Nebula Nights: Love Among The Stars

by Melisse Aires

  “Really.” Her gaze narrowed as she thought about this. “Then I’ll need my weapons back.”

  Her chin lifted, as if she expected him to argue about it. He reached behind him, extracted them one at a time, and handed them to her. She stuck the knife in the sheath he’d removed it from, but not the other two.

  “I had some spare magazines—long things that hold my bullets?”

  “Everything else is right there,” he said, nodding toward the pack, with her stuff scattered around it.

  She ejected something that he figured was the magazine from the smaller gun, checked it, shoved it back in, then stowed it back in its holder at her hip. Warmth stirred in his mid-section. He’d never seen a woman with any weapon. He liked the way she handled them and how she looked wearing them. They suited her.

  She noticed him looking. “Nine mil, for close shooting.” She held up the larger weapon. “And this is a P-90 for the distance shots.”

  She checked it the way she had the nine mil, then set it down beside her, as she knelt by her scattered belongings. She stowed most of it back in the pack, including her outer suit, but he noticed she put a few more of the magazines in her pockets. She looked up at him. “We probably won’t be coming back here, so you should get your stuff together—if you want a lift off this rock? You do, don’t you?”

  He looked at her warily.

  “I know you’ll miss the food and these charming digs, but try to buck up.” She grinned again.

  He had to grin back. “Not much to take with me.”

  Most of his gear had been destroyed when his ship caught fire. He’d been lucky to get himself out.

  She couldn’t be right about help coming, but she was hard to resist. There was something basically upbeat about her, a resilience that impressed him—even if he didn’t understand more than half of what she said.

  “So, what’s the plan?”

  Plan? There was a plan?

  “I was thinking we should do some recon. Are they likely to be covert? Or do the gomers like to strut around being big and bad?”

  He sorted through this. “Probably covert.”

  “Well, since you know the terrain—and where we’re going—you should take point and I’ll get your six.”

  “My six?”

  “I’ll follow you? Watch your back? Clock? Twelve o’clock at the top, six at the bottom.” She tipped her head slightly to the side. “Odd that we seem to have a similar language, but different stuff, too. Is your language pretty common around here?”

  “Some worlds have their own language, but they also speak the Common language.” She was right, though. It was strange.

  “Interesting.” She looked at him for a moment longer. “We should figure out some hand signals.”

  He blinked a couple of times. Hand signals? She didn’t seem to notice.

  “Usually we do this when we need to stop and be quiet.” She held her fist up at a right angle to her body. “How many Dusan are we likely to be dealing with?”

  Fyn shrugged. “For a small craft, they’ll send a scout ship, between five and six?” He hesitated. “Even when they use stun, their weapons can kill.”

  “Okay. Don’t get shot. Anything else?”

  “They’ll have two positions, overlooking your ship. We’ll need to hit them at the same time. If they get a chance to send a warning, more will come.”

  Did she understand what he was telling her?

  Her mouth thinned and her eyes narrowed. “So, we make them go away.”

  He hoped that meant kill them.

  She showed him some more signals and then she pulled out a hat of the same mottled material as her clothing and put it on her head. She tucked her hair up out of sight. Next she picked up a small round box. She opened it. The contents looked dark and sticky. She proceeded to rub it on her skin.

  “Did I miss anywhere?” she asked, suddenly. She did a half turn, so he could see the back of her neck.

  He pointed to his temple, fascinated by how efficiently she prepared herself for battle. She was obviously well trained. Was that part of what made her different?

  “Oh, right.” She smeared the brown stuff on the dressing covering her head wound. “How long until its light?”

  “Not long.”

  When everything was stowed but a small rectangular box, she picked it up and turned a knob on the top. It emitted a crackle. Maybe she saw him looking at it, because she said, “Radio. For communication.”

  He’d had something similar in his craft, though not so portable. A useful innovation.

  She listened for a moment, then pressed the side, stopping the crackle and spoke into it.

