by K A Carter
“Who am I speaking with?” Nario asked. He leaned over a small captain’s seat he had politely commandeered.
The voice graveled; the signal sounded choppy. The CPF Eneborah was state of the art ship, as far as Nario was concerned. The static had to be on the other end. “I am T’luk, Speaker of the Unizh. I urge you not to attack. We are a peaceful colony.”
“We have no intention of attacking.”
“That jukh of a warlord sends his suhut to do his annihilations. There can only be one reason why you’re here.” Given that T’luk hadn’t known of Nario prior to now, he assumed that T’luk was talking about Swarran. There was too much that he didn’t know about him. Or the Lanx for that matter. The Lanx was a glamorous government by appearance, but Nario took moments like these as snippets into its possible true nature of who he was dealing with. It battled the idea that Vrewulf, Thoram, and especially Swarran were allies. An idea he grew fonder of, despite the difficulties that lied between them.
“Ambassador, our sensors are jammed. I can’t scan the landside anymore,” said an operator behind him. Nario shifted calmly to get closer to the com link. The rebels were jamming the signal.
In the same moment, ensign Kelly turned around. “Sir, the sensory report. I got one before the jam started.”
“Give me what you have.”
“The star is a gentle yellow star. Fairly young.”
“Is it dying?”
“No sir,”
Nario feared she would say that. He turned to her. “Keep an eye on those Voathi ships.”
Kelly nodded her puffy short brunette hair and went back to her duties.
“I’m going to need you to turn off your jammers, T’luk” Nario said. His voice remained light.
“All you will see is scattered camps that are defenseless,” T’luk’s said quaky voice. The likeliness of T’luk being a peaceful rebel were as slim as Swarran not having his ships weapons already pointed for an aerial bombardment., waiting for targets. Either outcome would be determined by T’luk’s reaction.
“I can only confirm that if you let down your guard,” responded Nario. “I can assure you that you won’t be harmed,”
Moments went by of silence. All that could be heard was the stirring whistle of the com link between the ground and the Eneborah.
“Lowering jamming signal now,” T’luk said, reluctantly. Ensign Kelly shifted the readings on screen. There were three dimensional images of ground activity. Ensign Kelly spoke as Nario looked at them. She was soft-toned and carried a raspy scottish accent. “The sensors only pick-up a few camps, sir. No more than a thousand people on the northeastern hemisphere.”
It’s safe to say they are peaceful, thought Nario. He did enough to hide the relief in his shoulders to the crew around him. Kelly gawking at the sensors. Her young age showing through dim eyes and sturdy cadet posture.
It was a game of chance that Nario had found himself playing. He hadn’t had any contact with Swarran since they dropped out of warp. Scenarios played themselves out in unison as Nario thought about his next move. He only had a second to do so.
“I believe we can help each other out, T’luk” Nario started. “Although you don’t share the values of the Lanx, we do still need each other.” Nario had no problem being the mediator, in this case, it was on behalf of the Lanx Republic.
“I believe we can. For the sake of my people,” T’luk responded. “The valuable artifacts and Aani ore can be split between us.”
In some way it was a proud moment. Though he hadn’t been thinking of it at the time, this was his first bidding done on behalf of the republic. But this didn’t mean it was over. Not with Swarran still lurking in orbit.
So that’s what they were after, thought Nario.
Chapter 17: S’tiri
The sickness was hard to bare. The injections were excruciating and the pain that followed them felt like the deepest of cloak blade cuts. S’tiri resisted as best he could. He didn’t know exactly what they were doing but, he had a couple of ideas. Through the discombobulated thoughts he could assume it was some sort of toxin being injected into his body, probes pricking uniform parts of his body..
Another Draul strutted into the room. He could tell it was Thalus, his vision blurred to the point of shapes, but he recognized the unmatched broadness of the being. Thick fingers gripped his chin.
“How is the process coming along?” Thalus said. S’tiri’s ears muffled the words but he could still understand the language through the translator.
