The Alorian Wars Box Set

by Drew Avera

  It was also a learning experience for Brendle of what wrath felt like. The ambassador might not have reporting Brendle to the police, but he did notify Brendle’s mother. That turned out to be worse. But skills learned often came back to be of use. It had been eight years since that life-altering moment. His life had seen more ups than downs since then, excluding his current predicament, but he was breathing, so there was hope.

  His fingers flew across the screen of his com-unit as he tried to hack into the flight control system of the transport. It took several attempts, but he finally managed to get past the security protocols. The first thing he noticed was whoever was in the transport was not trained as a pilot. The transport was burning hard and losing lift at an alarming rate. He needed to get it back under control to slow the descent, otherwise it would be hot molten metal at the bottom of a crater by time it made contact with the surface.

  Brendle’s fingers glided along his screen, lowering the throttle and manipulating the flight control surfaces so it caught more air, thus slowing it down significantly. The problem then became it being a heavy ass rock in the sky ready to fall straight down due to a lack of thrust. Brendle’s years in the Greshian Navy had taught him many skills when it came to flying spacecraft. Most of what it taught him was that he was a shitty pilot with varying degrees of luck. As the transport stalled, Brendle cranked up the throttle and maneuvered the transport to head in his relative direction. The heading change actually increased its lift momentarily and bought him some time, but it was still falling rapidly. He cussed under his breath as he struggled to increase upward pitch hoping the increased drag would slow it down enough to not end in a fiery crash. Whatever effect he might have seemed negligible, but he had to have hope, or something. Dumb luck’s the best luck if it was all you have, he thought as the transport shifted, the nose rising slightly before it touched down onto the moon. “Touch” was perhaps too weak of a word for the seeming calamity that followed.

  From his vantage point he watched the transport skid across jagged rock, tearing the exterior hull to pieces. Sparks flew and smoke heaved as the craft tumbled across the terrain in shrieking fury. He imagined the occupant was being jostled around quite a bit, but surely it was survivable, he hoped.

  He put his com-unit in his pocket and ran towards the crashed transport. Smoke infiltrated his lungs and obstructed his vision, but he kept low, trying to breathe semi-clean air. Whoever was in the wreckage could be badly wounded, and if there was a fire then he’d need to put it out before it could damage the communications equipment onboard. He felt bad thinking about it in those terms, but he was trying to survive. I’m trying to help the other person survive too, so that has to count for something.

  The more the smoke cleared as a stiff wind blew across the terrain, the more he could smell the smoldering plastic and composite of the transport. It had a very distinct, nauseating stench that probably killed more brain cells with each breath than any other chemical reaction, save for chemical warfare, but that was borderline barbaric. Brendle’s nostrils burned as he crested the next hill and approached the crater left behind. It penetrated several meters though broken rock and clay and finally came to rest on its starboard side. The crumpled hull looked worse than he imagined it would. Perhaps it was heavier than the display had read when I seized control, he thought as he looked at the crash site, burning and charred parts littering the landscape for as far as he could see. Not all of it belonged to this transport, he knew, but it made the scene seem all the more devastating.

  His heart was pounding in his chest and he was overcome with nausea. He doubled over and vomited; the smell and exertion finally taking their toll on him. He didn’t know what was waiting for him in the craft below, but as he wiped his lips with the sleeve of his jacket, he thought about the relevant hostility he could face if the person inside knew he was a Greshian. The smart thing to do was go in armed, weapon drawn, ready to fire in self defense. But that wasn’t how Brendle wanted to represent himself. He wasn’t Greshian Navy anymore. He was his own entity, abandoned by his people. He was no more a part of them than the person inside the transport. His hand found the handle of his gun, patting it to make sure it was there. Satisfied, he began the descent into the crater in hopes of salvaging whatever he could and finding a way off this rock.

