Intergalactic Pest Control- The Complete Series Read online

  Intergalactic Pest Control

  The Complete Series

  NM Tatum

  Sarah Noffke

  Michael Anderle

  This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.

  Copyright © 2019 NM Tatum, Sarah Noffke and Michael Anderle

  Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing

  A Michael Anderle Production

  LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  LMBPN Publishing

  PMB 196, 2540 South Maryland Pkwy

  Las Vegas, NV 89109

  First US edition, July 2019

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-64202-357-2

  Contents

  Ganked In Space

  Level Up Bitch!

  It’s Working As Intended

  Ganked In Space

  Intergalactic Pest Control Book 1

  Glossary

  boss, superboss, miniboss: An opponent non-player character in a video game that is typically much more difficult to defeat compared to normal enemies, often at the end of a level or a game.

  gank, ganked: To kill much weaker players in an online video game in such a way that they cannot defend themselves. Or: to swindle, steal.

  level-up: finishing the current level to get to the next level.

  microtransactions: A business model used in games where players can purchase virtual goods via micropayments.

  pwned: In gaming, to trounce an opponent. To be "pwned" is to be defeated unmercifully.

  VRE: Virtual Reality Environment.

  welp: urban slang for "well," pronounced as if "well" had a glottal stop at the end.

  Prologue

  Sector 12 Transgalactic Space Station

  “I hate my job. I hate my job,” the portly custodian, Lonnie, sang. He belted out those four words with the heart and conviction of a soul singer as he danced his mop across the cafeteria floor of the deserted Sector 12 Transgalactic Station. He signaled the sensors flicking the lights on as he went, waking the station up.

  Lonnie had the express privilege of being the first one to set foot on the main floor of the station each day, and clean up the filth left behind by the final shift from the previous night. His arrival beat Grover’s from Maintenance by an hour.

  Lonnie was a ten-year veteran of the station’s custodial staff. During his latest anniversary celebration, the management and human resources team pitched in to get a tiny plaque engraved with the words ‘Lonnie’s Paintbrush,’ and affixed it to the handle of his mop. They frequently made the joke that Lonnie was an artist in the way he cleaned the shit-stained bathroom floors.

  He’d forced a laugh when his bosses, and a handful of people who otherwise pretended he didn’t exist, presented it to him. Worse still, he’d forced a ‘thank you.’

  “Thank you for this backhanded appreciation of the job that I do every day. Thankfully I’m cheaper than bots or I’d be out of a job, you credit-pinching assholes. Thank you for laughing in my face, if you choose to acknowledge my existence at all.”

  That was what Lonnie wanted to say. However, he could never say that aloud. That wasn’t the place of the galactic blue-collar worker.

  The radio on his belt buzzed. “You in, Lonnie?”

  “Every day for more than ten years you’ve asked me that, Grover, and every day, I’ve been here.”

  “You ain’t hit the sublevels yet, have you?” Grover asked.

  “You know my routine, Grover. I don’t hit them levels ‘til damn near nine.”

  “You might wanna hit ‘em up a bit sooner, friend. It’s a sour sight down here in sublevel two.” Grover’s voice tightened.

  Lonnie let out a long sigh, and his mop felt heavier in his hands. “What sort of mess are we looking at?”

  “The sort that’s gonna require much more than that mop of yours,” Grover said. “I can’t say what it is. Maybe some sort of…excrement?”

  A fire lit in Lonnie’s belly. “Damn techs must’ve had a party again. They did the same thing a few years ago. They like to make their own booze out of the junk they grease the wheels with down there, and then they lose control of their bowels.”

  Grover made a noise of disagreement. “This ain’t nothing like no human could make. I don’t know, maybe it’s—”

  His voice cut out.

  “Grover?” Lonnie asked. “You there?”

  Nothing but dead air.

  Lonnie shook his head, putting his radio away. “Probably slipped in it,” he mused aloud. “And with that hip of his, ain’t no way he’s getting up on his own. Best go lift the old man out of the shit.”

  He jabbed his mop into the bucket and pushed the whole apparatus down the corridor, toward the elevator. He drove it inside the compartment and pressed the button for sublevel two. A strange sensation knotted in his stomach, like his guts knew something he didn’t. Or maybe it was just the half-pound of bacon substitute and fifth of whiskey he’d had for breakfast. Either way, by the time the elevator slowed to a halt, Lonnie felt like doubling over.

  The calm was the first thing that hit him when the door slid open. There were only two people on this part of the space station, so he expected it to be quiet, but this was different. This was like the calm at a graveyard. An oppressive quiet. The kind that hangs on death.

  The smell hit Lonnie next. It immediately soured his belly and curdled everything in his guts. He gagged, grabbed his stomach and tried to hold his breath. It was no use. The bacon and whiskey burned on the way back up.

  “Cleaning up after my own damn self,” Lonnie muttered, looking down at the new mess at his feet. “Something ain’t right about that.”

