Rift Breaker

by Tristan Michael Savage

  Milton was walked through the shadow of the looming patrol vessel. The huge rear photon thrusters smelled of burning oil. A shower of welding sparks sprinkled from a blowtorch, attached to a precision limb of a machine that clung to the side of the ship. The fighter that had escorted the Inhibitan shot overhead, passed the control towers and curved its trajectory in the distance, lowering out of sight. Crossing the red lines that marked the landing areas, Milton saw the opening elevator at the base of a structure. He was shoved inside the alcove, which was wide enough for a vehicle. Milton glanced back at the Inhibitan, relieved to catch a glimpse of a medical team, rushing a hover stretcher up its cargo ramp, before the elevator’s caged doors closed.

  As the lift descended, the lights from each level shone through the crisscrossed cage doors, causing shadows to swoop as they appeared and disappeared. The smell of freshly cooked food seeped in from one of the levels; Milton had not eaten since before the operation and his stomach growled.

  The elevator opened and Milton was walked through a humid maze of cramped hallways. The officer stopped and pushed him into a room. The rusty door squealed shut behind.

  A long metal table and two chairs on either side were bolted to the floor. The brown grimy walls were dented and scratched.

  Milton reached behind his neck and felt the implant again. The metal protruded and his flesh, bruised and swollen, throbbed painfully under his touch. He wondered for a moment what the thing was really supposed to do.

  He also wondered about the dream he had during the operation. It definitely wasn’t a normal dream. It was a vision — perhaps an idea or aspiration. The laughter still haunted him. There were times on the safe haven where he thought he had heard the same voice while awake. He had second-guessed himself and figured it was something he imagined but now he wasn’t so sure.

  The door unlocked and creaked open, pulling him from his ponderings. A creature entered and closed the door behind. He was strange looking with antennae, reverse-jointed legs and four muscular arms. He wore a blue uniform with a line of medals on the jacket.

  ‘Milton Lance,’ he said in a deep voice. ‘I am Fleet Commander Viceon Raegar.’ He waved to the seat opposite the table and Milton slid into it. The creature crossed the room, speaking in a relaxed but commanding tone.

  ‘The Composite has little tolerance for ones that aid the Tyde, but,’ he explained, sitting down, ‘sentences may be reduced if the participant is willing to provide useful information.’ He paused and eyed Milton for a moment with round, unblinking eyes. ‘Information,’ he continued, ‘such as how contact was made or when and where meetings were held. Do you have anything to contribute?’

  Milton took a deep nervous breath and gathered his words. ‘The Tyde did not commit these things,’ he replied. ‘The Xoeloid did.’

  Raegar sat back and folded his arms. ‘Xoeloid?’

  ‘Yeah, they’re tall and grey and have eyes like mirrors.’

  ‘Do you have evidence of what you claim?’

  Milton ran through recent events in his mind. ‘We did on the ship, but somehow they wiped the data,’ he said.

  ‘Convenient. Or perhaps you wiped the databank to conceal the information I’m now asking you for.’

  ‘But that’s not all,’ said Milton, working himself up. ‘They also copied some of the info from the star charts. I have no idea why they would want that information. They obviously already have it because they gave us this gold disc with a massive star map,’ Milton said thinking aloud.

  The Commander watched him carefully, giving him time to talk himself into a contradiction.

  ‘Come to think of it, the only difference between the two was the information about the populations and government of the planets.’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘Do you know how many people were on that space colony?’ the commander asked.

  ‘Too many,’ Milton replied. But he was thinking about something else. His eyes caught the glint of the Commander’s gold medals. He leaned forward and looked closer. The medals’ crest had a tower shooting far over a cityscape. A floating ring encircled it just over its base. Suddenly he could see his dream perfectly in his mind’s eye. He pointed.

  ‘They’re gunning for that place with the tower,’ he said.

  ‘Cenyulone?’

  ‘Yes. Is that what it’s called?’

  ‘Do not play games with me, boy,’ the commander said.

  ‘You have to send warning of the attack. I think they’re going to use rift gates.’

