by Tim Marquitz
Behind her, Cabe and Torbon stumbled into sight, both sliding to a halt as they spied the two women, alive and somewhat well.
“Oh, thank Rowl,” Cabe muttered, falling to his knees in the sand. Torbon came to a halt beside him, bending over at the waist, struggling to catch his breath. “I thought you both were going to die.”
“Glad to disappoint you,” Lina mumbled, apparently deciding she didn’t like standing as much as she liked lying down. She flopped to her back on the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust.
“Me, too,” Taj muttered, the words spit loose with mouthfuls of dirt for emphasis. “Me, too.”
“Where’s the Thorn?” Cabe asked, scrambling to get back to his feet, panic in his voice.
A hand rose from the dust and waved in the general direction of the dune. “On the other side,” Lina answered, sand raining from between her fingers. “Managed to kick the engines in at the last second and angle it over the hill so it would land upright. Sorta.”
Cabe sighed and sunk to the ground again, relief smeared across his face like fresh tuna.
“Not sure she’ll fly properly again without a major overhaul,” Lina continued, “but I’m certain she’ll be okay.” The engineer let out a loud sigh and shrugged. “Mostly. I think. Maybe.”
“You think?” Cabe asked.
Lina shrugged. “Hey, what do I know? You’re the damn pilot. Nobody ever taught me to land, and you should have remembered that before you went leaping out the cockpit without telling me what you had in mind.” She gestured toward the downed craft. “I blame you for that.”
Cabe groaned, flopping down beside her, stirring up his own storm of dusty brown in his wake.
Torbon ran his hand over his brow, clearing dirt from his fur, and peered over his shoulder, back in the direction they’d come. “Well, if it’s any consolation, the aliens aren’t chasing us anymore.”
Taj sighed. It very much was a consolation.
It would be a long enough walk back to Culvert City without being shot at. And despite all her frustration with the boring, mundane existence of her life on Krawlas, her angsty, teenage yearnings for adventure were still alive and well. Taj realized then, if she never got shot at again, she would be fine with that.
Somehow, though, she didn’t think that would be the case.
Chapter Five
“What news have you, Vort?” Grand Admiral Galforin asked through a wavering connection on the view screen in Vort’s quarters. The connection was still weak, despite his man’s assurance that the transponders were repaired. “Last you reported, you stumbled across that damnable Federation witch, Bethany Anne, and her foul brood.”
A dark eyebrow rose, the admiral’s orange eyes piercing the captain with something that toed so close to the line of excitement that it took Vort a moment to recognize it. He had never seen anything of the like on the admiral’s face before.
“Dare I hope, with you alive and reaching out, that you have rid us of that scum once and for all?” Spittle glistened at the corner of the old Wyyvan admiral’s mouth, gleaming across the light years.
Captain Vort stiffened, feet shuffling in place, out of sight of his lord. He remained quiet, disentangling his tongue, knowing full well he’d have to disappoint the grand admiral before he could circle back around to the good news.
For all his bravado as he strolled from the bridge to his cabin, he found himself suddenly questioning whether the news was good enough to satisfy Galforin. Especially after Vort made it clear he’d failed to bring down the empress despite having the drop on her, his ship hidden in the asteroid field.
“Your reticence worries me, Vort,” the admiral told him.
It worried Vort, too.
He stared at the grand admiral, taking in the details as he pried at his confidence to shake it loose. Galforin was an imposing figure, his presence commanding, even through the vast distance of space.
Where most Wyyvan were tall and lithe, more gristle and bone than meat, Grand Admiral Galforin was the exception. He stood taller than even the tallest of his subordinates and was easily three to four times as broad.
A mixture of muscle and fat, genetics and scientific alteration, the grand admiral had his command post’s doors widened to accommodate his bulk. Two meters across at the shoulder, if not more, his arms were great knots of tension ending at meaty hands, which could easily close about Vort’s skull and crush it without effort.
