Vick's Vultures (Union Earth Privateers Book 1)
Page 19
“A whole week with dirt under your heels and non-recycled air in your lungs? You must be burning up.”
Victoria grimaced. “It’s the flat horizons that get to me, half my view blocked by a planet under my feet.”
Alice lifted her tablet, cycling through her messages to the Condor’s maintenance report she had been forwarded earlier that morning.
“Well Captain, in that case I imagine you’ll be eager to see how the repairs are progressing on your ship.”
First Prince Tavram strode through crystalline gates, the light of his home system’s star refracted across the visible spectrum upon him and his guards as he entered the royal palace. Inexplicably, the wide hallways and arched ceiling made him long for the cramped, corroded passageways of the Condor.
The concourse stretched before him, composite pillars branching into a latticework that stretched into the clouds above. No rain ever fell in the palace, a charged net within the lattice structure wicked away the droplets before they could touch the ground. Opulence? More so, it seemed, than usual. Perhaps his time with the humans had humbled him somewhat. Not that it was inappropriate for the imperials to display this wealth of technology and power. But the servants and citizens falling prostrate as he passed had never before made him feel so … conscious … before. It had always been the proper way of things, both of the Malagath and the lesser empires.
Would the humans ever bow to me? Their histories mentioned such concessions, but I can imagine Victoria bending to no one. He stopped, spinning a slow circle.
“My Prince, your father awaits, and we should not dally.”
His entourage, eyes similarly downcast, a mix of bodyguards, politicians, and ship’s captains hoping to gain favor with the Emperor for having ferried him home. They thought themselves noble heroes for having carried him the final miles after the humans bled and sacrificed for him. It was one of those captains that spoke. The captain that had brought the Condor aboard for repairs.
“Of course,” he said, “let’s not keep the Emperor waiting.”
They climbed a small hill to the crown of the Malagath Empire, the center of a thousand worlds that stretched across the local cluster of stars. He had never felt such a massive sense of scale before being forced to hunch through the tiny hatches of the Condor, and now he craned his neck as they entered the royal court. More flawless crystal rimmed the hall, twisting, climbing spires creating a faceted forest that framed the throne. Thousands packed the floor and balconies, just as he’d always remembered, kneeling in a wave as they noticed his entrance. They came from every corner of the Malagath Empire, now represented in the palace on Malagan.
His father overshadowed the lot of them, atop a perfectly cut crystal throne and dressed in a tightly tailored uniform.
“You’re back early,” he said. His voice was repeated through amplifiers placed throughout the hall. Never one to mince words, was the Emperor.
“There were complications,” said Tavram. The sonic sensors hovering nearby carried his voice, and probably the sound of his nervousness, directly through the throne.
The Emperor stood, the platform buzzing as it generated a significant amount of stairs for him to descend. Tavram recalled his father’s explanation, that if you could not climb to the throne beneath the weight of the crown you did not deserve to sit in it. It would not be long before he no longer could, and then the Emperor would retire and the crown would pass to Tavram.
“All of you, out,” the Emperor declared, “I speak with the Prince alone.”
A loud rustle filled the hall as the thousands of blue faces shuffled past Tavram, his small following glancing back longingly at their vain chance for glory as they retreated from the chamber. He could have told them the Emperor would care little for their petty claims.
The colossal doors closed behind the crowd with a gesture from the Emperor. Out of the public eye, Tavram went to him, folding into the Emperor’s open embrace. The emperor of a thousand worlds, the scourge of the galactic arm, the hand behind billions of lives governed and deaths dealt. His father.
“When we learned of the ambush I feared the worst. I thought the Dirregaunt had swept you from the stars. To find you alive and before me again is beyond words. Surely now you can give up this folly idea of peace? The ambush proves the Dirregaunt are not interested.”
Tavram broke away from the Emperor, bowing his head in refute. “It proves the opposite, there is division in the Praetory. Those that sent Best Wishes are terrified, afraid that some among the Lords of the Hunt will entertain the idea of armistice. This was not an attempt on the life of the First Prince on behalf of the Praetory, this was an unsanctioned attack on the prospect of peace.”
Breath hissed from between the Emperor’s teeth. “He led the attack? Dead stars, how did you evade him all the way back to Malagath space?”
Tavram paused. He had told Victoria that he would likely never think of the humans again after leaving her ship. In truth, he had thought of little else.
“Let me tell you, Emperor, of quite a singular empire I encountered.”