  17

  Anki

  Anki’s transport fell away reluctantly, revealing the horror of a ship tearing apart at the seams. She watched through teary eyes as the destruction engulfed everything around her. The dark opened before her, framed by flames and jagged steel. The transport vectored away from the carnage and burned hard away from the collapsing Seratora. Anki’s heart rattled in her chest, her breathing bordering on hyperventilation. In the distance she saw a Keshnarian moon, the gray rocky orb reflecting the burning light of her ship. The light increased in luminosity and her transport buckled as turbulence formed around her fledgling spacecraft. The monitors showed debris flinging past her, cracking against her ship in a fiery haze of destruction.

  Did I escape only to be killed in this bucket, she asked herself as the fear gripped her tight. She had little pilot training, but she knew enough to steer the craft and try to avoid being ripped apart by chunks of the Seratora scorching past. The transport was hit, causing it to list uncontrollably. It took a moment for her to realize that the craft was rolling as the image of the Keshnarian moon continued to change perspective on the monitor, floating to each corner of the screen every few seconds. She closed her eyes to fight the urge to vomit. Anki’s hands found the manual controls and tried to calculate how much counter thrust was needed to control the spin. It was difficult with her eyes closed, but as the shifting sensation of her stomach finally settled to something less nauseating she figured she had done it.

  Through opened eyes she saw the monitor shrouded in flames. She couldn’t tell if the transport was on fire from the Seratora going nova, or if it was entering atmosphere. Either way it’s terrifying, she thought as she gripped the control with her sweaty hands. The transport bucked and another scattering of large shards of burning material beat against the hull. The strike knocked the transport into a different trajectory, aimed directly for the moon. Anki tried to shift the control, but the transport wasn’t responding to her commands. Her eyes darted across the console and found a button designated as a flight control reset switch. She shrugged and pressed it, but nothing seemed to happen; at least not anything significant. Each pull on the control was negligible, but it was the only thing she could do as the moon grew bigger.

  Hitting atmosphere jarred the transport and jostled her inside the cockpit. She winced, feeling like she had been kicked in the stomach as her body slammed forward, the lap belt being the only thing holding her to the seat. There was a bit of good news, though, she noticed as she pulled the control back. The front of the transport rose slightly in relation to her movement. It wasn’t a significant change, but it did slow the transport down. If nothing else it’ll make the crash slightly less devastating, she thought. It was a sense of humor as much as it was an innate desire to soften the blow of knowing she was about to die.

  Anki’s transport bucked again, rolling slightly, but not uncontrollable. She noticed a shift in thrust as well, which meant the drive was faltering or the change in attitude was affecting the drive’s performance. She wasn’t experienced enough to tell the difference. With no input from her, the shift corrected itself, leveling out and decelerating. She looked around the cockpit, confused. The ship was in manual mode which meant she was supposed to be in control, as stupid a decision as that was turning out to be. I’m not a fucking pilot, Anki thought as the transport shifted again. Her hands on the controls were useless again. Did the autopilot reengage? There was no indication either way, but the moon was growing larger with each passing moment. She could see the debris field from the Seratora burning against the landscape. Her heart sank. There was nothing anyone could do, there were no survivors. How could there be?

>   Another lurch in the transport drove her thoughts away from the burning pyre below. The jarring maneuvering of the ship was accompanied by an alarm as it raced towards the ground. She knew better than to brace for impact, but fear made her do it anyway. Her elevation was redlined; if the ship didn’t correct itself, she would be a crater in the dirt like the rest of the Seratora. It was imminent, regardless of how much she wished it wasn’t. Time slowed down.

  And then it stopped.

  Anki’s body was wrapped in collision gel as the nose of the transport drove into the waiting landscape of the Keshnarian moon. The coolness of it sent shivers down her spine as the sound of crunching metal filled her ears. She expected the feeling of her limbs being crushed or torn from her body, but with each jostling movement the cocoon of cold gel continued to expand around her, holding Anki still in its suffocating grip.

