what distracted Radish or Radar or whatever-his-name-was long enough for me to shoot Ma Kankou Sappou through him. Goku wasn't training the kid. His mate or wife or girlfriend or whatever-she-is threw a fit when Goku said a kid this powerful should be trained and the wimp backed right down. So I borrowed the kid. We've been keeping one step or so ahead of Daddy for the last, what, week?" An assenting squeak came from the hidden child. "Since Radical said he had friends coming and it was all we could do to defeat him, I figured short help was better than no help."
God, recognizing the phrase, narrowed his eyes; eyes that were, except for age, identical to that of the figure floating over Heaven. "You've been watching videos again," he accused.
On the verge of a denial, the Devil seemed to remember who he was talking to and shrugged again, generating more alarmed whimpers from his clinging passenger. "Yeah, so? Get more ideas that way. Humans are so inventive."
"He thought they should have built the second Death Star with back-up shields around its main power source," offered the tiny voice.
"Shut up, kid. Or do you wanna play with the big lizards again?"
Another alarmed sound, then silence. The Devil looked again at God. "So, you think the kid should be trained for whatever's coming? We agree. You think Goku needs to get a bit sharper before whoever gets here? We agree. I'm training the kid. Goku's using everything he's got to find the kid, so I'm training him, too. Yeah, I know, irony all around. Maybe you should spend your time with some of those worthless humans who think they have power and leave the non-indigenous life forms to me for a couple of days." His head shot around suddenly, his gaze narrowing into the distance. "We gotta be going. Anything else?"
"Yes," said Kami-sama, leaning a bit more heavily on his wooden staff. "I was able to call in a favor and have the Saiyan communications scrambled for a while, but everything's back to normal and their ship is on its way again. You have a week, ten days tops, before they get here."
"Great. Well, kid, I think your training just got accelerated."
"No more dinosaurs?" asked the little voice, hopefully.
"Naw. Now I'm actually gonna slap you around a bit. And if you don't like it;" the Demon King's sharp fangs bared in a grin; "you're going to have to stop me. Oh," he added, "and wave bye-bye to Daddy." With a flicker and a swirl of displaced air, Piccolo vanished.
The blur that sped past Heaven shouted out a greeting but did not pause in its pursuit of the Demon King. Thinking he was getting too old for this deity stuff, Kami-sama closed his eyes, shifted more weight against his staff and began to plant mental suggestions that perhaps it was time for a few special individuals to come to Heaven for a visit.
The transmission was more than garbled, it was practically unintelligible. The video portion was completely shot, leaving fragmented audio the only source of clues to Radditz's fate. Zarbon listened without expression, locking his emotions down as he heard static-obscured confrontations with --? Radditz repeated his brother's name, Kakarott, several times, and even seemed to be directly addressing him at one point, demanding to know if he had been severely struck on the head. But Kakarott's response (if it was Kakarott) was obscured.
There were other snippets -- a female voice shouting out, "Gohan, no;" a harsh voice, strangely accented, insisting he wasn't looking for a fight; Radditz's own gasp as he read an energy level beyond his own; then the whirring of a successful ki strike too close to the scouter before static completely took over.
Zarbon checked the numerical data the scouter also sent. As well as the usual information about atmospheric composition and Chikyuu's gravity well (1/10 that of Vejiitasei), there were multiple energy readings from a low of 300 to a sudden sharp spike of over 1700 near the end, the latter presumably whoever surprised Radditz before overpowering him. Very respectable ki the supposedly powerless natives had, thought Zarbon sourly before shutting down every extraneous emotion.
His mind refused to accept that Radditz was dead. As long as it declined to deal with the facts, it was a potential liability to him. He tried several abbreviated techniques to focus himself, but his thoughts refused to progress beyond denial. Until he had enough time to work through his grief (he was no Saiyan, he could admit to grief), Zarbon knew he needed to function on automatic.
He checked with the computer to see where Vegeta was and headed to the main training chamber on the Prince's level. It was daytime on the ship, a time when warriors not on duty generally worked out and practiced. One did not usually see Saiyans loitering in corridors at any time, thought Zarbon in some puzzlement as he pushed his way through, responding to the occasional subtle threat display of a lifted lip or fluffed-out hair with his most charming smile. Nothing annoyed a Saiyan more than having a silent insult shrugged off as inconsequential.
