by Chris Turner
Before the shields blew, I hung on to the console and engaged the Varwol. Death was at our doorstep. Our fate lay in the hands of Othwan, but Othwan’s witchery was less risky than flying with our shields down. Starrunner flew just on the cusp of warp meltdown this close to planet’s gravity, but we were in no position to be choosy right now.
For a split second, the ship seemed to come to a dreamlike halt. Then we hung in space like time thieves. A brilliant white blast lit the cabin, like a small supernova, then a fan of multicolored light trailed behind us, shearing by our viewport as the familiar rainbow of an enormous light highway set us moving to the far stars.
Then only silence.
Free, at last from that bastard’s clutches! It was almost too surreal to be true.
A part of me, a grim, primal part from way back in incarnations of my war-torn past, vowed that the next meeting with Master Mong, if ever there was a next, would not be under such one-sided conditions.
Chapter 28
We passed the metal tin of flesh-regen around our company. I could feel its magic working as I lifted my torn monk’s robe and ladled the smelly orange paste on my ravaged ribs. The stuff was good for cuts, tissue tears, small organs like a missing ear, damaged tongue or even major skin damage, but generally not for regenerating bones. Except the heavy-duty regen like we had. The pulse weapon that’d tagged me left no lead in my guts, fortunately, only burns, so the regen worked at stitching the flesh together, sparing me the agony of pulling metal out my hide. Luckily none of us had heavy-duty bone issues, outside of Blest with his busted shin. We’d have needed Mong’s tanks for worse injuries. We said little and were indeed a glum party, though we had everything to be grateful for—being alive. There lingered the secret fear that Mong was still about lurking like a ghoul around the next corner as we raced across the cosmos at hyper warp speeds. Where was the lowlife? Why had he let us escape so easily? What happened back on Othwan?
Grild sat apart from the others lost in a world of his own. I passed by and gave him the tin, wincing with the sting of my own wounds. “Dry up those cuts, Grild. Don’t let them get infected.”
He took the tin with a heavy grunt of little enthusiasm. “Voj bit it down there.”
“I know. I could see you two were friends.”
“He was a loyal ally and a brave man.” The young man’s eyes were bloodshot, his fleshy cheeks grime-smeared. Ordinarily, a youngblood like him’d be apple-cheeked under that camo cover. A definite defiance on that tough face with the flat nose and the flared nostrils—a kind of proud, physical fighting ancestry that went way back, perhaps to the stone ages. I could see why Wren had chosen him.
“How much of our booty is left?” I asked Wren.
She shrugged. “When you didn’t show up at Gainor, our usual place, I knew you were either dead or they’d captured you. I really hoped not dead. The information came at a high cost, Rusco. There’s virtually nothing left.”
I gave a wheezing sigh.
“You’ve got your life to thank for it, so be grateful.”
“I’m getting used to it.”
“You’re bleeding still,” she pointed out.
“Ah, just flesh wounds,” I mumbled. The regen was working, but slowly, and waves of hot pain stung my side, arcing from rib to rib as the flesh knitted together. I’d become almost immune to pain after Mong’s long cruel sessions. Wren lifted my blood-soaked smock and balked at the scars building there. Good thing she hadn’t seen me before the tank dunking.
“Forget it.” I pushed her hands away. “We’ve other things to worry about. Throw me some more regen after Grild’s finished, I’ll slap it on and be done with it.”
“As you wish.” She took the tin from Grild’s upraised hand and tossed it my way. “Got extra just for you, Rusco. Knew if we did find you guys in one piece, you’d be needing it.”
If I came across as an unhappy man, it wasn’t because I was not glad to see Wren. I just wasn’t in an affectionate mood. No one could blame me. Torture and too much senseless death kind of does that to one. Deadens a person to the finer things in life, like a wholesome, caring woman. I looked over to Blest who had the look of a lost soul. Couldn’t blame him either. Degradation and torture had made him a withered husk. Guilt hit me that he’d suffered too much for my sins at the hands of that sadist Mong. Follee dead too, Voj dead. How many more casualties before this was all over?