Tessa Baum glanced in the corner of the compartment. The security team had to restrain Best Wishes, seized by another of his fits. One of them persisted in attempting to help him eat, but to little purpose. The Dirregaunt commander was no longer lucid. From what she could gather from the crew he had willingly taken in the light of the ion cloud, driven himself mad in his pursuit of perfect clarity. At times he was almost alert, but after the Condor had escaped he had suffered a total breakdown, much like the ship. She grimaced. His matron should have named him Pitiful Creature. In truth she wasn’t much better off. Her fever had broken, but now shivering fits wracked her weakened body. Her hip throbbed constantly, too tender to touch and lancing agony whenever her vacuum suit brushed against it.
She was with Dutiful Heiress, now the ranking officer and acting commander of what was left of the Springdawn. The fore quarter or so of the ship bereft of engines, food, shuttles, and only dwindling life support from the remaining plant matter had nevertheless evaded the Malagath sensors several days prior. A useless navigation center provided a cramped shelter to the thirty lethargic survivors in this area of the ship, a pale shadow of the Springdawn’s former compliment of crew. Other pockets of survivors might exist elsewhere, but no one was willing to find out. Huddled together for warmth they waited for death of one kind or another.
She could come and go as she pleased; The Dirregaunt were barely cognizant of their own surroundings, let alone her. But to where? Half the remaining hulk was in vacuum. She’d searched it and brought what supplies she could find, though most of the Dirregaunt refused to touch them. Her protein reservoirs were empty going on four days now, and her waste recyclers past toxicity levels that would give her sepsis if she didn’t starve to death first or die from the after effects of the infection. She had sores anywhere the vacuum suit chafed against her skin. Even these top-of-the-line suits were never meant to be worn more than a few days at the extreme. She felt disgusting, and remarked not for the first time at the futility of worrying how she smelled and how greasy her hair must be while marooned on a derelict dreadnought surrounded by xenos.
Dutiful Heiress was barking commands at the broken crew, and was being largely ignored. What point was there in holding command of a dead ship? She clung to the vestiges of power granted by her birth in the ruling caste. It was a pointless endeavor.
Tessa settled back against the bulkhead. She was weak, starving even. She wondered if she would die before the new commander would stop squawking. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the knotting in her stomach and the throb at her hip.
She dozed, unsure for how long, before she realized the chatter in her helmet wasn’t a computerized translation of Dirregaunt speech.
A radio transmission.
The line crackled with an intermittent voice, “eceived … ELT beacon … ay location.”
She grabbed at the emergency locator on her harness
, she had activated it days ago on a whim, knowing Captain Marin had no way of coming back for her.
“Here,” she mumbled through gummy, dry lips, “Here I’m here, Tessa Baum of the Condor. Location incoming.”
She stood carefully and turned to Dutiful Heiress, grabbing her by the arm. “Is the communication suite still functional?” She demanded.
Startled, the Dirregaunt’s ears twitched, their version of a nod. “Good,” said Tessa, “Send out a distress call with our current location.”
“Why?” asked Dutiful Heiress, clearly confused.
“You want to get off this wreck or not?” asked Tessa. The Dirregaunt officer looked skeptical, or at least Tessa assumed it was a skeptical look, but she handled the task herself. There was a shudder as the omnidirectional signal propagated through the hull with its superluminal message. The static in her ear dulled for a few moments, then cleared completely.
“Marine, this is Captain Jackson of the Huxley. Have fix on your position. Looks like you could use a lift, trooper.”
Tessa grinned, “I hope you’ve got space in your holds, Captain. This wreck is ten kinds of hot,” she said. She looked over at the former commander of the Springdawn, now practically comatose and staring at the bulkhead. “I hope you have some brig space, too. I got someone here you’re gonna want.”
“The new chief engineer is aboard, Skipper,” said Huian Wong.
Victoria stepped through the airlock into the cargo bay of the Condor. The ship had been beat to hell when she’d got it the first time, and she hadn’t improved the state of things much. Her bird would always carry the scars of humanity’s progress.
“So you decided to stick around. Who’d we get?”
Huian consulted her tablet. Christ she looked just like her mother when she did that. “Davis Prescott, chief engineer of the U.E.N. Washington.”
“Prescott, eh? Well he’s no Yuri, but the Washington’s got a good rep for a Yank ship. I’ve heard he wrenches pretty good.”
“Is that all you’ve heard?”
“Watch it, Huian,” said Victoria as they climbed up to the middle decks. Workmen were carrying outdated sensor components past as they squeezed into the conn. Carillo saluted her from the XO’s chair as he fiddled with the new interfaces. As if he’d ever use them underway.