Zarbon overheard snatches of conversations from soldiers walking away from the training chamber's corridor; some talking about how quickly the Prince moved, using hand gestures to describe impossibly fast strikes; others wondering if they should remain just in case Vegeta started practicing ki techniques. It was unusual to have any sort of an egress during one of Vegeta's rare public training sessions; normally the Prince's audience was rapt with wonder and admiration. Zarbon wondered what the Prince was doing that caused the Saiyans to yield to their short attention spans and wander away.
Turning a corner, Zarbon found a number of soldiers still present, effectively blocking his path to the training chamber. Sighing slightly -- even lower ranking Saiyans were not inclined to cede to his higher ki as they should -- Zarbon lifted off the floor to look over the accumulation of spiky-haired heads. In spite of his foul mood, a slight, genuine smile briefly creased his mouth. It was nice to know that something he had tried to instill in the little Prince stuck with Vegeta fifteen years later.
"How does he do that?" he heard a nearby murmur. "How does he sleep in mid-air?"
How like the Saiyans not to notice the subtle signs of awareness around their Prince. Vegeta was far from asleep; Vegeta was meditating.
The Prince, neatly framed in the open door of the chamber, hovered about four feet off the ground, his eyes closed, his arms folded over his chest, his tail dangling with the tip waving slightly. For a moment, Zarbon regarded the man he helped pull out of that spoiled Saiyan brat of a boy. Vegeta had gained not one fraction in height, but fifteen years of near-continual training certainly filled out his frame. He was corded with muscles that the black bodysuit accentuated--well-cut torso, abdominals rippling as he slowly breathed, powerful thick thighs. The face was subtly different as well, maturity bringing an edge to his jaw and cheekbones not present in the teenager Zarbon trained. Except for the hair -- Saiyans seemed to have no control over their hair whatsoever -- Vegeta bore only a superficial resemblance to the somewhat scrawny princeling Zarbon faced in the tournament more than a decade earlier.
An idea crossed his mind. Zarbon briefly acknowledged that, if unduly surprised, Vegeta might well kill him for what he was about to do, but right now he regarded continued existence with indifference. And it was, after all, his duty as Vegeta's trainer to make sure the Prince was always prepared. Rearing back with one hand, Zarbon quickly let energy coalesce in his palm. There were soft noises as some of the warriors wearing scouters noticed a sudden build up in energy not coming from the Prince. Before some fool leapt in to foil what must look like an assassination attempt, Zarbon tossed the ki ball at Vegeta. He heard gasps as it snaked toward the Prince over the heads of the watching troops, but Vegeta's tail suddenly flicked at it and the energy sphere was batted into the wall where it fizzled harmlessly (again to the astonishment of the troops; Zarbon saw several of them flinch and cross arms over their own tails protectively). After a few seconds, Vegeta opened his eyes and frowned, sliding his tail around his waist as he looked straight at Zarbon in the back of the crowd.
"What do you call that? An infant could have dealt with it."
"I have news from Chikyuu," Zarbon said, unemotionally.
Vegeta frowned at him for a moment longer then nodded, gently lowering to the floor. There was a sudden flurry of activity as soldiers tried to look like they had some reason to be standing around in the corridor.
The Prince led the way to his quarters, ignoring salutes, scowling at one aide who started to approach him. The aide quickly backed away, glaring futilely at Zarbon. Right, blame me for everything, Zarbon thought, aware there was a touch of bitterness in his mind that did not suit a warrior. He really needed to set aside a few hours for mediation himself, although he did not think he would like where his mind would go right now.
Once privated, Vegeta turned and gazed at him without words. Zarbon said, "Radditz ran into resistance on Chikyuu."
Vegeta gave him an unreadable look. "Is he dead?"
"Presumed," replied Zarbon without any inflection, but aware again of that mental protest as some part of his mind refused to accept Radditz's demise. "The last transmission from his scouter was released to me. There were a dozen or so readings of ki levels up to 1700."
Vegeta sighed at that. "I was hoping for fighters with more impressive kis on our next planet. Still, any world that can stop a Saiyan of first class has potential. Tell navigation to set an immediate course for Chikyuu."
