by S E Zbasnik
Taliesin, forgotten in the engineer's entrance said, "It had a copy of our flight plan, it must update automatically. They simply followed us in."
"Crest bastards," Ferra cursed as she watched the human ship swinging about, "They ain't getting my ship!"
Variel called up the map, her brain screaming at her that something was very off about this situation, but she'd worry about that later. Right now she had the scrap of an idea, flipping past all the backwater stops they preferred to the big boys.
"What are you doing?" Ferra asked, her eyes crossing at the streams of location numbers buzzing past.
"Looking for a new detour."
"You're fucking crazy. One more Wyrm and this ship'll tear into two. Not that the safety regs will let you."
"Exactly," Variel said, settling on a planet and registering the flight path.
"Mad, your entire species is bumblefucking mad," Ferra shouted, waving her arms about.
"Orn," Variel began to order, when the comm line buzzed up. Someone was calling them. The pilot looked towards her and she nodded, "Turn it so only we can hear her, no back chatter." And then she turned back to the path request, "Come on, you bastards. Accept."
Sovann's thick voice chirped across the tinny speakers, "I must applaud your childish attempt to run. It could have very nearly worked if we'd been an elderly transport ship. And it is proof enough that you are guilty."
"Guilty of what?" Ferra asked, trying to catch up. The three others on the bridge shushed her. "Sorry for not wanting to die."
"Constellation-Cruise, you will stand down or we will open fire."
Variel flipped off the comm line to let the Knight crow to dead air. "They won't fire at us, they want something on here."
"Or someone," Taliesin said softly.
"How do you know that?" Orn asked the captain, watching the Drake flip about. The 'head' that was really the ass end of the ship warmed up its mesh of propulsion and weapon's fire.
"Lady's intuition."
"Great, last time I trusted that I wound up picking a rash of gargoyle crabs off my nether regions," he let the untold story drift off into the ether, aware that no one had time to ask for clarification.
Variel's screen lit up green and a small smiley blinked on the screen "YOU HAVE BEEN ACCEPTED."
"Finally." She switched back on the comm line. The three others about to ask her what 'finally' meant fell into silence as their pursuant crowed across the shrinking vastness of space.
"And then I shall boil your hides for leather..."
"You want us, come and get us," Variel shouted back before shutting down the entire line.
"That'll show 'em," Orn called out. "We can bleed all over their uniforms and make quite a mess."
"No one's dying today. Orn, call up another wyrm pinch."
"Okay, it's official, the captain's gone full space madness," Ferra said watching Variel bounce to a second panel, all while the captain scoured the booked flight paths.
"Um, wasn't there something about us being ripped apart...I mean I'm no engineer or anything," Orn said cautiously calling the engines up once again.
"But I am!" Ferra shouted, trying to get someone to pay attention to her. "This isn't just an incredibly, universe imploringly scrapping-our-spleens-off-the-bulkheads bad idea, it's also impossible. There's no way to override that safety shutdown."
"Bingo," Variel said, her eyes looking over to her engineer who finally read the destination her boss saved.
"Oh, oh you're evil," Ferra said, but locked her hands around the control panel. She'd never been through a full shutdown before.
Orn wasn't able to keep up, "What? What's evil? Who's evil?"
"Shut up and fly the ship," Ferra responded, hoping this insane plan would pay off.
"But not so fast, take your time Orn. Their records are just updating about now," Variel said, watching as someone with far more influence than her forced their way to the top of the registration list.
"How long does a Drake take to power to a full wyrm?" Taliesin asked, also following the trail of thought.
"A full two and a half minutes. Dragon ships might be impressive but they aren't maneuverable in the wyrm stream," Variel said, steadying her hand on Orn's forearm. "We need to time this perfectly."
"Time what? Is the new game let's leave the dwarf in the dark?"
"Steady on, Mr. Orn," Variel smirked, her fingers tapping against a poster for a horn blackening cream. They'd have secured the pass, MGC would be flooding the chamber.
