Galactic Frontiers: A Collection of Space Opera and Military Science Fiction Stories

by Jay Allan

  “Yes, Ferek.”

  “Get ready to roll. And we have a guest.”

  “A guest?” she asks. “My accommodations remain for one person only.”

  “Oh, knock it off. You know two people will work just fine. Be ready.” I tap off the comm.

  “Ferek?”

  I look up to find Miranda with Ariel behind her, its limb extended. Instead of a pincher hand, it has formed into a blaster. I touch the weapon on my hip, but hold back from drawing it.

  No sudden moves.

  Miranda darts her eyes and races toward me as the bay door slurps open. A stern-faced Proden, still wearing his white robe but looking years younger and much spryer, enters, also with a pulse gun in hand at his side.

  I grab for Miranda and push her behind me, keeping my hand on my weapon. “Look Proden, we can work this out,” I reason. “Miranda’s tired of living on the Sycorax, and I can take her with me. She wants to come. She’s almost an adult.”

  Sweat drips down the side of my face, but I resist the urge to wipe it away.

  Proden stops a few feet in from the opening. “That’s not something I can allow, and my guess is that silly girl has told you everything.”

  “Whoa, whoa, I don’t know nothin’,” I lie, raising my hands. “All I know is Miranda doesn’t want to be here anymore.”

  “You know too much.”

  With the speed of a gunslinger, Proden flicks up his weapon.

  But I’m faster.

  Blaster in hand, I depress the trigger and shoot. The beam lights up the room as a white light explodes throughout the bay. My head goes light and my knees buckle, but somehow I stay upright.

  When the smoke clears, the bay has transformed into a small, dark room no bigger than the inside of the Tempest. Proden is gone. Chattering sounds from behind me and I spin to locate Miranda, but instead find something entirely different.

  A creature no less than seven feet tall with olive green skin and four stick-like limbs stands in front of me.

  “Where’s Miranda?” I shout as it stares back at me with buggy, black eyes, located on each side of its head. “What did you do with her?”

  Slower than normal, I raise my blaster to shoot, but the alien somehow wrenches the weapon from my hand by flicking one of its four limbs through the air. The metal clacks to the ground and slides across the room. I make to dive for it, but my feet won’t move.

  My mind spins, trying to make sense of what’s happening. As if I’m changing entertainment channels on the ship’s viewing screen, visions of Miranda flip through my consciousness. A kiss. Our bodies locked. That magnificent face. A fortune and kingdom lost.

  A loud smacking breaks me from my trance. The alien claps with two of its four hands, if that’s what one might call the thin, three fingered, claw-like appendages jutting from the ends of its stick arms.

  Miranda’s sweet voice perplexingly emits from the creature’s insect-like mouth. “That was lovely.”

  “Lovely?” I scoff, confused and still searching the space for Miranda. “What was lovely?”

  “Why, the show, of course.” It waves a hand again and in an instant Miranda returns, wearing the same pink dress from my dream, taking the alien’s place.

  “I... I don’t understand.” Still frozen, I work to move my hands, with no success.

  “Well, of course you don’t.” A knowing look crosses her face and she stalks toward me. Slowly, she stretches up and plants a gentle, lingering kiss on my lips. With the kiss, my body floods with electricity and the desire to hold her. Marry her. Be with her forever.

  She releases and the desire dies.

  “You tricked me,” I spit at her, my body releasing from its frozen state, but for some reason, I don’t try to run.

  She touches her hand to my face, stroking my cheek. “I’m so sorry about that. You are a sweet boy. Greedy, but sweet.” She tisks. “But you see, my race, the Caliban, are solitary creatures. Ariel is my only companion, and you know how dull AI can be some days. It is unlikely I will meet with any of my kind more than once in a lifetime and then only to breed, lay my eggs, and die shortly after.”

  Miranda paces the floor, hands on hips. “I have been out here for so long. One hundred and twenty-five years is a great amount of time to fill when trying to amuse one’s self. To pass the time, I choose to seek out some entertainment. I bring various species on board by disabling their ships, probe their minds, and discover how each experiences love.”