“He’s adjusting slowly but surely,” the Administrator said. “It will be complete within the hour.”
Pain soon turned into a tingly feeling all over his body. It moved throughout his muscles and circled around his chest. S’tiri couldn’t move his limbs. It still didn’t stop him from trying. He could feel his memories resurfacing, childhood memories, moments spent with his brother and father. Those of his mother were whimsical and whithered away before he could recall any specific details. Each passed on like dreams in a fluid manner. They faded into a darkness that enveloped his thoughts.
“I believe he will adjust accordingly to his new role,” Hortogon said. S’tiri recognized the brassy voice quite easily. Slowly his vision blackened until there was nothing but darkness and soon he couldn’t hear anything.
S’tiri stood before Thalus; Hortogon at his side. Black robes now draped over S’tiri’s body. He lowered the wide hood off of his now bare scalp. A unique brand draping across the left side of his face. Small in nature, it ran along the length of his chin.
S’tiri kneeled on one leg, bowing to the two. His allegiance was pledged. “What will you do, S’tiri?” Thalus said in a languid manner.
“Prepare for the arrival of our master.” S’tiri responded
“And where will you start?”
S’tiri lifted his head at attention to Thalus. “I will start with Mulaya.”
∆∆∆
S’tiri stared out of at the scape of stars, his expression in the reflection of the thickened window bouncing off it like a mirror image. The brand was tribal in nature. Prominent.
S’tiri grew acquainted with the flagship he had been on. Time had passed unknowingly well and the cover of the veil seemed to feel like home now. Among Draul he associated himself with, many sought to defuse the word that spread. S’tiri turned the cheek at the thought of being unworthy of his position. A position that wasn’t stated but more obvious than any words could’ve portrayed. A degree of treachery insinuated by his unmistakable differences from the rest.
S’tiri sat in a black linen seat that levitated in place. The ship he was on bared no bridge nor rooms or quarters. Just a large recreational space, in which he had been using for prayer.
More Draul were supplied to man the ship, each dissented at the thought of S’tiri as their Captain. It was not only the way of their culture; challenge those that appear weak with power, but the notion that he was of another world and therefore impure to worship.
S’tiri gazed ominously at a floating terminal to his side. An image of the veil in its serene entirety displayed with vibrant colors. It did something for his mind. Aesthetically calming him to the spine. “Set a course for the Arabis Traverse,” S’tiri said in a gloomy demand.
The helmsman didn’t respond, but the ship could be felt vibrating into a smooth jump to warp. S’tiri scanned the small room in which he resided. Essential units and terminals were nowhere in sight. It was a retrofitted ship; one from an unknown civilization. The solitude was cumbersome to the ill-minded. However, S’tiri reveled in the idea of being kept to his thoughts. Though he hadn’t notice that not too long ago they were different than the ones he had now. He couldn’t recollect any of his past. It confused him for a solid moment. He tried to piece together mental pictures of those he knew once before, no one came to mind. Even more menacing was the thought that none of their names came to mind either. Only two names could recollected; Thalus was one of them.
The Cas La’ule dropped out of warp over a thickened cloud. The extent of it well surpassed the boundaries of the planet. A gaseous aura that encompassed the planet known as Seheron. The outlaw planet. The interstellar black market interconnected between multiple worlds that spanned through the known galaxy; Seheron being one of them.
“Meet me in the prayer chamber,” said S’tiri through the com. The crew members remained silent. The corridors circled and wrapped around main bowel. It was the prayer chamber; the wide angled room with black mats and one large mat with pyramid shaped pillars at the end of each point.
