The Blarmling Dilemma (Hearts in Orbit Book 1)

by S. C. Mitchell

  Rigel stopped short, his mind processing the disaster before him. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? This field is directly above the platform’s stabilization gyros. Didn’t anyone warn you?”

  “Shut up!” O’Callaghan jammed his blaster into Rigel’s back once again.

  Alpha Cygnus had always had a guard posted here, for accidental landings. The locals knew the problem well, but occasionally some new hotshot decided to use the park for his personal landing site. An old armory used to stand here guarding the platform gyros from ship grav fields, but the new inhabitants had torn the armory down, decided to risk the chance, for the opportunity of more green space, true natural greenery, on the platform. As long as a ship didn’t stay more than an hour, stabilization could easily be restored.

  Rigel scanned the field for the guard, and saw a man sitting on the ground, rubbing the back of his neck, as if just waking. He rose looking at the two ships, then looked back toward Rigel and O’Callaghan. Could the man have been asleep on the job all this time?

  Five minutes to planetary impact.

  The man’s eyes flew wide. “Please, don’t shoot me again!” He spun around and dashed toward the city.

  “You idiot.” Rigel couldn’t keep the distain from his voice. “You’re the reason this station is going down. That’s not just incompetence . . . it’s criminal!”

  Too late, Rigel realized the gun had been withdrawn from his back. With a firm whack, O’Callaghan brought the butt down on his skull. Rigel’s head reeled as darkness closed in on his vision and his legs lost all strength.

  “Not if there are no witnesses,” O’Callaghan said, standing over him.

  The platform rumbled as it entered Cygnus-7’s caustic atmosphere, almost knocking the lawman from his feet. He stumbled back, but managed to holster his blaster and stay standing. Regaining his balance, O’Callaghan chuckled, then laughed maniacally.

  “Hope Cygnus-7 gives you a really warm welcome, Antares,” O’Callaghan shouted over his shoulder, as he waddled toward his ship.

  Three minutes to planetary impact.

  Rigel’s heartbeat thundered in his ears, his head throbbing where O’Callaghan’s blaster butt had struck him. The world spun. It would be so easy just to close his eyes, and let unconsciousness take him. But he resisted the closing darkness with sheer force of will. Phoebe’s image, a bright shining beacon in his mind. On hands and knees he crawled toward the hyperjet.

  If I want to hold her again, I need to overpower O’Callaghan and take the ship.

  The door slammed, and a fist squeezed his heart as the access ramp receded into the ship’s hull. Too late. Rigel struggled to his feet, but before he could take two steps, the rockets fired and the ship launched into the sky above.

  The Sheltered Princess rested on the ground ahead, but was still tethered to the marshal’s ship. Rigel stumbled toward it, forcing his brain to keep working despite the stars orbiting his vision. The tethers went taut and the ship rose into the air before Rigel could reach it.

  Shoulders slumped in defeat, he raced back toward the circus, his only chance to escape the platform’s plunge into the fiery planet below. He broke into the clearing and spotted the last of the circus trailers high in the air, jetting toward their mothership. The field before him empty, spelling his doom.

  His jaw clenched in resignation as he fisted his hands at his sides. A blast of heat washed over him. Cinders and flaming ash from the boiling planet set the trees around him on fire. His lungs screamed for air, as the dome shield failed and all the oxygen burned away.

  This was it. He’d lost.

  Chapter 17

  Lart pulled the clown car right up to The Blarmlings’ Hope. He jumped out, but Phoebe motioned him back in.

  “We’re taking that with us.” Where most people saw a funny small car, Phoebe saw countless possibilities or, at the very least, a few spare parts. There was a lot of technology built into that small vehicle. She’d lost her ship, but at least she had this.

  “I’ll open the cargo ramp. You drive it onboard.”

  A wave of heat washed through the crowded spaceport. Alarms blared as systems failed throughout the platform. People were streaming toward the docked ships. Escape pods jettisoned into space continually. It looked like most, if not all, the platforms inhabitants were getting out. At least they’d been ready. What could possibly have triggered this emergency evacuation?

  She hit the switch that opened the cargo hold doors and extended the ramp. Oolo trundled up, concern in her eyes, to hug Phoebe’s leg. Phoebe absently petted the Blarmling’s furry head.

  Ten minutes to planetary impact.

  As the message reverberated through the spaceport, Phoebe winced. Where was Rigel?

  She motioned Lart to drive the clown car into the cargo bay. He parked and exited. Phoebe closed and secured the doors.

  Oolo released her grip on Phoebe’s leg to embrace her mate. They exchanged clicks and whistles, then looked at Phoebe. She could read the concern in their whirling purple eyes.

  “He’ll be here.” She tried to reassure them, even though a cold knot twisted in her stomach. “Or he’ll get out with the circus.”

  She wandered to the airlock door and looked down the ramp. Fewer and fewer people were streaming into the spaceport. She looked for a big man in a bright gold leotard. He wouldn’t be hard to spot. For long minutes she stood and scanned the thinning crowds.

  Five minutes to planetary impact.