"Oh ho ho, aren't we all droll today," Orn grumbled, "Can I push the button yet?"
A Drake was made of a good thirty decks, a smaller ship of the Dragon class but still deadly to anyone who crossed a Crest. But the MGC took time, enveloping the entire sleek body of the ship built to replicate the look of an ancient monster stretched in mid roar. The wings will close in, encapsulating any background MGC trying to siphon back to the universe that birthed it.
"Not yet." Her eyes turned away from the console, which in the intervening time directed itself to a merchandising site for anyone wanting to purchase a souvenir of their trip. A small waver, as if the Drake suddenly slipped below a still pond, glistened across the space.
"Now!" she shouted. Orn tumbled forward pushing through the flight checks, cranking up their own envelope and tasting that nasty afterburn that reminded him of the few times his mother tried cooking. The Drake wavered, the checks slowing as if uncertain if their prey was about to make the jump or not. It was the classic get on the train or not standoff.
The ship started to hum, a very bad sound. Ferra rubbed her hand across the console and whispered, "Shh, I know, I know. But do as we say and you'll get a treat."
Orn glanced at his wife, "You scare me sometimes."
"Pinch the bloody wyrm," she said back, almost jovially.
"Afterburners are doing that thing they do, space is unzipping," Orn called, "You might want to hold onto something."
The Elation-Cru turned as the same tear in space to whatever destination Variel picked opened up. This would be about when Orn would jam on the throttle and shoot them through, but he paused and looked towards Variel. "Slow and steady, as if we're injured."
"We are injured," Ferra pointed out, her fingers gripping into the lip on the console. "And why doesn't this damn place have any safety harnesses?"
"The Knight's ship is turning," Taliesin pointed out, his own body leaning against the cordoned off section before the windows as he played lookout.
"Okay Orn, on the count of three. One. Two. Holy shit!" Variel fell back to the deck.
The Elation-Cru burst forward as the dwarf jammed on the throttle. Orn never waited for three, anything bad could happen before getting to that number. Besides, two was plenty warning. A lapping bubble of MGC washed over the Elation but a heavy groan cried out from the control panel.
"It's fighting me," Orn called out.
"Tal?" Variel asked, rising to her knees.
The assassin stumbled a moment over his new nickname but answered her, "The Drake is increasing speed but still behind."
"Hang onto it Orn. Come on, you can't tell me you never once wanted to crash this ship," she chided her pilot.
"Not with me aboard!" Orn gritted his teeth as a few of the more important switches popped off in frustration. WEST was probably already plotting their demise, assuming they survived this.
"The Drake is passing above us," Tal reported, his vice gloves digging into the hull so he could maintain watch.
"They could still turn, ORN!" Variel's voice was cool and focused.
"Yeah yeah, kill us all. I got it," the dwarf grumbled holding against the bucking control stick. A few more warning lights booted up flashing red in case any of these idiots weren't aware just how stupid they were being.
"We're about to enter the wyrm!" Ferra shouted, the lip of the blue lightning almost reaching to their stubby nose.
Just as she was about to order Orn to turn the ship and abando
n the plan, the Drake shot straight into the wyrm, unable to pull a U-turn.
"ALL STOP!" Variel shouted, not that she needed to. Orn's heavy foot stomped down on the break, but the Elation-Cru was already on the job. Unable to send any built up inertia through her storage capacitors, she cut off the MGC and the engine in one quick flip of a switch.
Everyone on the bridge failed to fight against the all stop. Ferra smashed her shoulder hard into the console. Taliesin maintained his grip for a moment but the elf slipped and bowled into the captain as she one again hit the floor. Only Orn, strapped so tight he could be carted around in a papoose, remained in his seat. He suffered a classic case of space whiplash, as the tangy metal of unspent MGC bit into the horrendous pain building below his neck. "Well, that could have gone worse," the dwarf muttered.
