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"At least wear a scouter! How are we going to communicate with you?"
"Wave?" suggested Vegeta with a slight grin. His refusal to wear one was a long standing point of contention between himself and his trainer; Zarbon patently didn't believe the Prince could read ki without a machine and considered it a dangerous affectation. "Zarbon, just tell Nappa and he'll get a message to me psychically."
"And by the time I say, 'Hey, look out,' and he does what-ever-it-is you Saiyans do with your minds, you'll have been killed how many times?"
Chuckling, Vegeta reached for a chest plate.
Looking at the one he chose, Zarbon all but screamed, "Are you trying to lose an arm? At least wear something with shoulder guards!"
Vegeta mock-protested, "But I don't like shoulder guards, Zarbon. In fact, I move a lot faster with less armor."
Zarbon, his deep voice almost a whine, said. "At least kill me outright instead of trying to worry me to death."
Vegeta smiled at him -- the little Prince had a charming smile when he was genuinely amused -- and startled him almost out of his wits by reaching over and patting him gently on one blue cheek. "Now, Zarbon; slow torture is so much more fun!"
Zarbon rolled his eyes and muttered, just loud enough for Vegeta to hear, "I should be dying of ecstasy any second, then," as he followed the Prince out.
Concerned for Goku's son, Yamcha had tried to go with Piccolo, Krillin and Gohan, but the three looked at him with identical expressions of discouragement on their faces and, feeling a little hurt, he backed off. Arriving at his apartment, he was further annoyed to find Puaru out. Well aware that the next twenty-four hours could prove difficult to survive, he wandered through the rooms, looking absently at things he might never see again. When he found himself staring at a turned-off television set, though, Yamcha gave a self-mocking smile and told himself that the end of the world was no excuse to get morose. Morose just wasn't his style. And style, he reminded himself, glancing at a mirror, was something he did have plenty of...
I should go say goodbye to Bulma, he thought. He looked at the clock and grinned. And, who knows, if I can get her in the mood there might be time for more than goodbye. He took off for the nearby Capsule Corporation.
They stopped by Zarbon's quarters so the alien could get his own armor. Vegeta leaned in the doorway and watched Zarbon drape a cape across the black battlesuit then tug a chestplate (with shoulder guards, which he pointedly spent some time adjusting) over both. The alien dithered for a while at his desk, rooting in a small box while he tried to decide on appropriate accessories for the invasion, muttering that he had worn everything good on Wakusei, dammit. Clicking his tongue, Vegeta walked over, looked for a minute, then pulled out two amber teardrop shapes and held them out to Zarbon on his gloved palm. "Match your eyes," he said, impatiently.
Zarbon blinked his clear golden eyes at the Prince and hurriedly stuck the earrings through the holes in his lobes, following the other man as Vegeta pivoted on his heel and strode out.
Nappa greeted Zarbon with a sneer. "Decided to dress up for this one after all, I see."
Zarbon ignored him, frowning at the shuttle that was being prepared on the hanger deck. "Vegeta, anything with technology much above radio waves will see this coming."
"They already know we're coming," Vegeta reminded him. "I don't see why I have to get banged around in a pod when there's no element of surprise to maintain. How long to Chikyuu?" he demanded of a nearby technician.
"One hour."
Vegeta nodded. "Have the battleship follow us in and take up a stable orbit around the planet. No one is to go planetside unless they hear from me. Anything more from Radditz?"
"No messages. We've picked up the signal from his pod, though, in the mid-upper latitudes of one of the major continents. There's also a weak signal from another pod."
Zarbon's head turned at that. "Kakarott's?"
"I don't know," the technician answered. "It's very faded, however; we couldn't detect it until we slowed to sub-light speeds just outside the system. It is an older code."
"Some of the audio transmissions made it sound as if Radditz was speaking to Kakarott," Zarbon told Vegeta.
Vegeta's nose wrinkled. "If this turns out to be a recovery mission after all, I am going to be very cross."
After planting the homing device in Radditz's landing crater, Tenshin and Chaozu went back to their home in the frozen north to find Tenshin's lover Launch hauling out artillery she hadn't used in years, snarling that ki was fine an' all but nothing beat a semi-automatic. Tenshin spent a considerable amount of time and energy Chaozu frankly thought could have been better spent in mediation calming her down, finally taking her into their quarters and locking the door after him. Sighing, Chaozu folded his stubby arms and closed his eyes, levitating in the main living area and keeping his mind clear for whatever communication Kami-sama might need to send him.