  “Home plate, this outfield5. Do you copy?” Only crackling silence. “Come in, home plate.” Again, no response. With a slight sigh, she stowed this in a pocket, too, one near her face. “No joy. The cave might be blocking the transmission, though.”

  There was a small silence. He should say something.

  “So, do you have a name or should I just call you Chewie?” Her lips curved slightly, as if inviting him to share a joke.

  “Chewie?”

  “Sorry, Earth joke.”

  Earth?

  “I’m Fyn. Kiernan Fyn.”

  “So, do you like to be called Kiernan, Kier, or Fyn? Sir? Or Mr. Fyn—”

  “Fyn. That’s what most people call me.” Probably. Been awhile since anyone called him anything. Though no one had found so many different things to call him in such a short time.

  “Everyone on the Doolittle calls me Donovan, but I answer to Sara, too. At least I think I do. It’s been a while.” Her eyes were big and serious in her blackened face. She grinned suddenly, her teeth white against her darkened skin. “A long while.” She held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Fyn.”

  He took her hand. She seemed to expect it. It felt narrow and soft inside his, but her grip was surprisingly strong. She lifted their hands up and down, then took her hand back.

  “That’s called ‘shaking on it’ where I come from. It’s a friendly greeting.” Her tone was educational, but her eyes still smiled.

  “Okay.” He realized he sounded rude. “Nice to meet you.”

  Her brows arched. He smiled slightly.

  “Donovan.” Using her last name seemed safer, though he couldn’t have said how. In his head, he was already calling her Sara. “Earth?”

  “That’s my home planet. Third rock from the sun.”

  He frowned. “Never heard of it.”

  Her eyes got slightly wary. “So, you know this galaxy pretty well?”

  He nodded. This galaxy? “You’re from another galaxy.”

  It wasn’t a question and she didn’t answer it. She didn’t have to. Her eyes gave her away, too. Maybe she realized that, because she looked away, toward the cave’s entrance.

  “So what’s out there at night?”

  “Nothing you want to see.”

  She was from another galaxy. No one he knew had been able to travel between galaxies. That explained why she was so different.

  “What keeps them from coming in here?”

  “This.” He pulled his weapon, spun it, at the same time activating it. He fired it out the opening and one of the little biters squealed. There was a sort of patter of retreat. He noticed she took a step closer to him and wondered if she realized it. “And they don’t like light.”

  “Oh.” She was quiet a moment. “Biters because they…”

  “Bite.”

  “Bummer.”

  He turned his weapon off and started to shove it back in its holster. Her hand on his arm stopped him.

  “Can I look?”

  He held it out. She didn’t take it, just studied it carefully.

  “How does it work?”

  “Overloads the system with an energy surge.”

  “Fatal?”

  “If it’s not set to stun.”

  “Sweet. My first ray gun.”

  She released his arm and he stowed it a
gain. He’d never seen a woman so excited over a weapon. He liked it. He liked her.

  She was quiet for a few moments until she started that tapping fingers thing again. Then she started to hum. The tune seemed odd, but he liked it, too, particularly liked the way she looked doing it. She softly sang something about a bad moon, until she realized he was looking at her and stopped.

  “Sorry, it’s a bad habit.”

  “Not so bad.”

  He got a smile for that.

  If her people did come, if they did leave this place, what would they do with him? He looked at Sara and felt something stir inside him—like feeling returning to a cramped leg. He’d lived with death for the turning of many seasons, almost too many to count. It was the only companion he’d desired since Fiona but now—

  “What do you think?” Sara looked at him a bit anxiously. “I need to get there before my people do.”

  He looked out. “It’s light enough now.”

  “Right.” She grabbed her sack, sliding her arms through straps and then picked up her P-90.

  He looked at her, wanting to say something, but an odd smile curved her mouth, drying his throat. She put a hand on his chest and reached up, pressing a quick, soft kiss to cheek.

  “For luck.”