  The smell in the corridor was thick and coated the inside of his nose and throat, seeming to crawl all the way down to his belly. It was metallic and reeked of rotten meat.

  Wiping the corners of his mouth, Lonnie stepped further down the passage of sublevel two. He only had to walk fifty feet, to the first control panel alcove, to find the source of the smell. It was that stuff that Grover thought was excrement. Now, seeing it, Lonnie thought Grover might have been right. It definitely didn’t belong to any human.

  “Hello? Grover, I’m here!” Lonnie called out. He tried to breathe through his mouth as he stared around the darkened area.

  “Grover, where you at?” Lonnie tried again, growing more worried about his friend with each unanswered call.

  The corridor was lit with only the secondary lighting along the floor, casting it in an eerie glow. Add to that the random sounds of machines clunking and gas valves equalizing, and the entire floor was a county fair funhouse, twisted by the heat and the dark and stinking of vomit.

  Lonnie followed the trail of dim lighting, not knowing exactly why. He knew he should turn around and get right the hell out of there, just like most know when they should leave a place, but his body refused to let him, like an act of mutiny.

  His legs forced him to move forward several yards until he found Grover.

  He stifled a gasp, trying to keep down the rest of the contents in his stomach.

  Lonnie found Grover’s foot first. His left foot, severed abo
ve the ankle. Following the trail of blood and nearly slipping on it, he soon came upon Grover’s arms, one of them gnawed to a stump, the other largely intact save for a few missing fingers. His head sat just a few feet away. If not for the bloody nub of a neck, Grover would have just looked like he was sleeping, the way he looked on his breaks, leaned back in his chair in the breakroom. Peaceful-like.

  But this wasn’t a break, and it sure as shit wasn’t peaceful. There were never any monster bugs on Grover’s breaks.

  Lonnie nearly yelled out when he found the beast crouched over his friend’s torso, which was ripped open to display his insides. Though, most of his insides seemed to be missing. The monster turned its attention from crunching poor Grover’s ribs to Lonnie, who stood motionless, his mouth hanging open wide. The monster’s needle teeth dripped with green poison from behind a set of garden-shear-sized pincers. Its yellow eyes glowed like the muzzles of two blasters.

  Lonnie froze at the sight of it, confronted as he was by the most terrifying thing he’d seen, it was beyond his nightmares. But the blood and parts of his friend quickly shook him from his state of uselessness. He turned on his heel and ran, sliding back and forth on the excrement or whatever it was, nearly falling to his ass several times.

  Lonnie ran until his lungs burned and his old joints ached. He heard skittering behind him, the sound of the thing closing in, ready to rip him to pieces just like Grover. He slammed into the elevator door and stabbed the button repeatedly with his finger.

  The thing rounded the corner, a ravenous look in its eyes. The damn elevator doors were taking their damn time opening. Lonnie could feel the vibration of the doors as they attempted to open.

  As if feeding off his adrenaline, the bug lumbered forward, head down.

  The doors bounced open, hesitating like they were catching on something on the track. Lonnie jumped inside, slamming his hand on the button for the main floor. The bug sprinted, suddenly moving fast, its legs making a scratching noise on the floor. The elevator doors closed just as the thing slammed into them, making an awful crunching noise. The ride up felt infinitely slow, making Grover’s insides squirm with unease.

  When the elevator made it to the main level, Lonnie darted through the doors, not waiting for them to open all the way, and sprinted to the administrative office. In all his ten years, he’d never used the red phone before—it was only to be used in the direst of emergencies.

  “Yes, hello?” he panted into the receiver. “This is Lonnie DelMonico, head custodian for the Sector 12 Transgalactic Station. I’ve got a situation.”

  Chapter One

  Sonic Shuttle, En Route to Sector 12 Transgalactic Station

  Reggie looked around the ship proudly. He was a freaking entrepreneur. An independent business owner. The salt of the galaxy’s economy. An intergalactic pest control expert. He might have been sitting on a plastic bucket, in a postage-stamp sized galley watching his friend murder a defenseless oxygen regulator, but for him, life couldn’t get any better.

  Joel was bent over his workbench, which was actually the dining table in the galley, halfway through putting the oxygen regulator back together. His wavy, brown hair dangled forward just reaching the upper edge of his vision. He brushed it aside, leaving a smudge of thick, black goo across his forehead. It complemented his forest green eyes nicely.

  His fingers, like the rest of him, were quick and agile, adjusting small parts with confidence.

  Cody walked into the room looking for a snack but was disappointed to find Joel hard at work in the spot where he wanted to eat. He knew there was no point arguing about it—Joel worked wherever he found space. But Cody couldn’t help but notice the handful of regulator pieces still sitting on the table.

  “You do know we need that to breathe, right?” Cody asked, pushing his thick glasses up on his nose and indicating the device. His fine blond hair looked like a small heap of straw on top of his head, and he swung his lanky arms when he talked, gesticulating like an Italian grandmother. It could be dangerous to stand too close to him.

