But the ship is not alone. Following it, a little above and behind, are two nasty looking warships that look like killer jellyfish.
Mangalore warships.
Now imagine, if you will, a race of beings so ugly that evolution has provided them with temporary shapeshifting powers, so that they can look in the mirror without suffering the shock of seeing themselves.
The Mangalores have developed their evasive genius to a high art, and are using it to hide from the Mondoshawan space ship. They are following above and behind (behind in time as well as space, and above in space as well as time), and closing fast.
The Mangalore at the controls is about to experience his race’s greatest joy. Total destruction. For the Mangalore, there is no greater pleasure than to destroy something more beautiful than itself. And that includes everything in the Universe.
And this time he’s even getting paid for it!
This is a plethora, a cornucopia of delights. He is going to hit the Mondoshawan ship from behind, without warning. Sneakiness is its own reward.
He hits the controls with an almost sexual thrill (sex among the Mangalores is intimately linked with killing) and pulls down.
A blast.
A hit.
Confusion reigns aboard the Mondoshawan ship. For while the Mondoshawan are reconciled to their own deaths, they are fully aware of the importance of the weapon they are delivering to a defenseless Earth.
The Mangalore fires again. And again.
And again.
Another hit. This one fatal.
The Mondoshawan ship veers toward a tiny nearby planet.
The Mondoshawan commander locates an uninhabited area, and locks the controls.
The blast shakes the sky…
6
“WELCOME TO PARADISE!”
Korben Dallas paused on his way to the door. The TV screen behind him was filled with an image of palm trees, blue water, white sand,
“Damn!” Korben cursed under his breath. He wished he could afford a TV with an OFF switch. The cheap (i.e., free) model that filled one comer of his modular apartment lighted up whenever a commercial was on. They arrived unannounced, like the mail-order catalogs of yore.
“Welcome to Fhloston Paradise! Tonight, from five to seven, Loc Rhod, the ultimate DJ, the man listened to by more people than anyone else in the Universe…”
The cat watched, entranced.
“…will announce the winner of the Gemini Croquettes Contest. Two days in Fhloston Paradise!”
“Don’t watch it all day,” Korben said, scratching the cat between the ears. “It’ll rot your mind.”
The cat meowed distractedly, eyes fixed on the palm trees and blue water.
“Gemini Croquettes!” the announcer’s voice droned. “The perfect meal for a perfect world!”
Korben opened his apartment door onto a less than perfect world.
A man stood in the hallway. A kid, really; maybe eighteen. Not too big.
But the laser weapon leveled in Korben’s face was plenty big. And lethal. It was humming dangerously.
“The cash, man!” the kid said.
Korben restrained a laugh. Cash? Who ever carried cash?
“Been here long?” he asked.
“Long enough!” the kid said. “The cash―or I’ll blow you into tomorrow. The cash!”
“Right. The cash.” Korben studied the young highwayman’s (or was it hallwayman’s?) weapon. “Say, isn’t that a Z140? Alleviated titanium. Neurocharged assault model?”
The kid, who had “borrowed” the weapon from his sister’s ex-boyfriend’s father’s next-door neighbor, studied the laser rifle. “Uh…”
“You know,” said Korben genially, “you could hurt somebody with this puppy. Good thing it’s not loaded.”
The kid looked hurt. “It’s not?”
“Nope. You gotta push this little yellow button.”
Korben pointed to a switch on the side of the gun.
The kid pushed the button. “Thanks.”
The Z140’s hum died.
And Korben made his move.
With his right hand, he sent the kid to the floor of the hallway, while with his left hand, he plucked the gun from the would-be mugger’s hand.
“You know,” Korben said, “these things are VERY illegal.”
The kid hit the floor and looked up, dazed. “You could get in a shitload of trouble. I better hang onto it for you”
Korben opened a drawer just inside his apartment module. It was filled with similar weapons. He jammed in the Z140 and shut the drawer―“Excuse me?”―then stepped over the kid on the floor as his door locked behind him.
“Please enter your license.”
Korben slid a plastic card through the slot on the dashboard of “his” taxi.
He punched in the stats and codes. The turbines whined. The gyros hummed.
“Welcome.on.board.Mr.Dallas,” said a robotic voice.
“How you doing this morning?” Korben asked.
“Sleep OK?”
He hit a button on the dash, right under the sticker that read UN UNLEADED FUEL ONLY and the door to the garage slid open.
The gyros hummed. The turbines whined
The cab slid forward on its mag field; or rather the mag field slid forward, and the cab stayed centered exactly within it. The effect, however, was the same.
“Fuel.level.6.03,” said the cab. “Propulsion.2X4.”
“I had the worst goddamn nightmare,” Korben muttered. “And I don’t mean the stupid mugger.” He could still feel the explosion in his head.
After flying a thousand missions with Finger, he was used to talking during countdown and check-off and take off; even if it meant talking to himself. Or to a stupid taxi chip.
“You.have.five.points.left.on.your.license,” the taxi chip droned.
In the old days, when points were penalties, that would have been good. Now, when your points were gone, your license was lifted.
“Thanks for reminding me,” said Korben.
He hit FORWARD.
The cab slid forward, off the ramp and into the air
The megalopolis that was twenty-sixth century New York came into view. From up here, high above the trash that settled to the ground like autumn leaves, it was breathtakingly beautiful.
Have.a.nice.day,” said the taxi chip.
Why not?” said Korben as he skimmed off between the gleaming towers, looking for his first fare.
7
NOT TOO FAR AWAY, IN THE OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE United Federation, a desperate silence reigned.
The President sat speechless in his chair. Only minutes before he had received the news that the Mondoshawan ship, entering the system at his invitation, had been shot down.
Only seconds before he had summoned the priest and given him the bad news.
They say it is better to give than to receive, but the President had always found it better― or at least easier―to receive bad news than to give it.
Father Cornelius had responded to the president’s words by collapsing silently in a chair. The novice, David, crouched, stunned, at his side.
Finally, Cornelius broke the silence. “We are lost!” he said simply.
At that moment, the President’s highest-ranking military commander, General Munro, entered the
office with a still-warm fax. “Mr. President,” he said, “the attack was launched by two unregistered warships.”
“Close all borders,” responded the President. “And declare a state of general alert.”
“Yes, sir.” General Munro saluted and left the room.
The President turned to another officer who stood behind him. “Try to contact these Mondoshawans,” he said. “We owe them an explanation.”
“Yes sir.”
“Lost!” repeated Father Cornelius. “Five hundred years we have been waiting, and all for nothing!”