  “That’s not much luck.” Before she could step back, he slid his arm around her waist, and pulled her close. He covered her mouth with his. He only meant to touch and go, but it had been a long time and she tasted good. He felt her shiver and almost respond, before she pushed against his chest.

  Her lashes hid her expression, but a small smile flickered across her mouth.

  He pulled his weapon, activated it and set it kill.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Right.” She readied her weapon with a snapping sound, pressed the hilt to her shoulder, and put her finger on the trigger. “I’m ready.”

  It was good to have someone at his back for a change.

  * * * * *

  Sara wasn’t sure why she’d kissed his cheek. Maybe to see if he’d flinch back. Dang, the caveman had so not flinched. And he could kiss. Not that she had a lot to compare it to, but it had made her foot pop up. Wasn’t that the universal sign of a toe-curling kiss? She knew hers were still trying to uncurl…

  He looked grubby, but he smelled surprisingly good. Kind of fresh and earthy. Heady stuff for a homely girl.

  Fyn slipped out of the cave first. She shook her head, to clear her thoughts and get focused, then followed him out into what passed for sunlight.

  She wasn’t a botanist, so all she saw was lots of green crap. There were vine things hanging down and lots of exotic looking crap—buckets of it. She did recognize trees. Big trees. Small trees. And flowers. The ground was spongy under foot and cushioned their foot steps, which was a plus. Mostly they moved through foliage so dense, she couldn’t see the sky, but she did catch occasional glimpses. It was blue, but seemed a different shade than on earth, more on the green spectrum, maybe. It felt cold in the cave, which one would expect, but she’d thought it would be cooler outside. Instead it grew steadily warmer. It was humid, not surprising so close to water, but it made her glad she wasn’t wearing her zoombag.

  Once Fyn stopped and looked back at her, as if he wasn’t sure she was still there. Maybe he thought she’d be noisy. She grinned. You didn’t grow up in foster care without learning how to be quiet.

  Other than the occasional crackle of twig, all Sara heard was the soft buzz of insects until she realized that she could hear the ocean waves hitting the shoreline. Fyn moved more slowly now, stopping often. Having his six wasn’t a bad place to be, though Sara made an effort not to study his very fine, leather covered, tush, and to stay alert. He moved like a lethal ghost through green shadows and his long legs covered the ground efficiently.

  He stopped suddenly, going into a crouch, his fist raised in the stop and quiet signal. Sara crouched behind him, trying to hear what he’d heard. He raised two fingers and pointed to the left, then pointed to her.

  She did a thumbs up, then remembered she hadn’t told him about that and nodded. He signaled three, and pointed in the other direction, then to himself. She nodded again. She eased up next to him and started to slide past him, when he leaned close, his mouth to her ear.

  “I’ll wait until you’re in position.”

  She nodded once more, peered through the foliage, and spotted her two targets. Beyond them she caught a glimpse of water. She was too high to see the beach or her bird. The Dusan had chosen this bluff carefully, clearly hoping to catch her in the cross-fire when she returned to her bird—or her people came to find her.

  She inched along the ground, careful to not let even a stray sound give her away. Just above the Dusan position, she found a big bush with a depression under it, probably from erosion. She worked her way into it. She should be completely hidden. She couldn’t see Fyn, but she didn’t have to. She just had to see the Dusan well enough to make them go away.

  She made sure her P-90 was set to single shot and sighted on one of the two guys, the cross hairs on the back of his head.

  One shot, one kill.

  * * * * *

  Fyn waited to see Sara get under cover, amazed at how her clothing helped her blend with the ground cover. She was so quiet, he’d wondered if she’d slipped away, but she’d stayed on his six. He grinned as he watched her disappear under that bush. They’d never even know what made them go away. He worked his way toward the other group of Dusan.

  He sighted on the first back, did a slow count and fired without hesitating. Killing Dusan was always a good thing. Once, twice, three times. On the heels of his shots, he heard two short, sharp cracking sounds. A half count later, he heard the sound of a Dusan weapon discharging, with Sara’s weapon barking on its heels.

