Twelve’s Show

“Okay,” Franklin said, “this is the plan and I don’t want to hear any complaining. The time for input is over. Twelve is on stage at eighteen hundred hours. I know this is a hassle and doesn’t usually fall under out contract, but we need to set up the equipment.”
Brick raised his hand.
“Yes?”
“Why?”
“Because while Twelve is on stage performing, we’ll be sneaking on board the Chairman of the Board and waiting for Martin Ang to show up. He’ll meet us back on Laredo after the gig.
“Once the show starts, the crew moves these crates to the Chairman.”
Weasel Man raised his hand. “Big Julie wants to know how we’re suppose to fit in those crates? The size doesn’t seem to generous.”
Franklin rolled his eyes. “We’re not actually going to be hiding in the crates. We’re dressing like Corporate technicians and ‘delivering’,” he formed quotation marks with his fingers, which is a very annoying habit. “There’s no crew onboard yet but a small army of technician delivering supplies, according to Portia’s reconnaissance work today. We’ll stash the ammo in safe spot and make it out base. The new wait until Martin Ang does all the hard work for us.”
Brick raised his hand again.
“What is it now?”
“It’s a good plan, a fine plan, but what if Martin Ang has the same plan as we do?”
“They don’t,” Franklin said.
“But what if they do?”
“They don’t. Once the ship leaves the spaceport, we lay low. I’ve never been faster than light, I don’t think any of you have, either, so we should just stay still until we recover from the effects. Then we’ll use the service passages to infiltrate the ship. We can take control of the engine room and then seize the ship. Portia will be working hard to over ride the computers, letting it only take commands from us. Big Julie and Brick lay down cover fire, Weasel runs ammo, does the clean up.”
“What about you?” Bea asked.
“Those four take engineering. You and I take the pilot’s chair.”
“Okay but I hope you boys know how to use a rifle? You can’t expect me to fly and shot at the same time.”
Twelve entered the room, wearing what could only be described as a sequined jumpsuit catastrophe. The garment shimmered between green and gold and seemed to emanate its own light.
“Who’s ready to rock?” Twelve asked.


There wasn’t much to set up for the show. Twelve’s data pad had the settings pre-programmed and it plugged right into the station’s mainframe.
Twelve was on the stage and beginning to crone the old hit, “Kenyan Werewolf.”
“Are you ready to go?” Franklin asked, placing on hand on her shoulder.
Over the speakers, “He’s one fast…shut your mouth…I’m just talking about the Kenyan Werewolf.”
Portia nodded. “I’m ready.”