  Her ears were ringing, the thud of her beating heart like a drum in her head. She couldn’t move, but as far as she could tell she wasn’t injured in any significant way. There was a haunting chime of the alarm dying in the background, the sound of it muffled by the gel and her helmet. Her fingers flinched, spreading out in an attempt to move. Anki felt like she was buried in slush, the cold making her body numb, but with each movement she was able to gain higher mobility as the gel dissipated around her. It took several minutes to break out of the hold of the gel enough to not feel so claustrophobic. Anki sat in the cockpit, panting on stale air as she noticed the ship was no longer providing breathable air to her. She groaned as she brought her hands up to her helmet to pull it off. It was difficult, almost as if the helmet had become a part of her, but after several hard tugs it finally came loose and freed her from its confinement.

  Anki released the lap belt and rose to her feet. Her legs were wobbly, probably more from shock and fear than any type of internal injury, she assumed. The collision gel was still receding, but she had enough room to move around at least. She ran her hands along her arms to warm herself up, the cold slowly shaking off her body. Now that the numbness was falling away she could tell that she was uninjured, which came as a relief. The fear didn’t budge at all, though. In the cockpit of the transport Anki noticed a putrid smell seeping in through the vents. It took her a moment to realize it was smoke. She had no way of knowing for sure, but it seemed the transport was on fire and if she didn’t escape, she would be cooked to death. That was, if she didn’t suffocated from the pluming smoke now filtering into the cockpit.

  “This is the worst day of my life,” she said to no one as she moved to the airlock. She could only hope the air on the outside was breathable. Either way, she was most likely dead anyway.

  The airlock was cold to the touch as Anki tried to cycle it manually. With no power and no light, the transport was beginning to feel like a coffin. The fact her life was in danger didn’t make the symbolism of her dread any less dire. She pulled her hand away as the freezing cold of the airlock burned against her bare flesh. If the transport is on fire then why is everything so cold, she wondered. She did the only thing she could think of and kicked the airlock, but it didn’t budge. The frost around the edges made it appear to be frozen shut, which was contrary to the smoke bellowing into the cockpit. Her eyes were beginning to burn now, and her lungs ached. “I don’t want to die here, not like this,” she whispered.

  Anki moved back to the console and ran her hand along the smooth surface, searching for something that might help her. There was no emergency evacuation switch or button, but she did find an electrical reset switch. She pressed it and was awarded with dim emergency lighting. It wasn’t much, but it gave her hope that the airlock might have power. Behind her, the airlock loomed, frost caking it where each section met the next, but there was also evidence of power on the control panel to the right of it. Anki pressed the panel and watched nervously as the iris of the airlock shifted counterclockwise and opened, revealing the open air of a burning Keshnarian moon. All around her was debris that could only be from the Seratora. It was piled around the transport, scattered remains of torn metal reaching for the sky. She moved to exit the transport and remembered her weapon still lay on the deck of it. she could only imagine the Greshians, having seen her transport crashing to the moon, wanting to come and finish the job.

  She found the weapon tucked between the seat and the left console. It was wedged into place, most likely due to the force of the crash and the collision gel cementing everything into immobility. She reached for it, tugging to free it from where it lay. It released into her grip on the fourth tug, the metallic housing of it frosty like the airlock had been. The cold steel burned in her grip, making her hands ache as she stepped outside the transport. Anki turned around to see her surroundings and everything was smoldering or in flames. She set the weapon down next to a pile of burning debris and waited for it to warm up. The lapping flames felt good as she rubbed her hands together above the flames. She listened to the surrounding area, the sound of fire and falling debris echoing. I have to find a way out, she thought as the flames seem to spread around her threateningly. The smoke was getting thicker now, most likely from the change in wind across the surface of the moon. But at least the atmosphere was breathable.