The dim lights brightened up as the Draul crew members entered the chamber. All of them approaching in a nocuous manner. S’tiri let down his hood and unsheathed a cloak blade that unfolded into the length of his arm. The crew of seven charged at him in unison. The species weren’t known for carrying melee weapons and instead relied on brute force; that which they had plenty of. It did them no good. S’tiri struck the first member through the chest and swung the blade out slashing at two others; they fell to their knees. Four others gripped S’tiri’s arms and attempted to disarm him. He head-butted one of them; releasing his arm. S’tiri switched the blade into his free arm stabbing the other holding him and kicking back the other two. In a last effort the two lunged at him. S’tiri threw the blade staggeringly accurate at the crew member on the right. He fell instantly. The other stopped, easing closer at a slower pace. He grabbed the blade from the abdomen of the fallen crew member. He charged with the blade and swiped at S’tiri; it made a gash on his arm. S’tiri threw a combination at the Draul and jumped on him. After a series of hits, the crew member released the blade. S’tiri grabbed it and plunged it into his chest.
It was done. The crew was taken care of. Although it was clear that some sort of mutiny had brewed in regards to S’tiri’s presence. He didn’t understand why it was, or why he had to kill them. It was more reactionary than anything else. Either way it was settled.
Tending to his wound, S’tiri retreated back to his observation room. A long-range hail to the Cas Endre. A familiar face answered. Hortogon stood in the confines of the bridge.
“S’tiri,” Hortogon said. “I expected a longer wait before hearing from you.”
S’tiri’s hood casted a shadow against his face, only his lavender eyes could be seen. “I have disposed of the crew you assigned me,” he said. He showed casual callousness as he said it. “I’m in orbit above the Criminal’s Haven.”
“What do you suspect you’ll find on Seheron?” Hortogon was all too familiar with the planets of the quadrants being the navigator that he was; he knew why he was there and what his intentions were. In his scaly expression, S’tiri could see that somehow it was expected that the young Draul may have attempted mutiny. It wouldn’t matter the outcome. Either S’tiri died, or he killed them and continued on his mission. Draul didn’t have any particular comradery. Not anything that stuck out. That may have explained Hortogon’s disregard for the loss of them.
“A crew I don’t have to look over my shoulder with,” S’tiri said. Hortogon grunted at the sly comment and with a wave the hail was ended.
It was a bold move to journey to such a place alone. S’tiri felt capable among the thievery and debauchery. His new mindset relaxed around those whom lived their lives wretchedly. Seheron was the worst of the connected black-market planets. A baffling cityscape that stretched as far as the eye could see.
He landed the Cas La’ule on a ragged dock port that connected to a street corridor. It hung off of a building mezzanine that lifted into the clouds. Sky speeders past by at jet speeds. Garbage scows and unmarked cargo ruts blazed paths through the undesignated lanes.
A dark robe and hood hid S’tiri’s brand and facial features. He arrived at the heart of Mariahka Court; where merc affiliated cantinas and illegal - or on this planet - legal arms dealers set up shop. He ambled past the kiosks. Questionable glances from the clerks followed him where he went. Odd beings that were so foreign to the eye, even if he had seen them before he couldn’t remember. That was the most unusual.
At the corner of the court, was a glassy, shiny cantina. It was by Seheron standards, fancy. It was called Ju’ls Palace. The patron’s looked all able-bodied; not one of them unarmed. None of them wearing matching affiliations. It couldn’t have been an unclaimed bar. S’tiri sought to probe for his necessities. He sat at a table that was opposite of the door he had entered through. He scanned for the person to talk to. Who would be the merc dealer? It took him a solid, counted hour to find her. She was playing an intricate game of Eclipse. A backwater holocard game in which every incorrect guessed card, puts a player down until 5, where they lose something of value. It was a game for hooligans who never had much until they managed to steal it from someone else. S’tiri paid it no mind but approached the hard-looking Gaultian. She hissed at him with beady eyes and slipped her large hand cannon into place on her side pocket. “What do you want offworlder?” she said with a hiss at the end of each word. Gualtians were relatively known. Not a part of any coalition or republic. It was no surprise to see one in the land of lawlessness.
“I don’t mean to disrupt your game, I am looking for hired guns,” S’tiri responded.