Wren reacted to my melancholy. “Going to take some getting used to you with no hair, Jet. The one and only Jet Rusco, bald as an eagle. Who’d have thought?”
“Yeah, well there’re always changes happening in the universe.”
“I take it Mong was not gentle with you?”
I made no comment.
Blest interrupted with a surly snarl. “Very nice chitchat, lovebirds, but how did you get the drop on us, Wren?”
She shrugged. “We gave it exactly twenty minutes to get you out and warp to safety before Mong got wise and crushed us like bugs.”
“And you managed it,” I said, “minus a few flesh wounds.”
“Speak for yourself,” Blest said, rubbing his slow-healing injury.
“With your funds from the Myscol payout, I purchased this new ship, an Alpha 9, as you see—” Wren swept out her arms “—also bought reliable intel that pinpointed your place of captivity at Othwan. We also learned some rogue planet was going in for a strike against Mong—at his monk’s retreat to steal back the Countess. If it hadn’t been for the Vendecki’s diversion, I would have given up, thrown any rescue plan aside as suicide.”
A dead silence. We were happy to shut up for once and just stare at nothing.
We took our time outs and rested in our cabins. Noss and Wren took shifts watching the helm as we sped through the light highways on our long journey to Veglos. Why Veglos? Well, where else? Volia still hadn’t said much, staring in her vacuous way in a cloud of shock. Likely processing her part in the whole affair—the Vendecki assault, the conquest of her planet, the death of her husband and her old way of life. A chunk of the Countess’s soul had died on Othwan and I’m reckoning it had for Blest and me too. She kept to herself, said little, nursing her wounds. Zan was Zan, still blank-eyed and a partial zombie after being strung up on Mong’s chicken wire so long. He’d not had the luxury of a tank healing to repair his wounds and relied solely on regen. Blest had taken some serious leg damage, which was no secret to any of us. Like me, he’d been stoic about his pain and the regen recovery process. Luckily we had the extra duty regen, costly as it was, otherwise Blest’s shin would have been a lot sorrier than it was right now.
Zan and Grild had bonded and played mindless games to pass the time. Crockseye and Bad Leader—computer board games with AI players to up the ante. Wren and I had a lot to catch up on, but there was a distance between us. Of my time with Mong I spoke little and was evasive at best. Though she managed to catch pieces of it from Blest who spoke in grunts and whispers from time to time but was at best unreliable. Next time she saw me she was all hushed up and our eyes did not meet, as if she were reluctant to trigger my depressed moods or broach any sensitive territory involving physical torture. I let it stand at that. I wasn’t even prepared to talk about it to myself. I couldn’t imagine how Blest was coping with it. His video games and rough-guy talk worked to some degree. As did hiding behind a Scroogely-curmudgeon persona and mask. As good a protective mechanism as any.
Volia later approached me and others on the bridge as we munched on assorted goodies in nutrition packs: veal alfredo, spacer’s ghoulash, tofu teriyaki, all washed down with instant coffee. “I want to thank you for what you did, Rusco. From what Zan and Blest said, you went out of your way to get me, at risk to your own safe getaway. Is there anything I can offer in return?”
I shrugged. “Nothing I can think of.”
“There must be something—”
“After being in the Mentera tank, there’s nothing much matters any more, Volia. Materially anyway.”
>
She frowned, confused at the tank reference. I gave her a ham-faced grin, opening my mouth to say something then thought better of it.
Volia touched Wren on the arm. “I am indebted to you too, Wren. If not for your dogged persistence and courage, we’d all still be slaves down there.”
Wren nodded. “We’ll drop you wherever you want to go, Volia. I’m guessing it won’t be on Melinar.”
“No,” she said, with a rueful shake of her head. “The capital, Baki on Vendecki soil should be fine.”
Wren hesitated. “Isn’t that a little close to the war front?”
“We’re still allies in the uprising against Mong. Like it or not, I’m leader of my people and the titular commander of this war.”
Wren swallowed a mouthful of microwaved lamb. “Not envious of your position in life, nor eager to trade places with you, Volia. But if I were in your shoes, I’d keep up the fight for freedom. I’d do everything in my power to take down that murderer Mong.”