Bulma and her mother were in the dining area off the kitchen in their Capsule Corporation living quarters. Yamcha looked at Mrs. Briefs; with that astonishing radar she seemed to possess, Bulma's mother announced she was missing her favorite soap and cleared her part of the table off, disappearing into the living room. Slurping down pasta, Bulma eyed him suspiciously. "This is just a short break," she said, warningly. "We have the Saiyan's propulsion system all over the workroom, and Dad thinks he can figure it out, maybe even improve it. I have to get back before he breaks everything down to sub-atomic levels and I can't reassemble it."
Yamcha reached over and took her hand, prying the fork out of the clenched fingers and dropping it onto the plate. He didn't let go when she tried to tug away, pulling her hand to his chest and holding it there between his own. "The Saiyans are almost here," he told her. "Kami-sama says we only have a few hours before they make planetfall, maybe less."
She raised a fine eyebrow at him and pulled again at her hand. "And you have an itch you'd like me to scratch before you go off to battle?" she surmised, unamused. "You could use a blow-up doll for that, Yamcha."
He grinned, rakishly, and saw an answering gleam in Bulma's eyes she couldn't quite disguise. "I'd be kinda hard on those things," he said, and watched as memories rippled across her face before she put the mask on and scowled at him. He raised her hand to his mouth and lightly nipped her thumb, then pulled her up to her feet. He kissed her, pushing his hands into her soft blue hair; she let him but didn't respond. After a minute he sighed against her mouth. "That's a 'no,' I take it."
"Yamcha, you idiot," Bulma sighed back. "I can't just--turn on and off, you know? You need to decide what you want." He grinned, pushing his hips against hers lightly. "Idiot," she said again. "Sex is not what I mean, and you know it."
"I'll come back to you," Yamcha promised her.
Which once more proved to be the wrong thing to say. She hit his shoulder with the heel of her hand; even though it didn't hurt he released her, rubbing his shoulder as if it had. "Don't survive on my account," Bulma said in annoyance. "We have a lot of stuff to work out, and just you being alive isn't going to make everything okay again."
"Well, if I do die..."
"I thought you were so sure you were coming back."
"If I do die," Yamcha repeated, the annoyance in his voice now matching hers, "Mr. Popo has the Dragon radar. Use it to get the rest of the dragonballs and wish me back, okay?"
"I'll think about it," Bulma said crossly after a minute, her version of acquiescence. He grinned, the irritation melting away, and stroked one finger against her nose. "No," she said again, firmly. "Should've gone to one of your other girlfriends, Yamcha."
"I didn't think of anyone else," he said, which was both the truth and, again, the wrong thing to say, since it reminded her that he did see other women and resparked the glare. "Look, can we just be nice to each other for a couple of hours? This is big, Bulma, and it's -- it's scary. I don't want to fight you right now."
"Ah, the vulnerable approach," Bulma said, sardonic. "Should have tried that first, Yamcha, before I got all riled up at you." She exhaled, and grinned faintly. "Oh, go sit in the living room with Mom. I'll bring some coffee, we can watch soaps, and we'll pretend nothing's happening for a while. Deal?"
"Deal."
Zarbon tapped in a series of commands and hit autopilot, settling back in the pilot's seat of the shuttle. After waiting a minute to make sure the shuttle was responding as it should, he pulled the tie off of his ponytail, absently smoothed his hair over one shoulder and began to braid it, his head cocking to the side. He caught sight of Nappa, watching him with widened eyes and barely opened mouth, and stared back with half-lowered lids. "See something you want, Commander?" he asked, coolly.
The familiar snarl settled across Nappa's features.
In the command chair behind Zarbon, Vegeta snapped, "I am not listening to you two snipe at each other for the entire trip. Save it for the natives."
"Yes, my Prince," responded Zarbon, his tone obedient, his features frozen into hard lines. Turning his face away from Nappa, he continued to plait his hair.
It was a very quiet flight.
Mrs. Briefs was trying, with little success, to catch Yamcha up on Luke and Laura. "But I don't see where this Stephen guy comes in," he complained, scowling. "I mean, Laura had a son twenty-odd years ago by another guy and nobody noticed? How does stuff like that go unnoticed?"
"The convenience of instant, revisionist history," said Bulma.