“Ah, but you already have disrupted, so you must’ve meant to.” She said, walking away from the table she had been playing at; leaving bulky, equally beady eyed brutes behind her. “None the matter, I have what you want if you have what I want.”
S’tiri was carrying a chit full of Moranthian credits. They were as good as the makeshift credit chits so many of the smugglers and pocket snatchers had made a living off of. Besides, the next closest empire was roughly sixteen parsecs away. Possibly further. That was the Lanx. Though not unknown, the republic it was had a clear hold on its system. And the space outside inadvertently became a buffer zone for those who weren’t allies. S’tiri could remember that much about them. He pulled it out and showed it to her. She directed him to a back room of the cantina, where bosses relax. He had the thought that she was more than she appeared to be.
“How many?” she said, taking a seat at an oblique table it raddled even though it didn’t touch the ground.
“I need a fighter and a pilot, who can follow orders, and are good with collecting information.”
“You mean torture.” She shook her wobbly head and hissed again. “Very shady request offworlder, but you do have coin. Meet me at Log’s Applications on the far side of Eyre Marketplace. I will get you your crew. Wouldn’t want you wasting that precious coin of yours.” S’tiri nodded and wasted no time leaving. He exited back the way he came.
∆∆∆
Eyre Marketplace was as crowded just as the skies above were, maybe more so. S’tiri kept to himself as best he could. He stopped at the rundown sign; Log’s Applications it read in Gaultian. Multi-colored smoke rose from behind a front kiosk. S’tiri walked past it keeping keen eyes so that he would spot the merc dealer. She was there, along with who S’tiri assumed to be the owner.
“Ah glad you found this place with ease,” she said.
S’tiri declined to sit at the table but instead kept his stance closer to the door. The merc dealer threw an glowing orb into his sight. It stopped midair and rotated; holographic images appeared in a specific order. “This is Nilus, Good with heavy weapons. Doesn’t speak much, just kill.” She swiped to the next one. “This is Illa, an excellent pilot.” All of the Dossiers were different, the mercs proved to be a diverse group. S’tiri affirmed that he was satisfied with the options. He paid a sum of the credits to her, plus a finder’s fee merc dealers required.
Aboard the Cas La’ule, the mercenaries paraded on, carrying large cases with them. The group of them passed through the prayer chamber, taking note of the bodies S’tiri left to be disposed of. He had made a point to leave them there; an indication of how he conducted himself against enemies.
One of the mercs had to be a combat operations specialist. He was the thin one, Garrek was
his name. A slimy stick of a being with darkly tinted goggles permanently stuck on his face. An unrecognizable species. He motioned into the flight area; an unsuspecting chamber with monitors that wrapped around the walls.
Each of them got familiar with each other in the prayer chamber. Chatting and sharing stories of jobs they took that went sour. S’tiri just stood and listened for a moment. Illa, the muscular, horned shrew spouted off about her number of kills. Considering she was a pilot, she would make a good addition. Although her skills may have rivaled S’tiri’s, if he made the comparison. He stood calmly aside one of the pillars.
“As you all must know,” S’tiri started. “I’ve paid a great deal of money to have you aboard my ship”
“Yeah, what exactly is the job?” Nilus said. He shifted is eyes among them. His gargling alien dialect was understandable but carried a thick bass to it.
“You do not need to know the specifics,” replied S’tiri. He clinched his hands together gracefully. Something in his demeanor was much different. He was calmer. He thought nothing of his newly found disposition; it accompanied the thoughts of a particular name. Xefacus. It repeated over and over in his head.
“We need to know,” said Illa. “We put our lives on the line for the money. We fight for the cause. And you strike me as creepy.” It was a fair exchange, one that bothered S’tiri less as he thought of what information to tell them. Illa was undoubtedly the most intelligent of them. Her file explicit in nature of piloting and black operations she had once done for her former government. Before Praxia was annexed by the Moranthian Empire. Praxians who were warriors left, distraught about the new-found overlords.