  They’d missed someone. He cursed silently as he headed in her direction, his gaze scanning for any other surprises. He reached the bush, skidding to a halt at the sight of a dead Dusan, just a few feet away. He lay sprawled on his back, a neat hole in his chest.

  “Sara?”

  “I’m all right.” The bushes parted and she peered out, then crawled out and stood. “He almost got lucky, though.”

  She looked pale and her mouth was tense.

  He looked from her to the dead Dusan. “Good shot.”

  “Someone once told me I’d be a good sniper. I thought it was a compliment.”

  Fyn had a feeling this was her first, face-to-face kill. He walked over until he could see the other position. She’d got them both in the head. Not bad. He looked back in time to see her bite her lower lip, then approach the closest body. The Dusan was a typical scout ship soldier, large and stocky and wearing a dark brown uniform, devoid of any kind of insignia. His head gear hid his upper face. The only way to tell who was in charge with the Dusan was to watch who stayed to the rear when they moved in on a position.

  She removed the gear hiding his face and stared at him for a moment. “They don’t look that different from us. I kind of thought ET would be more alien.”

  “ET?”

  “Extra-terrestrial? Not of our world?”

  He wasn’t of her world. Did that mean he was ET, too? “What did you think ET would look like?”

  Sara looked at him, started to say something, then just kind of shrugged. “Let’s just say I’ve seen way too many sci-fi movies for my own good.”

  What?

  She started going through the Dusan’s pockets.

  “What are you doing?”

  She looked up. “I’m looking for intel—information. It’s SOP—sorry, standard operating procedure.”

  That actually seemed like a good idea, though she didn’t look like she liked doing it.

  “I’ll check these two for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  When they’d collected all they could from all six bodies, she looked at the small pile, frowning.

  “Problem?”

  She picked up a small disc hanging from a c
hain, turning it over. “This could be ID, I suppose. Kind of looks like our key cards. It’s odd, though.”

  “Why?”

  “No personal items. Not even a snack to munch on. And no radios.”

  It was interesting to watch her work. And think. He’d never thought to search a dead Dusan, except to take his weapon. What had she learned? What did she hope to learn?

  “I wonder how they keep in contact with each other.”

  “I’ve heard they have communication devices implanted in them when they are born.”

  Her brows arched. “How Big Brother.” She picked up a weapon. “Do these things recharge or what?”

  Fyn took it and showed her the power cell. “It lasts a long time.” He studied the power setting. “These were set to low stun. They wanted to take you alive.”

  He pointed it at a tree and fired it. Even at low stun, it left a black mark.

  Her eyes widened. “Dang.”

  They gathered up the “intel” and headed down. When she dropped onto the sandy beach, she stopped and pressed the side of her jacket, where she’d stowed her radio.

  “Home plate, this is outfield5. Do you copy? Come in, home plate.” She sighed. “Still no joy.”

  She ran a hand along the side of her ship. “My bird got pranged.”

  She carefully examined both areas of damage, muttering to herself. It sounded like an inventory of what was wrong. Seemed she didn’t just fly her “bird,” she knew how to fix, too. Finally she stopped, bit her lip for a minute, stepped back with a sigh, then turned and jumped up on the wing and peered into the cockpit.

  “The onboard computer looks like it’s intact.” She climbed in and sat down.

  “It still won’t fly,” Fyn felt bound to point out.

  Sara looked over the edge of the ship at him. “I know. But I need to get the self-destruct online. I can’t let the gomers get my bird. That’s SOP, too.”

  Fyn wanted to protest. If her people didn’t come, then they’d still be stuck. And maybe the ship could be repaired—only it couldn’t, not without replacement parts.

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  Her smile was quick, but warming. “Can you get that rear panel off? Where I took the hit? I may need to reroute power to the computer.”