  No, it couldn’t be. He had to be here. The spaceport was now all but empty. A few hurried stragglers got onto the last ships and blasted off, out into the darkness beyond. The hanger area became quiet, dark . . . and hot.

  She could see the boiling planet through the openings below, smell the sulfurous stench that wafted up in hot, ashy plumes.

  She had to go.

  Damn it, Rigel!

  Casting one last look down the walkways of the silent spaceport, she closed the airlock door and headed for the control room.

  “He’s with the circus. He made it out. Don’t worry.” Her admonishments to the Blarmlings did little to quell the rising fear inside her. Using the recently repaired exterior cameras to scan the spaceport one last time, she sighed and blasted off, out into space above the platform.

  As she found a safe orbit distance from the flaming planet, a hailing signal bleeped on the control panel. It was from the circus mothership.

  “See, I told you he’d made it.” She hit the switch to throw the transmission to the main monitor.

  The face of the midget clown filled the screen. “Good, you made it. Let me speak to Rigel,” he said.

  Goose flesh crept up her spine and cascaded down her arms. “Isn’t he with you?”

  But she knew the answer. The clown’s eyes went sad as he shook his head.

  Rigel hadn’t made it.

  She looked out the portside window just as the Alpha Cygnus space platform struck the surface of Cygnus-7. There was barely a splash. It floated for only a few seconds . . . then it was gone, consumed by the molten sea.

  Rigel stood among the burning trees on the edge of the space platform. Heat singed his lungs with every breath. He dropped to all fours, hoping to stay closer to the cool, damp grass, but even that was rapidly withering, turning brown in the heat.

  A flaming tree branch crashed to the ground to his right. Sparks flew from it igniting his leotard. Burning pain lanced across his back, and he rolled on the ground, to smother the flames.

  Why bother. I’m dead already.

  But he refused to give up. Rolling down a slight hill he found patches of cooler, damp grass. Then he struck something metal. Opening his eyes he saw a construct of red tubing and circuitry. He’d somehow rolled into Rotund’s teleporter. The trees around him and overhead were
already crackling in flame. There was no escape . . . save one.

  Would the teleporter even work? The contraption could purportedly transport boxes between planets. He found a switch and pushed it. The machine hummed to life. In the center of the tubing, a plasma field started to build. Shimmering waves of blue and green beckoned him. He knew he’d be taking a chance, but did it matter? Staying here was not an option.

  He stumbled forward, into the field. As the plasma cloaked him, his vision clouded. Darkness swept over him, and his head spun. There was no balance, only the spinning and swirling. But it was cooler. So much cooler.

  There was a sob from the other end as Phoebe closed the connection to the circus mothership to answer a second hail.

  “PX-86, pull over and prepare to be boarded.” O’Callaghan’s voice sounded triumphant.

  Damn it, no. She was not giving in to that bastard.

  She set the throttle on the ion drive to full, rocketing away from Cygnus-7 into the darkness of space, taking a tangent as far away from the pursuing JX-95 as she could. The marshal’s ship followed, in hot pursuit.

  Phoebe tried to close the com connection to him, but the circuit refused to close.

  “Give up, Callista. There’s no way you can escape.”

  “Bullshit!”

  The word slipped out. An old English phrase, little used after the extinction of the bovines fifty years ago. Still, it seemed appropriate to the situation.

  Plasma bolts sped toward them from the JX-95’s big main gun. Phoebe took evasive measures. The rear shields were still down, but she’d been able to retrofit a high voltage macrowave oscillator to the ion drive, giving her extra power and torque for maneuverability.

  Osculating macrowaves into an ion drive had been just a theory a few years ago, but newer ships now sported the improved engine functionality, and Phoebe had found a way to integrate the new technology into the old engine . . . she hoped.

  “Hang on to something,” she cautioned the Blarmlings.

  She couldn’t warp, but with luck she could outrun the marshal in normal space, provided The Blarmlings’ Hope didn’t shake itself apart in the process.

  Dodging and weaving, she outmaneuvered the plasma bolts O’Callaghan shot at her, as she continued to extend the distance between their ships. At last, out of his weapons range, she headed straight away from him, out into dead space. She didn’t care where she was going; she just needed to get away.

  “It doesn’t matter where you hide. I’ll find you eventually.” The lawman’s final verbal jibe registered, just as she reached the range that closed the circuit automatically.

  She flew a varied course into the blackness another hour, to make sure she’d lost O’Callaghan. Then Phoebe brought The Blarmlings’ Hope to a full stop. Closing her eyes, she laid her head back and let the day’s disaster sink in. Tears leaked from her eyes and ran down her cheeks as she sank into the control chair. As cold and dead inside, as the deep darkness of space outside, Phoebe gave in to despair.

  It took Phoebe less than an hour to pull herself out of the depths. The Blarmlings needed her. Rigel was gone. It was up to her, just like when she’d started this. Nothing had really changed. Her mission remained the same.

  She knew the problems with the ship. She needed to put the past behind her and face the present. Phoebe rose and made her way to the cargo bay, and the clown car that rested there. It was time to see if any of the technology would be useful to her, and the work would help her forget.