  The officer had no reaction.

  ‘Warpholes,’ Milton explained. ‘I don’t know anything else but I saw it in a vision, well, I think I was eavesdropping on their thoughts — they’re telepathic.’

  ‘Well that would make you a telepath as well — a strange trait to be found in a Human.’ He paused. ‘Tell me what I am thinking.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Milton replied. Explaining was hopeless. ‘But look, you have to at least tell somebody. Send a warning.’

  The commander sprang from the seat and slammed all of his hands on the table. The heavy blow left a wide dent. Milton jumped into silence.

  ‘You are in serious trouble here, boy,’ he said with a raised voice. Milton sank back. Raegar leaned over the table. ‘I would not recommend telling lies at this point.’ A chirp came from his breast pocket. He withdrew a comms device, pressed a button, and his tone reverted to a neutral commanding demeanour.

  ‘Raegar, go ahead,’ he said.

  ‘Commander we need you on the bridge,’ said a concerned voice.

  Raegar opened the door. ‘When I get back,’ he said, ‘you would do well to have your story straight. Or I will be forced to use Composite standard interrogation methods.’

  The door squeaked closed and the lock clicked into place. Milton sat solemnly, unmoving, consumed with anxiety. Before long, a blaring alarm stole the attention of every living soul in the complex.

  Twenty

  Milton placed his ear against the door. The alarm emitted from somewhere down the hall. Footsteps thumped past. Someone shouted and ran in the direction of the elevators. A distant rumble vibrated through the door. Milton stepped back. The thin sheet surface of the metal table wobbled. The caged light above buzzed and blinked.

  Milton pressed his palms to the door as he had done on the Xoeloid laboratory. He closed his eyes and focused. He pictured the locks unhooking and springing free like before. Nothing happened. The door’s mechanisms were not made to respond to telepathy as the Xoeloid doors were. A splintering crack quaked through the complex. The room was suddenly overcome with jittering vibration. The caged light smashed. Milton turned.

  The back wall exploded. Milton dropped facedown to the floor and threw his arms over his head. Flying, hot debris hit the door above him. A burst of green flame wafted from the back wall and filled the room. The metal table broke off its legs and smashed against the door, clattering on top of him.

  Milton writhed on the grainy floor. He opened his eyes to light. His ears rang. He sat up and pushed the flipped table off him. A gaping hole in the back wall revealed the Porian sky. He stood and walked to the breach. The interrogation room was on the outer edge of one of the cylinder bodies.

  Chilled wind blasted his face and his view opened to a huge space in the underside of the structure. To the distant right, more of the cylinders that made up the complex body hung down. A walkway was suspended between two, visible through a gap. Armed personnel crossed the bridge in a desperate hurry.

  To the left, into the sky, floated a line of dark jagged-shaped ships floated in a row. Blast fire was exchanged between the fleet and the unseen Composite weaponry above. The spines on the ships’ undersides shifted apart and smaller fighters rocketed forth, twirling and flipping their sleek bodies as they cut through the air. A wayward blast flew across Milton’s view and exploded into the side of the complex. The green flame expanded, leaving a hole surrounded by charred-black marks.

  Milton scanned the
damage done to his cell. The sharp shredded sides of the blast hole had melting burn marks from which black smoke billowed in the breeze. Tracing the edge, Milton saw the hole extended beyond his cell. Aside from taking out a chunk of floor, the explosion had taken out the dividing wall between Milton’s cell and the next. Under the blown-out floor was a huge drop down the lining of the complex.

  ‘Just a small jump,’ Milton told himself, psyching himself up. He breathed hard shallow breaths to a count of five and sprang forward. He thrust his leg ahead and his boot found the edge of the torn floor. He threw his weight forward and tripped into the room. It was similar to the one previous but to his relief the door was unlocked.