She flashed Wren a moon-eyed stare. “It’s as if I know you from somewhere.” She blinked and shook her head. “All of you. As if we’ve been here before and done this in another time.” She shook her head again, wiped her brow of sweat. “I must be losing my mind, or experiencing some major case of deja-vu.”
Remembering my flashbacks in the tank, I guessed it was contagious. Maybe good old Mong’d plunged her into a tank and she didn’t remember it?
A tear drifted down her cheek. “After all the tragedy, my people slaughtered, my husband…” She couldn’t say more and turned a desolate gaze upon me. “I misjudged you, Rusco. When I saw you there on that ship of Mong’s, I thought—only a brutish thug, one of his trained animals.”
“Yeah, well, you know what they say about first impressions.”
“I see a good man in you.”
I laughed. “I wish I could frame those words, Lady Volia, and put them on the wall here. Somebody appreciates me after all. Hear that Wren?”
She grinned.
Volia grabbed my wrist. “Rusco, we could use freedom fighters like you. Join us. Come to our haven. There’re more than a few rebels down there you’d take a shine to. We need support, your kind of gutsy, off-the-wall leadership.”
I smiled. “Sorry, Volia, but think I’ve about used up my nine lives in this lifetime.”
Blest’s snort seconded that opinion. No sooner had I acknowledged Blest’s dog-eared sneer than a sharp pang hit my heart as I remembered my vow to take down that fucker Mong. Grudgingly, I remarked, “But I’ll take you to Baki at least and listen to one of your talks. If you need help flying supplies in, or black market war props, I could help you out—for a price, of course.”
She gave a crooked grin. “Always the businessman, eh, Rusco? Consider it a deal. Your services are more than welcome.”
Chapter 29
Down on Baki we congregated in a huge war hall at Independence Square. The place held eight hundred or more avid supporters, a mix of Melinarian refugees and Vendecki sympathizers. Volia spoke up in a resonant voice:
“Freedom fighters of Baki, comrades and allies, your enthusiasm and steadfast courage gives me great joy. Though my own planet Melinar fares ill under Mong’s occupation, I see you have held out and survived. For that I commend you. Loyalty and unity are the greatest assurances for a brighter future that a leader of the people can ask for.”
Her noble presence inspired loyalty. I could see that. First time I’d seen her all cleaned up, her hair shining brilliant hues, bleached pure gold this time under a silver tiara, her cheeks flushed a rosy pink and eyes bright sparkles of fervor, of a nationalism that was, truthfully, one of my least favorite qualities in her. But if it gave these beleaguered people hope…hope against an impossible enemy who I, as much as any, wished to see vanquished and trampled in the dirt, then so be it.
“If not for these brave men and women, I would not be here. Let me introduce my friends—Jet Rusco, Wren Zalan, Noss Brekia, Blest Surok, Zan Vulder and Grild Malsi.”
We stepped forward on the low stage in turn and presented ourselves.
Sure enough, we were heroes, even as the deluded Vendecki continued to hold out against Mong’s tyranny and the frightfully large number of his attack forces posted at nearby Melinar. Perhaps Mong’s crew were thinking twice about advanced Vendecki tech poking up out of nowhere and launching an attack on their doorstep, the same insurgents who had nearly brought them to their knees at Othwan. All the same, I kept glancing out the diamond-shaped panes, waiting for the dive bombers to strike—Warhawks and missiles to come blitzing and dropping on our asses. Maybe even Mong’s agents were spying on this little congregation right now. Part of me, did not want to think about that, or even be here. Too close to enemy soil. But I’d promised Volia I’d come and I did not want to live in fear all my waking days…
A standing ovation erupted amongst the gathered rebels for our part in the rescue and daring escape. I had to grin, shaking my head in surprise. Never would have imagined an accolade like this, nor had I ever been hailed a hero before. The opposite, by many. It felt good, to tell the truth. The others, taken by surprise, laughed and looked around, trading gratifying looks at one another. Though Blest sported his perpetual frown and just shrugged it off in his usual way.