Mrs. Brief made a 'shhh'ing noise at her daughter and again tried to explain Laura's mysterious multi-year disappearance and how she never told anyone where she was or what she was doing. Stopping in mid-sentence, "You are not listening to me, Yamcha," Bulma's mom complained gently.
Bulma looked at him abruptly. Yamcha's sharp-angled face had gone totally blank, his eyes unfocused. His head made an swift turn, as if he expected to see through the wall. "What?" demanded Bulma. "What is it?"
He didn't answer right away.
Chaozu's eyes slowly opened. Tenshin, he thought.
To his relief, Tenshin answered immediately. Is it time?
Yes. The Saiyans are here.
"What the hell do you mean, the Saiyans are here!?" screamed Bulma, leaping to her feet. "Here, where? The back yard? Nova Scotia? Where!?"
"Not near," said Yamcha, with that closed look that told her he was feeling things beyond her capability to experience. She glowered at him, feeling impotent. Why the hell does everyone I know except for me have ki abilities? "Not Nova Scotia, either," he continued, seriously. "Between there and here, though."
"Great, that's what, half the planet?"
"Montana, USA," said her mother.
Bulma gaped. Now her mother had ki? "How do you know?"
Mrs. Briefs pointed at the television. "Because they just interrupted my soap," she said, "and 'live from Montana' is what it says at the bottom of the screen."
Yamcha's head whipped around again, and he focused on the television as if he thought he could step into it.
"--not a hoax!" came a voice from the box. "A craft of extra-terrestrial origin has made touchdown here in North America! It was first picked up by radar satellites just a few minutes ago; we thought it might be a weather balloon gone dramatically off track, but that is no weather balloon!"
Through a haze of distance and dust, the outline of a domed structure could be seen. Bulma thought it looked a little like one of their own Capsule houses, but with nothing nearby to scale it, she couldn't be sure of its size. Then the camera tried to zoom in (it was clearly almost at the edge of its range already) and she saw three specks floating up as an on-air argument erupted between the newscopter pilot and the reporter as too how close they should get.
"Kami," whispered Yamcha, his eyes wide and staring through the television. "Kami help us."
"What?" demanded Bulma. He ignored her.
The reporter won the argument; the helicopter came closer to the craft and the hovering specks as the camera focused in. At first, all Bulma could make out were dangling legs and broad shoulders; the figures were humanoid, then, as Radditz was. As the figures came into clearer focus, Bulma realized they all had their backs to the camera; she saw the white of Saiyan armor, black-clad limbs, a waving cape. Then the one with the cape turned and glanced into the camera, which zoomed in on him.
He looked nothing like Radditz. The scouter covering one eye was ruby red, not green, the skin tones were pale, even faintly blue, and he had smooth green hair with delicately-etched facial features.
"Whoa," said Bulma, in spite of herself. "He's beautiful. Mom, look; have you ever seen such a gorgeous guy? Maybe the Saiyans aren't so horrible after all."
Mrs. Briefs smiled faintly. "You always were partial to green."
Yamcha seemed to snap out of his abstraction; he frowned at Bulma.
The man smiled, held up two fingers in a 'V' sign, then again turned his back to the camera. "Look," said the reporter in excitement, "did you see that? They come in peace!"
"Hardly," muttered Yamcha. He stood up. "I've never felt anything like this," he said, harshly. "Even from this distance--"
One of the figures raised an arm, pointing into the distance. There was a flare-up around the figures, which Bulma recognized as auras charging. The reporter yelped, then yelped once more as the aliens blurred and vanished.
"Gotta run," said Yamcha. He smiled grimly at Bulma. "World's at stake and all that." He held out his arms to her; Bulma's brows arched, but she hugged him despite her misgivings, excruciatingly aware of her mother's bright eyes on them. Yamcha kissed her on the temple then gently put her aside, his gaze once more distant as he walked out of the building.
Going to the window, Bulma watched as his own aura flared into visible existence around him and Yamcha took to the air, flickering and then vanishing from her sight. Sighing, she turned away, then almost jumped out of her skin when a piercing noise split the air. "Now what the--?!"
Her mother leapt off the sofa, suddenly galvanized into action in a way mere alien invasion could not achieve. "The infirmary!" she said, urgently. "That's the alarm from the sickroom!"
Oh-oh. Bulma was closest to the door. She got to it first, slamming it after her, hoping her mother had the sense to stay put as she sprinted toward the out-building that housed Radditz.
Read The Chikyuu Contaminant: Chapter Ten
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