Metallic Genealogy

The Captain stuck his head into the dark escape-pod shaft, and groaned a guttural verdict of distaste.

"Just where do you think you're going, then?"

In the distance could be heard the wild thundering of rapid machine-laser-gun fire, and the pitiful cries of an alien as it screamed it's last "NOT INTERESTED!" before collapsing into a fishy heap.

Morpher hopped out of the pod and the door slid closed. "So then it's safe to stay on board, I presume?"

"Yes," the captain said softly, with a sigh. "Your servant is dead. And I've got to make sure that you get to Fanstergrantz before..."

"Before what?"

"Before...." The Captain strained his eyes, and looked up to the ceiling. "Before we get you a fine last meal."

Morpher shook his head. The captain was assuredly hiding something. And what's more, he was even worse at hiding that fact that he was hiding something. “You want me to believe that you were truly talking about food?” Given the circumstances – that of almost meeting his death at the flippers of a murderous fish -- Morpher was more than slightly annoyed that the Captain would even suggest such a thing.

The captain shrugged his shoulders. “What else would I be talking about?”

“You sounded like you possibly knew something about my dealings on Fanstergrantz.”

“Not at all,” the captain assured him. “In fact, I had never heard of the place until just now when you mentioned it.

Morpher's eyes narrowed. This man is the worst liar I have ever met, he thought. And I've been to Fanstergrantz. Out loud, he said, "Let's pretend I believe you, and take you up on your offer of fine dining. Are you sure it's safe?"

"You might have to lower your expectations on the fineness of said dining, but I told you, the prisoner is dead! It can't hurt you anymore."

"No," Morpher said, scowling. "I don't mean that."

"Then what?"

"Your first mate."

The Captain shook his head, and his eyes grew blank. "What about her?"

Morpher shuffled his feet and struggled with his words. "I don't want her to touch my head!" he said, softly. "I don't want my fortune told by someone who feels the lumps on my head!"

"I don't see how that..."

Morpher shrugged, and fell silent. And there, for a time, he sat inanimate. "I'm going to be completely honest with you. I just don't want her to mess up my hair!" he said, finally.

"Oh," the Captain said, commiseratingly, settling into a less anxious mood. "Well, I think we should be able to sneak you past her."

"I'd appreciate that," Morpher said immediately. "I mean, it takes me..."

"It's okay," the Captain soothed, putting a hand on the other's shoulder. "I completely understand." With his eyes and reflexive eyebrows, he pointed to the top of his own head.

Morpher followed the path of the Captain's gaze. Suddenly his eyes widened, and he leaned closer. In truth, the man had only ten hairs, but they had been manipulated in such a fashion as to resemble an entire head of hair. If one were not looking closely, the illusion would have rendered the man's near baldness unnoticeable. "How do...?"

"Bio-electro-magnetic interpreter," he admitted, quickly. "As well as some other magically scientific effects, I'm sure. It's called a Fun-Diddeler. It fluffs what hair you have and swirls them about. It also releases a spit of paint when confronted with a flesh patch corresponding to the person's hair color and skin type – and then blends it all together to get what you see here."

Morpher was quite impressed. A much younger man, he had nearly twice as many hairs remaining on his head, but was still using an antique comb and hair spray to fluff and cover his baldness.

"Well," he said, settling back to his former position, "suppose I might borrow this little magician?"

The Captain looked at Morpher as though the man had just invoked the name of the most foul of evil afterlife villains, Burnt Toast. "I'm afraid that won't be possible!" he squealed. The Captain then sat down in a chair, which he produced seemingly from nowhere, and began to squirm in it. "You see," he continued quite agitatedly, "It's attuned to my head, and mine alone, and shouldn't really be used by anyone else. Also, our hair coloring is completely different...and... an absolute myriad of further factors..."

Morpher raised his hand, and cut the Captain off who, by this time, had begun to gasp as though out of breath. It was apparent that the man didn't want to share his device with anyone and Morpher never brought up the subject again. Although, later that night, he would break into the Captain's cabin and steal the thing before departing.

"Well," the Captain said, having calmed himself, "how about that meal?"

Morpher shrugged. If this man seemed so intent on feeding him, he supposed he could eat. Plus he felt a little more at ease with everything after their talk. "That sounds fine," he said.

The Captain rose spun on his heel and began to walk towards the cafeteria. Morpher followed closely behind, head down. They entered through a swinging door. Morpher looked up to find a sparse room, all surfaces muted metal. The food was already at a table waiting for them, a young man there standing guard, Morpher assumed, so no one would poison it. The Captain nodded at the porter, and the man disappeared behind a different swinging door.

They sat down, shared a pleasant meal, a pleasing drink, and a stress-free atmosphere with soft music playing in the background. Neither of them spoke, because they didn't have to. For these two men, incompatible of caste, lacking in commonalities, the meal was enough. There was nothing more to be said.

They continued in this silent contented state well up until the time that a rambling engineer bumbled over and spilled soup into Morpher's lap, scalding his legs, chest and most cherished of private parts.