In orbit around Yama II with a cloaking device activated (it was, apparently, a button that disguised the ship as the intergalactic equivalent of a road construction truck whose crew was on lunch break), Tom took Todd to the command center of the ship, which looked like a big living room with lots of televisions, chairs, and a bar. On the main television, in full surround sound, played the latest Transformers movie. On a smaller television, General Doz spoke to the galactic audience.
Doz was not a benign and slightly-goofy-looking alien like Tom, Dick, and Harry, or their crew, who sat on a couch and ate popcorn while giant Hollywood robots battle for the fate of Chicago. Instead, the general looked like a crocodile got drunk and knocked up a wart hog. He also seemed to be much bigger than the aliens with Todd, who were all about five-feet tall.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and miscellaneously-gendered species,” the general said. “Today is a great day for the Ninth Breedonian Battle Fleet.” A muscled, green arm pointed off-camera. “This upstart, who has refused our perfectly-legal order at gunpoint to pay a respect tax, will be executed by being fed to a grandmotherly snad beetle.”
“That doesn’t sound bad,” Todd said.
Dick said, “In Breedonian, grandmotherly means big, ugly, with sharp, pointy teeth.”
“Oh,” Todd said. “We might have said ex-girlfriendly on Earth.”
The general continued: “Unless, of course, she decides to sneal to our authority.”
“I assume snealing is bad,” Todd said.
“Very bad,” Harry said. “Almost as bad as being fed to a grandmotherly snad beetle.”
“So,” Doz said, “let’s see what she decides. Will you sneel, Queen Hot-Tay?”
Todd gasped and looked over at the aliens. He asked, “Did he just say hottie?”
“Hot-Tay,” Harry said. “In her language, it means Woman-Of-Wisdom.”
“In our language, it means Woman-With-More-Looks-Than-Brains,” Todd said.
“That’s why President Booh-tea-kawl doesn’t visit Earth much,” Tom said. “Translating names is such a difficult thing across galactic lines.”
The camera panned over and revealed the queen. She angrily blew a blond strand of hair out her face.
“What a hottie!” Todd said.
“Hot-Tay,” Harry corrected. His eyes halved.
Yes, she was certainly a hottie. Impossibly, the universe apparently repeated the design of humans on her planet and then put together the exact woman that had graced an old copy of The Princess of Mars that Todd had read as a teenager.
“What’s her planet’s primary export?” Todd asked.
“Multi-species-adaptable gym equipment,” Tom said. “Why?”
“It looks like she uses it,” Todd said. “Do her people always walk around in titanium swimsuits?”
“If your whole culture was built around fitness and making the rest of the universe want to buy your equipment, wouldn’t you?” Harry asked.
Todd shrugged.
“Go gnaff yourself,” the queen said to Doz.
“Such language!” the general said as the camera panned back to him. “So if she refuses to sneal, then she must die. Tune in around seven Breedonian Standard Time, ladies and gentlemen…and whatevers.”
The image of Doz faded to a picture of what appeared to be some sort of air freshener and the text: This execution is sponsored by G’lex Air Freshener. Why let your grandmotherly snad beetle pit smell like rotting meat?
“How long do we have?” Todd asked.
Harry looked at a bank of typical-looking analog clocks on the wall. “It’s four in Breedonian Standard Time now.”
“Looks like I better practice my use of your ray guns,” Todd said.