And though the admiral might not be fast when compared to his brethren, if any of the Wyyvan could truly be considered as such, the tree trunks of his legs and battle tank hull of his chest assured Vort there would be no surviving the man’s attack should he manage to clasp hold of an opponent.
Many were the stories of Wyyvan recruits being made to clean the gore of Galforin’s dissatisfaction from the floor of one command room or another, an abject lesson in not to upset or disappoint the grand admiral were you within arm’s reach.
Fortunately for Vort, he and the crew of the Monger were stranded upon Krawlas. The certainty that Galforin wouldn’t travel all the way to end of the known universe to personally murder Vort gave the captain the barest ember of courage.
No, instead, I’ll die here, abandoned on this godforsaken backwater planet, surrounded by the bones of savages and the dust of my future.
Vort sighed. “Sadly, Admiral, I have no good news as it regards to the Federation’s Empress.”
“Queen, Vort, not empress,” Galforin corrected with a snort. “Let’s not raise the pathetic human scum up any higher than her people already have.”
The captain stiffened. Queen, empress? Who can keep track? “Regardless, Grand Admiral, I must report my failure.”
Galforin drew in a slow, deep breath, letting it out moments later under the guise of a rumbling grunt. “I expected no less of you, Vort,” he said, eyes narrowing into slits. “Tell me, Captain, how did the Federation wench steal your glory from you?”
“Her craft, the Archangel II, is a fortress of steel and death, Admiral.”
“And is not the Monger?”
“Indeed, but I fear the Federation has evolved since last we crossed ships with them,” Vort told the grand admiral, doing his best to wrap his failure in the sweetest of coatings. “I unloaded the whole of the Monger’s guns on her, yet she shrugged our blasts aside as if they were gralflies, Admiral.”
“Did she now?”
“She did.” Vort swallowed hard, determined to go on. “Our logs will show we caught her unaware, in open space, but not even the combined efforts of our guns could crack her hull, despite having pushed their way through her shields. We left little more than scorch marks upon her side.”
Galforin chuckled, a great, rumbling thunder that made Vort’s heart gallop in his chest. “How then are you still alive if you were so outmatched, Captain? Did she offer you a deal or show you mercy as she watched you tuck your tail between your legs and flee for your life? Was she so generous as to pat your ass as you ran, Vort?”
The captain stiffened. Now was the moment of truth Vort feared. It was one thing to admit defeat, to tell his admiral that he was beaten in battle. It was quite another to inform the man that a lowly bitch in service to humans had deemed the Monger—and by association, Vort—as nothing, a speck of dust to be wiped from her hull and ignored.
“If I’m to be honest, Admiral, I’m not even certain the emp…er, queen herself knew her ship had been attacked.” Vort bit back a groan at his admission and soldiered on. “The Archangel II returned fire, wreaking havoc upon the Monger and its engines, sending us listing while…while…”
“While what, Vort?”
The captain’s chin dipped. “While the ship continued through the Zendarin Gate as though we didn’t exist, Admiral.”
Galforin stared for several long seconds, only to burst into raucous laughter. He leaned back in his command seat and roared, his chest and belly dancing beneath the tight confines of his uniform. Tears glistened in the grand admi
ral’s eyes as he went on, dots of spittle flying and peppering the view screen.
Vort suffered the admiral’s amusement for several long minutes. There seemed to be no end to the man’s laughter. It was only when Vort rose to his full height and cleared his throat that the grand admiral seemed to remember the captain was even there. At last, Galforin reined himself in, though it seemed that nothing would wipe the toothy grin from the wide split of his serpentine lips.
“You couldn’t even beat the woman’s AI?” Another burst of laughter spilled from the grand admiral, the sound like a dozen worgs barking. “And here I had such high hopes for you when your father came to me, begging me to hand you a command posting, despite your disappointing service record.”
He shook his head, the green-gray of his skin blurring against the static backdrop of the view screen. “If nothing else, at least your father’s wishful thinking, and his generous donation, of course, served the Wyyvan Empire some good.”