Then the lights went out.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ferra paced back and forth, circling around the galley all the more cramped thanks to the assembled crew. Monde tended to her bruised scapula, muttering about how she'd have to take it easy. He moved onto the assassin who waved him off. Most of Taliesin's fall was broken by the captain now sitting alone at the table steeling herself for the coming confrontation.
Brena hovered beside her brother, uncertain what happened in the ship crash. She wound up face first in a pile of pigment creams, smearing her chin in a rogue rouge. As soon as Ferra spotted the dulcen she got her first smile of the day. The high elf looked like a pair of simian testicles sprouted off her chin. That good stuff's a real bitch to remove.
Beside the djinn stood their accidental crew member, who was hoisted away from a near death fall by the disturbingly quick Gene. Segundo wanted to give his thanks but all words died in his throat as the djinn scooped him up by his narrow shoulders and held him securely in place. The communication suits could lock down onto any surface in the event of total gravity failure; a major issue for a smoke based species.
A small beep called from the direction of the bridge, and the galley door opened, letting in the final member of their inquisition. Orn limped, rubbing his good hand across his face as he commented, "Still no sign of our new friends."
"There won't be for a few days at least," Variel commented, still staring ahead at the wall. It wasn't easy to give up on a half decade of lies.
"And how do you know that?" Orn asked, the vile thick in his accusation.
"The flight path they attempted to pursue us to took them directly into elven space," Taliesin said. "An ingenious move."
"Them elves aren't gonna let a Crest boss them around. She tries that and she'll be licking boots just to get an appointment to register a flight path back," Ferra responded, glad to never have to deal with elven bureaucracy anymore.
Orn threw his arms up and said, "Great, so we have a few days before they flip around and kill us."
Everyone turned towards the overly theatrical dwarf giving Segundo a good look at the right arm, "Oh gods!" he pointed wildly.
"What?" Orn asked, turning behind him to stare at the still gaping corridor hole. "Getting a draft? Want me to close the door?"
"Your...your hand!" Segundo continued, a bit uncertain why no one else was reacting. "It's missing?" he finished with a question, afraid this could be a delusion brought on by spaceflight. Didn't some people undergo debilitating brain damage when dropping through the wyrm? That's what the articles in really large font with an excess of punctuation claimed, and also that the high ranking members of the Crest Court Society were secret amphibians that required a daily sacrifice of flies.
Orn turned to gaze at his stump, a few of the implant motors whirred in response to his nerve signals. "It's in the charger," he gestured with his stump towards the bridge. "Damn things can only hold a charge for a few hours near the end."
"Oh," Segundo's eyes remained wide, but he was afraid to ask if every pilot had his arms chopped off, if it were some dwarf thing, or if anyone that traveled on this ship had to lose a limb. He didn't want to appear uninformed. "Okay then."
"If we're all done talking about my hand..." Orn tried to steer the conversation away from his errant limb by placing the stump behind his back, "We have far greater issues to answer for." His questing eyes, normally set to full bemused, were hard. Even his carefree tone had an edge only reserved for doctor visits.
"Surely you've figured it out by now," Variel said, failing to notice the slight nod of the assassin's head, but his sister didn't. She crossed her arms, the mood rouge on her chin growing brighter in her anger.
"Indulge me," Orn said, not ready to admit that he really hadn't. All he ever dwelled upon with the anti-reminiscent captain was that she had some tactical training and didn't care for other humans. That could also describe about 98% of all dwarves, so it didn't register as strange for what he'd thought was his friend.
"I used to be in the Crests," Variel admitted, yanking off years of silence like a strip of hull tape. "Five years ago I came to the realization I no longer wanted that life, and so I, let's say, resigned. Permanently. Total face reorganization, new ID data, I even dyed my damn hair." She lifted up her roots, showing a small chip implanted in her skull.
The aliens knew varying degrees of information about the Crests, for most it was just the human military. Seven different kingdoms kept them about to enforce some rules, wage little battles, and march in parades. A few other aliens, those that made it their life's work to keep abreast of anything that could be problematic, were more aware of the depth of the Crest. There were two paths: the recruit -- young, stupid, and easily sacrificed; and the enlisted -- high in command on the way to that most feared and untrusted of humans, the Knights.