More speeches followed and Phel, the master of ceremonies, the top-ranking war officer of the Melinarians, stepped forward. An olive-skinned man of mixed Melinarian-Vendecki descent, he was all white teeth, a stiff ruff of grey-peppered hair. He launched into a spiel of how Vendecki forces were working with the defeated Melinarians to liberate their sister planet from tyranny. A valiant saga of how the forces were rebuilding themselves, new ships being deployed and manpower raised; they would conquer and turf out the imperial dictators of Jezuan before the next moon.
Yeah, right, dream on, Phel. Pure rhetoric, but it seemed to be what the audience wanted to hear.
Later at a more informal gathering at one of the VIP tables in the bustling war hall, Phel topped off my glass with fine wine and asked me point blank what I thought of the whole Vendecki program.
I shrugged, not knowing how to answer in front of the others.
“Come on, Jet. Aren’t you sold yet? Won’t you and your crew fly for us? Volia here has spoken highly of you and of your interest in helping us, offering cargo transport of arms for fair market value.”
I looked over to the Countess who wore a devil’s grin on her flushed face. “They seem to love you,” I said.
“Unlike many aristocracies, I believe that leaders are accountable to the people.”
Phel added, eager to promote his cause, “We’re mounting an assault on occupied Melinar, Jet,” he said in a conspiratorial tone. “Our hope is that Mong’s forces will take the bait. We’ll be more than ready for them this time.”
I blinked as would an owl. These people surely had a death wish, or they loved to flirt with disaster.
“We’ll retake our home world. This time with a better plan in mind and more allies.”
“Are the Vendecki in line with this?” I asked.
“Yes, they’re fierce allies.”
“To take on Mong will require a lot more than a few allies and some tough talk about general deployment and rah-rah.”
“True, Rusco, but we have friends throughout the Larga system. We underestimated Mong’s power. We’re asking for help from all quarters. Like yourself. Are you on board?”
I hesitated.
“How do you single out his ships with your jammer?” Noss asked, breaking the silence.
“It’s complicated,” said Phel. “Do you want the long answer or the short? Harg here, our com expert, can explain—” he snapped his fingers, called over a grey-haired man with a tall drink in his hand.
“Never mind,” said Noss, “I’ll assume you’ve worked out the deployment issues.”
“Our engineers, like Harg here, and other Melinarian experts, are working on a foolproof version of the jammer. A retractab
le antenna cached to a depth of 500M. Even if Mong or enemy patriots nuke the area, our automated defense system can raise and lower the antenna to changing war conditions.”
“Sounds good, but—”
“Where, on Twidor?” I barked, “and that other wasteland moon? How do you manage that? Mong and his rats’ll be watching those moons like cheese at a rathole after that last bout on Melinar.”
“That’s the beauty of it. They’d never guess that we’d employ the same defense tactic twice. We’ve run cloaked ships in and out and dropped men and equipment down on Twidor to work in the Dusk Caves, digging, burrowing, shielded under the rock from his onboard ship probes and scanners. The antenna’ll be the last thing to go up—and only when we need full jamming capacity. When it’s operational, enemies can’t indefinitely keep firing on it or patrolling the area. We’ve redundancy transmitters and backup antennae installed in bunkers across both moons.”
“It’s a better start,” said Noss. “Why didn’t you think of it right from the get-go?”
Harg, the signals engineer, answered, “We didn’t think Mong or any ally of his could track and destroy a transmitter so quickly. If the transmitters had been up longer, we’d likely have destroyed his armada.”
“An honest mistake.”
“That cost far too many lives. Let’s hope it immobilizes them for good this time.”
“I’m still not clear on the overall plan.” I rubbed the heel of my palm on my temple.
Phel gave an impatient flourish. “We stir up the pot on Melinar, Mong goes in to retaliate and we jam their signals. The plan’s success relies upon the fact that Mong hasn’t cracked our jammer infiltration codes. I’m worried his enforcers might have fleshed it out of our captive engineers. But the good news is, we never gave any of them a full schematic of the tech. Mong’s crew could theoretically piece it together on the fly—but that’d take—”
“A lot of ifs and probables here, Phel,” I interrupted.
“I know. That’s why time is of an essence.” He turned to Volia and flashed meaningful glances at both of us. “So, will you fight?”