"We're still working through the communications backlog."
After a pause, Vegeta said softly, "There was some part of the order you failed to comprehend?"
Zarbon thought of meteor storms, wayward comets, an enemy battle fleet or two, any number of other things that could be revealed in the next retrieved message. Normally he would have mentioned all of them without hesitation. Instead, "No," he said woodenly. Bowing his head, he turned to leave.
"Zarbon."
"Sir."
Vegeta was looking at him with his heavy brows pulled together--which was not very different from the way the Prince always looked at him. "Take the day off."
"I'd rather not."
"Fine, just don't show your face again until you deal with it," Vegeta snapped.
"Sir," Zarbon said again after a minute and left.
Vegeta glared after the departing alien in annoyance. Why the hell did I do that? It'll be at least a week to Chikyuu. If he's going to mope the entire time, who am I going to spar with?
But there had been something disturbing in Zarbon's unusually passive responses, in his empty eyes...
Snorting in derision, Vegeta headed into the bathing chamber for a shower. Idiot alien. Radditz died in battle, as a Saiyan should. Nothing to be upset about. He pushed Zarbon's strange mood completely out of his mind.
"All right, big guy; time to earn your keep."
Nothing. The alien was seriously out of it today. But then, her father had been in here all night fiddling with the equipment and no doubt chatting away to himself, the robots, and the erstwhile patient the entire time. Having endured nights like that herself when the two of them worked feverishly under deadlines, Bulma could understand why their "guest" might want to sleep the day through.
He didn't need to be awake for this little experiment.
Looking at him through the single green lens, Bulma tapped the side of the little machine where it fit over her ear. There were a series of beeps. Three arrowheads appeared, pointing toward a number: >>>955.08.
"That thing's not going to hurt him, is it?" her mother asked anxiously.
"It's not the machine that's dangerous, it's the man," replied Bulma. "Smile, Mom."
Her mother smiled charmingly, her eyes nearly closing with the grin, her hand raised in a "victory" sign. After the beeps, another number popped up: >>>1.03.
"Well?"
"Don't get in an arm wrestling match with this guy," recommended Bulma as she took the headset off. "He's almost a thousand times stronger than you are."
"Oh, I could tell that just by looking at him," Mrs. Briefs responded without any show of alarm, smiling around Bulma at the still figure on the bed. "Strapping big fellow, isn't he? And good looking, really. Do you think he's married?"
Bulma shook her head in disbelief. "Why, is there something you and dad haven't told me?"
"Oh, honey, I wouldn't know what to do with him!" tittered her mother, blushing slightly. "But you aren't seeing Yamcha right now, are you?"
Taking her mother by the shoulders, Bulma stared her in the eyes and tried, once again, to tell her The Truth. "Mom. This guy is an alien. That's why he has a tail. He's here to kill us -- all of us, everything sentient. Then he's going to sell Earth to the highest bidder. He's not a nice guy. He's definitely not husband material."
"You have something against realtors?" her mother asked archly, looking again at the man on the bed. "Well, I don't suppose you have to marry him. He might be fun for you to keep around for a while, though..."
"Mom!"
Mrs. Briefs grinned, clicking her tongue slightly. "Oh, Bulma. Really, did you think we found you in a capsule someplace?"
Feeling warmth flood her face, Bulma released her mother. "Don't ever say anything like that to me again. Ugh!"
Her mother sighed. "Why is it every generation thinks they're the ones that invented sex?"
Bulma, waving her hands wildly, exited the room muttering about her sicko parents and the amount of money this was going to eventually cost her in therapy. Drifting over to the side of the bed, her mother looked down at the still figure with a shrewdness in her eyes that would have startled her offspring. "I don't often see smiles on comatose patients," she said softly. "They must have you on the good stuff."
She was rewarded with a flash of white teeth before the mouth flattened into a straight line. Patting him gently on the undamaged shoulder, she headed for the exit.
Mrs. Briefs did make sure all the robots were armed before leaving. She might not possess the intelligence quotient of her genius daughter, but she wasn't a complete ditz.
Read The Chikyuu Contaminant: Chapter Three
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