"Which were you?" Segundo asked.
"Beg pardon?" Variel asked, her eyes swinging over to the only other human who knew even less about his people than the aliens around him. She didn't want to give any more data than she needed.
"Which Crest?"
She seemed to rebound at that answer, even smiling at the pointless clarification. Sure each Kingdom on Arda claimed it had its own significance, varying cultures, norms, morals, religions; but out in space that small world looked the exact same. After a year most wanderers off the home planet didn't bother to list the proper title of their home Kingdom, falling back on the adopted animals to represent each.
"Bear," she answered, "a lifetime ago."
"And now this fucking crazy Jaguar Knight is coming after you for deserting your post?" Ferra continued to pace before the fridge, her preferred method of pushing her neurons to work.
"I am uncertain." She'd anticipated someone from the Bears, old Toothless or Kaltar the Impenetrable, but after five years and not a peep she grew complacent, inching nearer and nearer to Crest space.
"How'd she even recognize you?" Orn asked, "If you mashed about your face like it was putty?"
Her finger drug down that cheek scar, bisecting across her top lip, "Orc born, it burns through so many layers of skin it's impossible to heal or cover."
"It is a way of keeping score," Monde said quietly, "Every blade has a specific edge like a key, later you dig through the bodies and count the scars."
"That orc didn't get a chance to tally up," Variel said letting a brief moment of her youthful smug shine through.
"Do you believe it was Dacre that sold you out?" Taliesin asked.
"No," she shook her head, as the others tried to figure out who this Dacre was. "Don't get me wrong, he'd trade his grandmother out to slavers if he could fetch a good price, but he was...he was intimately involved in my reasons for abandoning the Bears. Selling me out would draw attention back upon him."
"Intimately?" Taliesin asked softly, but the others were a bit more concerned with their current predicament than the captain's sordid past.
"So, Ms. Crest soldier," her ex-pilot growled, "now that we're stuck here, waiting for a Jaguar to come blow us to pieces because you wanted a career change, got any bright ideas?" Orn sounded more like his wife when he was pissed than he'd e
ver admit.
"We go down onto the planet and collect something that can be modified into an inertia injector," she said.
"This is when I ask what planet we're orbiting, and you say something that causes me to stomp off in anger." Orn was getting near sleepy toddler levels of petulance.
"It is a colony." Variel turned towards the dwarf; this was the first time she'd ever seen him truly hurt, "An orc colony."
The gasps were perhaps a bit theatrical, it wasn't as if she said it was a high security mage research station, or the secret vault of the dwarven mint. But Orn shook his head as if trying to dislodge something.
"I must be getting mine ear because I swear you just said 'orc colony,' as in full embargo, stop, no one allowed near or on such worlds, stop, lest they wind up in pain of full confiscation, stop."
Variel shrugged, "It seemed the perfect place to hide. What Crest would dare break into orc space?"
"That kind," Orn said, gesturing to her and earning a glower.
"If you were in the service of the Crests then you must have fought in the orc war," Brena interrupted. Elves in general didn't have the best sense of time dilation, a war that occurred fifty years ago seemed to have been 'yesterday.'
Variel nodded softly, "Yes, I...I fought in it."
"How much?" Orn wanted to push her into every uncomfortable corner he could think.
"A lot," she said, not diving into details. The wars were the only time in recorded history that all seven Crests came together to repel an invading force. Even the Narwhals joined, once someone pointed them in the proper direction and gave a little push. It was one of those events in history that wouldn't be fully declassified until most of the players were long dead.
"So it stands to reason that a slayer of orcs would be very unwelcome on an orc colony," Brena said as if she solved some puzzle.
"Actually, the fact I killed so many is exactly why I can visit orc colonies," Variel said and pointed to her resident orc expert, "Monde."