“Don’t count me out so soon, Admiral,” Vort muttered, only realizing at the last moment that the words had actually slithered from his tongue against his best interest of self-preservation.
“What was that, Captain?” The admiral’s smile faded away, and he leaned forward, glaring into the screen as his fists clenched in his lap. “I don’t believe I heard you.”
“Forgive me, Admiral, but I have yet to tell you of the bounty attached to my unfortunate defeat.”
“There’s a nugget of brightness in the handfuls of shit you’ve shoveled my way, Vort? Please, enlighten me as to what might be so valuable as to offset your rank failure as a ship’s captain.” The admiral leaned back, barely suppressing a chuckle, the grin once more returned to his face.
Captain Vort’s fingers played across his console, packaging the file Commander Dard had prepared and streaming it across the cosmos to Wyyvan Command. “If you would look at the document I sent you, Admiral, you’d see that, despite the Monger’s inability to drag the bitch to heel, not all is lost. Not remotely.”
Galforin’s orange gaze shifted to his monitor, and his eyes widened for an instant before he yanked them back in line, hiding his reaction behind a muffled cough. “Interesting,” he muttered after a moment. “Are you certain these numbers are correct, Captain?”
“I’d stake my life on them, sir,” Vort vowed.
“You do indeed,” Galforin agreed, tapping the screen with a long, jagged nail before turning to someone sitting out of sight behind him. “Clear the room. Now!”
A great shuffle sounded in the background, stomping feet followed by the hiss and swish of doors, then the sullen thump of them closing on an empty room.
Galforin leaned into the screen. “If these numbers are as true as you say, Vort, you might well have found the one, and only, way to dig yourself free of the vorp pit you’ve submerged your head into.” The admiral sat back and grinned, the points of his mouth stretching all the way to the knotted holes of his ears. “Does anyone else know of this?”
Vort shook his head. “Only my second in command, Admiral, and none others. Not even the residents of this horrid planet, for the Toradium-42 is un-mined, left to rot in the soil, untouched.” Vort allowed himself the slightest of grins at the admiral’s sudden interest. “Were the empire to provide me with the means to mine the Toradium-42 and transport it back to Belor Prime, the emperor would surely reward you greatly. There has never been such a wealth of Toradium-42 found in one location.”
“And the emperor would, no doubt, reward you, as well, would he not?” Galforin asked, not bothering to hide his amusement. “But know your place, Captain. You are my agent, my servant, and your success is mine, just as your failure is my shame.”
“Of course, Admiral.”
“For this,” Grand Admiral Galforin tapped the monitor, a loud clicking noise echoing across the galaxies, “and for this alone, I’ll forgive you your incompetence. But know this, Vort, should these numbers prove untrue, or should you fail me in this endeavor, there will be no place in our universe, or any other, which will save you or your bloodline from my wrath. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly, Admiral,” Vort replied, offering an obsequious nod, hiding the slightest of smiles. Despite the threat to him and his family, this was the best Vort could have hoped for.
“Then we have an understanding.” Galforin licked his lips, his tongue flailing, and grinned into the view screen. “Now, tell me, Captain, what do you need to bring this wellspring home to me?”
Captain Vort told the grand admiral and signed off, reveling in the afterglow of his manipulative success in turning the worst of disasters into a windfall. He sank into his chair and groaned, lazily triggering the comm with a slapping hand.
“Commander Dard?”
“Sir,” his second’s voice came back to him, sharp and crisp.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he told the man. “Gather the troops and prepare them for battle. We’ve a city to raze.” He chuckled as he silenced the connection. “I don’t want a single creature left alive on this planet by nightfall.”
“Sir!” Dard called out, cutting the connection to do as he was ordered.
Vort chuckled. If the price of success was as meager as sacrificing the lives of all the local inhabitants of Krawlas, then that was a price Vort was more than happy to pay.
Chapter Six
As it turned out, the Thorn wasn’t quite as bad off as Taj had expected.
Though, that’s not to say it was good.