  Anki crawled from the wreckage, smoke and debris obstructing her vision and flooding her lungs with toxic fumes. Struggling to find her footing on the rocky terrain, she felt searing pain as a broken piece of fuselage sliced into her leg. Crying out, she pulled her way into a clearing, the wafting smoke finally starting to dissipate. Anki, alone and afraid on an unknown world, knew she was screwed. She was losing blood and needed to find a way off this barren world.

  In the distance, she could see movement. It was slight and obscured by the mix of ash and ozone from her burning transport, but it was movement nonetheless. “Hello,” she said, barely louder than a cough. She dug her heels into the ground and propelled herself forward on shaky legs. This was not how she envisioned her war efforts. She never imagined dying on some rock in the middle of the Alorian Galaxy. Where is the honor in this death, she thought. Knowing thoughts like that meant she wanted to give up, she swallowed down the fear and took another miserable step.

  The movement caught her attention again. This time it was closer, almost within range. Anki reached for her weapon, caressing the grip, massaging her hand into a comfortable hold. She might be injured, adrenaline pumping through her veins, but if she had to she would blast whoever was coming to kill her. Her feet slid out from under her and she slid several meters until she was able to stop herself. At the bottom of the rocky hill she found the source of the movement she had seen before. It was a pale-skinned man; a Greshian.

  “Hey,” he said nervously.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Anki drew her weapon and leveled it at the man’s face. She watched with smoke-burned eyes as he swallowed hard and lifted his hands. The enemy wanted to surrender, but she was never taught to take prisoners. Her index finger found purchase on the trigger and the weapon steadied in her hand, her training taking control where her mind might fail.

  “Oh, shit,” he said.

  And then she fired.

  18

  Brendle

  There comes a time when you walk into a situation, expecting the best, and getting the worst. That time came and went with a scattering of moon rock splattering the landscape as the newest resident fired at Brendle. There was an odd cadence to the dance, oh shit bang, oh shit bang, oh shit bang. It wasn’t until he wiped dust from his face that he realized the cadence fire was coming from his own gun to the tune of a waltz.

  Sure, Brendle had pulled the trigger that destroyed worlds, but somewhere in the coping mechanism of his mind, he was able to disassociate that moment from destroying people. It’s a harder thing to disassociate firing a close-range weapon at someone who’s firing back, he thought as he squeezed the trigger. The report of his gun was deafening and echoed off the rocky terrain. His assailant’s weapon blasted orbs of kinetic energy in his direction whic
h was quickly dissipated across the rocky surface, but would hurt a lot if hit actually hit him. There was only one reason they would be carrying a weapon like that, Brendle thought, the Telran had boarded their ship and this person was trying to fight them off without compromising the hull.

  The surface of the moon contained a scattering of craters and boulders which made staying out of the line of fire simple, but it also made returning fire without exposing himself difficult. Each time he popped his head up there was another dusting of moon rock to his face and he was already choking on it. Brendle knelt down behind a boulder and held his weapon, panting, trying to catch his breath in the dwindling atmospheric conditions of his new habitat. I haven’t even been running and I’m already out of breath. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and he knew it was time to end the fight. He stood up and moved quickly around the rock he had been hiding behind, but the other person must have had the same idea because he faced them now, the gray uniform leading up to a Luthian woman’s face, her amber eyes wide and the barrel of her gun leveled at Brendle’s face.

  She pulled the trigger.

  Brendle winced.

  Nothing happened.

  Brendle looked at her with shock, the weapon didn’t fire and then he realized why; it was an electric weapon and the charge had dissipated. Relieved, he said the first thing that came to his mind. “Tough break, but now that the shootings over maybe we could―”. His mouth was silenced by the impact of a heavy magnetic boot striking him. He staggered back, off balance; it was a weakness his enemy decided to capitalize on because she was on top of him punching wildly. Brendle rolled her off of him, almost throwing her into the boulder. But he didn’t think he hurt her. If anything, he was just pissing her off.