“Sorry, Captain. I didn’t mean to suggest …”
Victoria laughed, sliding onto her captain’s couch. She looked around at the familiar screens, repeaters, piping, and cables. This was her home, her house, and her life.
“Huian, you may be a wretched little S&C spy, but you handled the Condor and kept your cool while we stared down Big Three and lived.” She paused.
“You’re a Vulture now, call me Vick.”
END
Acknowledgements
When I started writing Vick’s Vultures it was at a low point in my life, surrounded by eddies of loss and opportunity. I spent those summer days in a cramped, hot room. Every morning I was awoken by the sounds of construction, and every night I sweat as my computer competed with the west-facing window for who could keep me warmer. I had just finished the first draft of Devilbone and was ready to cut my teeth on the world of Science Fiction.
At the time, I knew I would be a self-published author. I would do all my own editing, my own covers, and my own marketing. I am happy, in this, to be proven wrong. When I began writing, it was in secret, and I told no one who did not know me by a pen name that I had written a single word until I had finished my first novel. It had no dedication page and no one to acknowledge because, apart from a critique group, it was written in near vacuum.
Now, I have the support of a small network of authors and the advantage of a small but passionate publisher standing beside me. My writing is exposed for all to see, and has found a warm reception. Those who helped it along the way deserve my gratitude.
First and foremost, I’d like to thank Eric and Colin of Parvus Press for believing in my work and for taking such a huge chance on making Vick’s Vultures the “tip of the PP spear”. Perhaps I should consider rephrasing that.
I’d also like to thank my editor, John Adamus, who upon telling me that my novel was in good shape handed me back a manuscript with over 300 revisions and corrections. Together we hammered Vick’s Vultures into a lean, fighting book.
Possibly the hardest aspect of control to surrender was that of the cover. Having come from an illustration background it was very hard for me to sign off on another artist representing my work. But Tom Edwards has captured the feel and tone of 60,000 words in a single image in such a way that I know I could not have matched. And so (not as reluctantly as I would have expected) I say thank you.
Lastly, I’d like to thank those close to me who encouraged my work, whether having read it or sight unseen, and who never doubted my ability to tackle such an undertaking. Especially my sister, Katie, whom I waited far too long to include in my writing process.
Scott Warren
July 6, 2016
About the Author
Scott Warren got his start in writing while living in Washington during the summer of 2014 when he entered the world of speculative fiction by writing Sorcerous Crimes Division, followed shortly by Vick’s Vultures.
Scott blends aspects of classic military fantasy and science fiction with a modern, streamlined writing style to twist tired tropes into fresh ideas. He believes in injecting a healthy dose of adventure into the true-to-life grit and grime that marks the past decade of science fiction, while still embracing the ideas that made science fiction appeal to so many readers.
As a UAV Pilot and former submariner, Scott draws on his military and aviation experiences to bring authenticity to his writing while keeping it accessible to all readers. Scott is also an artist, contributing his skills to board games, role playing games, and his own personal aerial photography galleries.
Scott currently lives in Huntsville, Alabama. Visit Scott on the web: http://scottwarrenscd.blogspot.com/ and follow him on Twitter: @ScottWarrenSCD
Coming Soon From Parvus Press
Court of Twilight
by Mareth Griffith
Six months ago, Ivy stumbled into the deal of a lifetime - great rent in a posh Dublin neighborhood and a flatmate, Demi, who was only a little weird. It didn’t matter that the flat was packed with exotic plants or that she couldn’t touch Demi’s cookware.
Now Demi’s missing though, there are strange men hiding in the flower boxes, and Demi may have drawn the attention of an ancient evil intent on striking her down. Flatmates, what can you do?
Ivy dives into a myterious hidden Dublin, discovering that the longer she stays in, the more she risks losing the world she always knew. How can she save Demi without losing herself?
Court of Twilight is a suspenseful, twisting contemporary fantasy from a talented new author that explores and tests the bonds of friendship and family while taking the reader on a journey across time and between worlds.
www.ParvusPress.com/CourtOfTwilight/
Winter 2017
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1: Vick's Vultures
Chapter 2: Attenuation
Chapter 3: The First Prince
Chapter 4: Taru Station
Chapter 5: The Lesser Empires
Chapter 6: Conflict of Interests
Chapter 7: Pilum
Chapter 8: Forel
Chapter 9: Listening In
Chapter 10: Unto the Dark
Chapter 11: The Crucible
Chapter 12: Horizon
Chapter 13: The Dread
star's Legacy
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Coming Soon
Are You Parvus People?
Table of Contents