It managed to limp back to Culvert City, Torbon riding the wing like a balboran rodeo rider, eyes wide and knuckles white to offset the loss of the stabilizer. He squeaked awkwardly every time the engines sputtered or coughed, or when Cabe throttled the overwrought engine.
Taj sat in the harness on the other side, offering up enough counterbalance to keep the windrider from giving in to the broken stabilizer’s desire to spin the ship like a top and send them toppling again.
When they finally reached the border of Culvert City, Cabe geared down and landed the craft in the dirt outside of town, whirls of gray and black smoke billowing from the engine.
The streets were brimming with Furlorians, folks desperate to know what happened and to get news regarding the crashed ship. A dozen or more raced to meet the crew, swarming around and hurling questions at them like stones.
“What is it?”
“Where did it come from?”
“What do they look like?”
“Why are they here?”
“Are they dangerous?”
Taj raised a hand to silence the crowd, but the arrival of Gran Beaux, his cane tapping a rhythmic warning on the packed dirt street, was what really settled the throng.
They moved aside to let him pass as he hobbled up from behind, slow and steady and steely-eyed. His gray fur stood out sharp around his pink nose, which looked as if it had been cut in half longwise and stitched back poorly. Between that and the constant glower etched into his brow, he always looked ready to take a kitten to task, despite his generally calm demeanor.
He ambled forward, not saying a word until he was right on top of the crew, much to the chagrin of the impatient crowd. They wanted answers, and they wanted them now, but Gran Beaux never rushed anything. No power on Krawlas would ever change that.
So, they shuffled in place, muttering under their breaths, knowing their complaints were useless, until the thin Tom came to a halt and drew a slow, deep breath. He leaned hard against his cane, and his ribs twitched beneath his thin, pale fur.
“Soooo…?” he asked.
“We’re in trouble, Gran,” Taj told him, the rest of the crew clearly happy to let her take the lead. She was Gran Beaux’s favorite, after all. “Aliens have crashed, and they’re not friendly.”
“That’s an understatement,” Torbon muttered.
Beaux gave him a sideways glance before turning his focus back to Taj. “What makes you think that, girl?”
“They gacking shot at us, t
hat’s why!” Torbon shouted, realizing at the last moment that he said it aloud. He covered his mouth as Gran snarled, eyes narrowed into tiny amber slits. “Stomped out of their ship and let loose,” Torbon continued, mumbling through his paw as if he couldn’t stop himself.
“They did what?”
Taj nodded. “They shot at us, Gran. Tore the Thorn up good, and nearly us, too.” She showed him her torn sleeve and the wreckage of her uniform. The stains of her blood had faded a little but were still obvious, and the wound was red and raw.
Gran Beaux was a soldier, born and bred, despite his advanced years. He turned to a nearby Tom, waving a gnarled paw. “Run and gather the elders and tell them to call a gatherin’. And we need a posse formed up right away, in case we need to head out and make a point.”
Taj shook her head, grabbing the Tom by the arm to keep him from bolting off right away. “With respect, Gran, these aren’t some ragtag group of mercenaries we can fend off with old bolt pistols and hunting rifles. They’re organized, armored, armed, and deadly. Soldiers, an army of some kind. If we go out there again, even if it’s just to show a presence to try and make a point, a lot of our people are gonna get killed.”
“They came in a destroyer, Gran,” Lina added, shuffling up alongside Taj, using her as a buffer between her and Beaux. “A real destroyer, not some fluffed-up pleasure ship.”
“A destroyer?” Beaux’s eyes narrowed even further, his nose scrunched into a tiny knot of fluttering whiskers.
The fact that he didn’t ask Lina for confirmation about the alien ship’s classification made it clear he took what they said seriously, and Taj loved him for it.
He scratched at his chin, short, ragged claws scritching against rough, patchy fur that had long since passed white. “Seems you kids are right. Might be best if we find someplace to hunker down first, see what they want before we make contact. No one who fires on children without warning or cause is no one we want to hold a friendly hand out to, anyway.”