  He stepped out into the dingy hallway and found the elevator. Five columns of buttons lined the wall, each with their own symbols. Milton recognised some. Eating areas, shooting ranges, administration, the surface — which probably wasn’t the best place to be. Then he saw the button with the medical symbol and immediately thought of Tazman. It lit under his thumb and the lift shot upward. When it stopped and Milton went to the door, he was prepared for anything. Then the lift moved again, sideways. He grabbed the railing. It stopped again. Milton listened to the mechanical sounds of the car switching rails or paths, before it shot up diagonally to the left.

  The doors opened to a commotion of personnel running past, shouting at each other and into communicators. He stepped out and found himself on a balcony overlooking an open area where combat-suited Composite soldiers gathered. Another distant explosion sent vibrations through the railing.

  The shouts from the soldiers indicated the Xoeloid had boarded the platform with infiltration forces. Groups of armoured troops filed into wide alcoves. The caged doors slammed shut and the elevators ascended.

  Another elevator made its way down. The doors opened to a medical team. They stepped off a bloody floor, pushing four occupied hover stretchers.

  ‘Medical centre. Go. Go,’ one of them yelled.

  Not taking his eyes off the group, Milton ran to the spiral stairs nearby. He held the railing and stepped down two at a time. The medicals went into a wide corridor with high traffic. As he followed, a large insect creature galloped across the ceiling in the opposite direction. The communicator on its belt spewed orders as it passed overhead.

  Another explosion rocked the installation. Milton put his hand on the wall for balance. The dull sound of heavy weapon exchange rang from above.

  Ahead the medical team turned into an opening. Milton followed and found an emergency room with a circular wall lined with beds. The team cut off to the right. Doctors standing by guided them in place. Shouts of instructions piped up as the medical staff gathered round the injured. From one of the huddles, a spray of blood shot into the air like a fountain. The patient screamed and another voice issued an order to hold the wounded down.

  More injured were brought in. Milton darted out of the way. One squirmed on a stretcher, covering his eye with his remaining clawed hand. Thin smoke seeped out between his fingers. Milton backed away and heard a familiar moan from behind.

  Tazman was curled up in the softest bed he’d slept in for a while. He was warm, clean and comfortable. If it weren’t for the blaring alarm out in the hallway he might have not woken to face the pain again. He lay hiding under his eyelids, wishing everything to go away and leave him alone. Then he was nudged by another thing. A voice whispered his name.

  ‘Ohhaa whaaat? I’m comfortable,’ he moaned in reply, with eyes defiantly closed. The surrounding commotion invaded his eardrums without mercy.

  ‘You’ll be resting permanently if we don’t get a move on.’

  He recognised the voice. Milton.

  With great effort, Tazman opened his eyes and a bright blur blasted his retinas. He winced and blinked his surroundings delicately into focus. The Human stood next to his bed. They were in a big bright room of some sort.

  ‘Where are we now?’ he groaned.

  ‘An airborne Composite outpost under attack by an apparently large army of Xoeloid,’ Milton hastily replied. ‘Can you walk?’

  ‘Hell no,’ Tazman replied, trying to sit up. Pain shot through his chest; he sucked air through his teeth and grunted as he eyed Milton angrily. He glanced down at his new clothes: light blue medical centre pants and t-shirt. He looked down the neck hole and saw his chest bandaged in white. The suture felt like a laser seal.

  ‘That damn thing stabbed me,’ he said in realisation.

  He inched forward and Milton helped him slide off the bed. When his right foot touched the floor, he grabbed the mattress for support. He glanced up at Milton, who nodded encouragingly. Tazman stretched the elastic waistband from his hip and looked down to see the damage. A bandage was wrapped tightly around his thigh.

  ‘A near miss from the vitals,’ he remarked.

  He carefully stepped forward. When his foot hit the floor again, pain shot up his leg and he grabbed Milton.

  ‘Oh, this is ridiculous,’ he growled, leaning back against the bed. ‘I’ll never make it. You go on without me. I’ll only slow you down.’

  ‘Very funny. Here, lean on me,’ said Milton ducking under Tazman’s left arm.

  Tazman swung his wounded leg ahead and pressed all the weight he could onto Milton to avoid the pain.