  She wheeled Rigel’s toolbox . . . her toolbox . . . to the side of the car, and pulled open the side door. Gasping, she jumped back. There was someone or something in the shadowy interior. Shallow breathing came from the car’s confines, but the figure didn’t move. Grabbing up the flashlantern, she shown the beam of light on a face she never expected to see again.

  “Rigel!”

  She grabbed his hand, felt for a pulse. It beat weakly, but was there. The gold leotard was scorched and torn. Blistering burns showed through the shredded fabric.

  “Lart,” she called to the Blarmling, “turn the gravity to point one.”

  She needed to get Rigel out, get him to his bed and hooked up to the medical unit. He was sinking fast, but she’d be damned if she was going to lose him again.

  As the gravity lightened, she extracted him from the car as carefully as she could. His handsome face was drawn and pale, his lips cracked and blistered. He looked and smelled like he’d passed through a blast furnace. The stench of sulfur and burnt flesh wafted off him, filled her nostrils, and caused her to retch. But she refused to let him go.

  With gravity at a minimum, she easily carried his limp form out of the cargo bay and into his bedroom where she laid him gently on the bed, then went to retrieve the medical unit from storage. She spread the med blanket over his body, and connected the skull pads to his forehead. The machinery began to scan and process Rigel’s injuries. Data streamed down the display as the micro-machinery in the blanket came alive to make connections into Rigel’s body for feeding, blood work, and analysis.

  More telling than the medical display were the Blarmlings.

  Oolo and Lart had taken up positions at the foot of the bed. They conferred in soft trills, looking first at Rigel, then at each other. Their brows were creased and they often shook their heads.

  Patient recovery probability: 37%

  Phoebe’s heart dropped as she read the prognosis. No . . . please, no. She’d lost him once. She couldn’t stand to lose him again.

  Phoebe rinsed the blood and gore from the rag, then started patting the cool, damp cloth across Rigel’s face and chest.

  “Come on Rigel, we need you.”

  The medical unit was limited in what it could do, but after analysis, it had some recommendations. Phoebe managed to cut away his clothing and close most of his open sores and wounds with synth-skin. In places the flesh had been burned completely away. The protective coating would eventually meld with his natural dermal layer. The bedding was a mess, but at least he’d stopped bleeding.

  Phoebe sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, taking his hand. A ping from the bedside instruments told her his condition had changed.

  Patient recovery probability: 33%

  He was slipping away.

  A tear dropped from her cheek onto his hand. She’d done all she could. A person wasn’t like a star cruiser. Sometimes people just couldn’t be repaired.

  The clicks and whistles to her right held a scolding tone. Oolo ambled up to support her distended belly against Phoebe’s leg. Then the Blarmling quieted, her purple eyes staring blankly as she took Rigel’s hand between her paws.

  “I’m not giving up,” Phoebe sighed. But she was a realist at heart. The medical monitor told her exactly what was happening. She was losing Rigel . . . again.

  Gods, how much could one heart take.

  It hit her then. How could she feel so deeply for someone she’d just met? Certainly they’d connected on a level deeper than she’d ever felt before. She’d never met a man like Rigel Antares. She doubted there were many in the galaxy.

  Lost in her thoughts, Phoebe forgot about Oolo. When she looked down again at the Blarmling, she found the creature stark still, purple eyes whirling.

  What was Oolo up to?

  Rigel stood among the burning trees on the edge of the space platform. The feeling of déjà vu washed over him. He’d been here before. Every breath hurt, as he took in the superheated air. He started to drop to all fours, as he’d done . . . countless times before.

  “It’s not real.”

  The voice was feminine. It echoed around him, but he saw no one.

  “It sure as hell feels real.” His lungs hurt just trying to breathe, his skin blackened where flaming cinders touched him. He was going to die.

&nb
sp; Still he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been here before.

  “It is only real because you believe it’s real. You have been here before. Only the first time was real.”

  She was talking nonsense. His clothes were on fire. He needed to drop and roll. The pain was excruciating.

  “The pain is not real. Ignore it and come to me.”

  The trees before him were completely engulfed in rolling flames. In the very center of the blaze a pure white radiance coalesced. Then a shadowy figure appeared in the sphere of light. Golden hair and emerald eyes beckoned him forward.

  “Phoebe.”

  Come to me, Rigel. Step forward into sanity once again.

  “Frack!” Sanity meant walking into the fire? What was he to believe, his senses or a beautiful vision?

  “You are trapped in your mind. You must leave here, if you are to survive.”

  Real or not, Rigel decided if he were going to die, he’d rather die in Phoebe’s arms. He stepped into the flames toward her.

  The flash of light around him was cool and refreshing, the breath he took clean and crisp. With a suddenness that jolted him, the fire was gone, and he stood in an open glade surrounded by Verril trees. White, fluffy clouds dreamily drifted across a blue sky with twin Suns, one yellow, one orange. He was back on Blarm.

  Phoebe lounged, naked and glorious, on a blanket in the high grass. She gestured him to join her. His heart pulled him forward, his body hardening in response.

  But as he approached he caught the hint of silver in Phoebe’s golden hair, a flash of purple in the green eyes.