  He set about searching the cabinets for something to eat, ultimately settling on some freeze-dried meat substitute.

  Joel scoffed. “If it works just fine without those pieces, then why have them in the first place? I’m just making it more efficient.”

  “If it works?” Reggie questioned. He shuffled to get more comfortable on top of the overturned five-gallon bucket at the back of the room, near the sink. They only had three chairs on the entire ship and moved them from place to place as needed. The two chairs that Joel wasn’t using were in the lounge, and Reggie didn’t feel like fetching one. His large, athletic body barely fit on the bucket; he looked like a Great Dane trying to sleep in a cat bed.

  “It’ll be fine,” Joel said, undeterred.

  The guys, or ‘Notches' as they affectionately referred to themselves, had been on the ship for two days now. No jobs. Nothing to do. Totally bored. If they didn’t find something to do soon, Joel would end up taking the entire ship apart.

  That’s when Reggie decided to remind them of the one surefire thing he knew would occupy their time and keep them out of trouble.

  “Remember Deep Space Death Match?” he asked.

  The name drew a gasp of nostalgia from Joel and Cody.

  “We were so good at that game,” Reggie continued.

  “Were?” Joel said. “We’re still so good at that game. There’s just no one to play against anymore; everyone plays Team Hollow Point now. Death Match was way better.”

  “Totally,” Cody added. “The graphics are better. The story is far superior…no one cares about the story anymore. And the fucking microtransactions.”

  Joel and Reggie both groaned.

  “I hate them so hard,” Reggie said. “And the players are so vulgar. There can still be friendly competition without all the swearing. It’s all ‘F this’ and ‘F that.’”

  “Yeah,” Joel said, smiling over the edge of his tinkering project. “What the fuck is up with that?”

  Reggie threw a balled-up rag at Joel, who swatted it away. “Seriously?” Reggie said. “How do you guys eat with those potty mouths?”

  “Jesus, Reg, you sound like a seventy-year-old woman sometimes,” Joel teased. He set the oxygen regulator on the table and wiped the sweat from his forehead, leaving a second streak of thick, black goo across his brow. “But, damn, what a great game.” He stared off like he was looking into the past. “If we’d played Death Match in the championships, we would have been top ten for damn sure.”

  “No doubt,” Reggie said. “None of the current VRE teams could stand two rounds against us. We’d smoke all of them.”

  Cody pulled a stray thread from the sleeve of his shirt and snapped it off, looking at it appreciatively. “Have you seen the top team’s siege dynamics?” He wound both ends of the thread around his forefingers. “They’re garbage. All show. Barge into a building, guns blazing. No tactics. No finesse.” He took the thread and slipped it between his two front teeth and began flossing. “It’s insulting.”

  Reggie winced at the sight. “Yeah, really disgusting.”

  “You know what’s disgusting?” Joel asked. “Space bugs. And that’s what we’re stuck with, thanks to that goddamn Hollow Point game. If we’d played a decent game in the championship, we definitely would have made top ten. We’d be VRE pros right now. Corporate sponsorships. Intergalactic tour circuit. Hotels. Free food. You know how I love a good continental breakfast.”

  Reggie leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. “Yeah, but look at us. Look at what we’ve got.”

  “The likely potential of bug guts on our boots?” Joel teased.

  “Our own business,” Reggie corrected. “We’re entrepreneurs. Small business owners. The backbone of the intergalactic community. The salt of the galaxy. We’re making our way with an honest day’s work. We’re pest control specialists.”

  “You aren’t selling it like you think you are,
” Joel said, setting back to tinkering.

  “There are major infestations all over the galaxy,” Reggie began, that familiar glint in his eyes when he spoke about the new business. “These space bugs are apparently destroying enough infrastructure to economically cripple a system. Don’t you want to be a part of ridding the galaxy of such evil?”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Joel said with a chuckle. “Mostly, I want some pancakes right now. Like the kind they serve at those fancy hotels.”

  Cody opened the cabinet next to the refrigerator and pulled out a sealed foil packet. “These freeze-dried meals are kind of like a continental breakfast.” He dangled it like it was radioactive. “I think this one is eggs.”

  Joel tossed the oxygen regulator aside. It clattered on the table, and many of the pieces he’d just reaffixed fell off. “It’s not just that—the food and stuff. The bug guts everywhere. I miss gaming, man. When was the last time we all played a session together?”

  Cody and Reggie looked at each other and shrugged.

  “It’s taken a lot of our time, setting up the new business,” Reggie said. “And soon we’re going to need to start taking as many jobs as we can if we want to keep the ship fueled and our cabinets full of freeze-dried eggs.”

  “Not to mention that whole altruistic part about saving the galaxy,” Cody added.

  Joel sighed and sank further into his chair. As he slid down, so, too, did the mood on the ship. Reggie could justify and bright-side all he wanted, but he felt the same way. Cody did too. That pang of loss. They’d given up their dream of gaming for a more practical one: pest control.