  He hobbled onward and fixed his eyes to the exit. Outside he could see guys bolting to and fro. He could imagine any one of those boneheaded CJs smacking into him for lack of not watching where they headed.

  He aimed for a medical trolley when he wanted to stop.

  ‘Detour,’ he said, hopping towards it. He picked up a surgical blade. ‘One moment,’ he added. Biting his lip and looking up at the ceiling he took the blade around his back. When he was certain he had the right position, he made an incision in his pants. He smiled and discarded the blade. Reaching back again, he pulled tail through the hole. It swung about in relief. ‘That’s better,’ Tazman sighed.

  Tail’s end curled to a loop and pressed into the ground. The pain was eased somewhat, but not by much. Tazman’s grin was cut short by another step and they continued steadily out of the room.

  ‘I have no idea where Luylla is,’ said Milton. They reached the hallway. Tazman looked around the bustle. People ran in different directions with shouts of jargon among them and their communicators. He saw the info terminal, a transparent rectangle, attached perpendicular to the wall. Tazman pointed and the pair went forward again, making every effort to dodge the traffic as they crossed the busy corridor.

  When they got there Tazman worked fast. He was familiar with the Composite directory system. The map scrolled into view. He ran a search for the prison quarters and got its location. When he tried for the list of captives he was denied access. The glow of the touch screen flickered with a distant explosion.

  ‘The ship was topside,’ Milton cried in realisation.

  ‘They might’ve moved it,’ said Tazman.

  He muttered the names of the commands as he keyed them in. He tried for surveillance of lower hangars but was denied access again.

  ‘I need clearance,’ he said glancing about the hallway. He spotted something and paused.

  ‘This might hurt,’ he said. Tazman broke from Milton’s support and limped out into the hallway by himself.

  ‘What are you doing?’ yelled Milton.

  ‘What are any of us doing?’ he muttered dismally. He approached a grey-faced uniformed officer striding by. He pretended to stumble and draped his arms over the man’s shoulder pads.

  ‘Watch where you are going, you fool!’ the officer screamed with large flaring nostrils. Tazman’s body went limp. The officer struggled to remove his floppy form, swaying Tazman from side to side. Tail flicked off the floor.

  ‘I’m sowy, I’m weally sowahhry,’ Tazman slurred, drunkenly rocking his head. The officer removed him and he landed on his feet.

  ‘Despicable,’ said the officer, straightening his jacket and storming off.

  Tazman, on his ow
n weight, felt the pain again. Milton darted forward and helped him. With great concentration the Freegu stepped back to the terminal.

  ‘Why?’ asked Milton.

  Tail whipped round to his front. On the end, a clearance card dangled from a neck strap. Tail passed it through the slot mounted on the side of the screen and the reader emitted a positive sounding tone.

  ‘There,’ said Tazman, pointing proudly. ‘We are here, Luylla’s there and the ship is here, in this lower level hangar.’ Beneath the map, surveillance images revealed the destinations. The Inhibitan sat lonely in an empty hangar and Luylla paced in a cramped holding cell.

  ‘We go this way,’ Tazman added, pointing down the corridor. ‘Lucky for us,’ he bragged, ‘I have an eidetic memory.’

  Luylla propped against the rusty wall of the holding cell with arms folded, brooding over the mess she’d found herself in. Her situation had progressively worsened since she’d picked up that escape pod. She had been on the run from the Composite, then the Tyde and now those Xoeloid things. Now, it seemed, her bad luck had reached its peak. She was in custody for false charges and the base was under attack. The Inhibitan was probably blown to smithereens by now. And she was left to rot in a disgusting, force-field sealed alcove.

  She was always thinking, dwelling, formulating the next move, getting sidetracked, thinking more. Her mind was always a mess and now she didn’t even have options to consider. So she opted for the unhealthy practice of dwelling on alternative realities. What would have happened if she hadn’t picked up the pod? What if she hadn’t accepted the Orisurrection delivery? Things would’ve been much different. She would have safely remained an unknown to both the Composite and the Tyde. Being recognised as a threat by these parties was somewhat counterproductive to her mission.