  She holds my stare, eyes shining. “I found you the most exciting. Human love and attachment is very different than so many of the races which have crossed my path. I find it fascinating how quickly you are to bond with someone you have recently met and become attracted to. How you trust them. Your willingness to protect a near stranger.”

  “What about Proden? Doesn’t he keep you company?”

  “Proden is a figment of my imagination, one which I shared with you to make our daring escape more interesting. I often construct an illusion of a friend for myself, but in the end...” She yawns and raises her hand to her mouth. “It is as if I am speaking with myself.”

  The urge to run overtakes me once more as I bolt for my weapon and smack right into the AI. I whip around to Miranda and slap at my comm.

  “Tempest!” I yell, heart hammering in my chest. I have no idea what my ship’s computer can do for me now, but it’s the only chance I’ve got.

  “Yes, Ferek?” she says through the comm.

  “Uh—”

  My body freezes once again, as does my mouth.

  “Madam?” Ariel locks his two pincher hands onto my upper arms. “I believe your meal is ready.”

  My eyes jerk to attention at that.

  Meal?

  Miranda tips her head and tisks. “Yes, Arial. A little longer to play with it would have been pleasing.” She licks her lips, eyeing me up and down. “But, alas, I am famished and must eat my dinner.”

  About the Author, Jenetta Penner

  Jenetta is a lifetime lover of Sci-Fi (thx Dad). She had a weird LONG stint (declaring HOW long would give away too many age secrets... and eh hem... a girl never tells) where she read almost no books for pleasure (the horror!). Near the end of 2014 she picked up Hunger Games, and was off like a rocket. That next year she read about 40 YA books (mostly Sci-Fi/Dystopian) and a couple months into it got the idea to write a book (with no prior experience or even desire) about children who were not allowed to be raised by their biological parents. You see, she is an adoptive mama of two lovely daughters from foster care. That story grew into what her debut novel, Configured, is today. Start the Configured Trilogy or head to Jenetta’s Amazon page to find out about more releases.

  Find Jenetta online: Facebook | Twitter | Amazon | Instagram | Website

  Books by Jenetta Penner

  The Configured Trilogy

  Planetstrider

  By Chris Fox

  Chapter 1- Ambush

  T’kon perched, as still as a mountain, atop the rusting arch. Wind swirled around him, heavily laden with flecks of orange. Rust from the long abandoned spires stabbed into the sky around him.

  This city had died centuries ago but, like any corpse, it was infested with vermin.

  His vantage allowed him to observe the thin trickle of traffic below: ka’tok, the lowest caste of Ganog society. There were a dozen races, their only commonality the threadbare clothing and makeshift tools. There were few vehicles, only the occasional battered transport for those that could afford passage. Most walked, or pulled carts cobbled together from abandoned buildings.

  Not a single passerby looked up, or they might have seen him huddling in the shadows provided by the skeletal spire behind him.

  He’d been here for nearly three hours, patient and focused. Within minutes he’d been coated in a thin layer of granular rust. Now that rust was a half-finger thick, coating his environmental armor.

  He wiped his goggles again, peering up the narrow thoroughfare. Finally, his q
uarry had arrived.

  T’kon tapped the button on the side of his helmet, ending lower-power mode. Holographic metrics overlaid his vision, cataloguing passersby. The helmet’s primitive assessment matrix identified only one threat: a tall, proud Ganog warrior striding down the rubble-strewn street.

  The ka’tok scurried from his path, the scent of their terror thick and cloying. This seemed to please the warrior, who lunged at a juvenile Whalorian--a biped from an aquatic world--who had strayed just a bit too close. The Whalorian began bleating frantically, its pipes emitting high-pitched squeals as it scurried away. The warrior laughed.

  T’kon studied the man’s blood-red armor. His helmet’s diagnostics tagged the material as a deresium alloy--priceless, the kind of armor passed from war leader to war leader. The crimson bore many sigils, each giving a piece of the warrior’s family history.

  But it was the weapon strapped to the warrior’s back that really drew T’kon’s eye. The vibro-axe was ancient, twenty centuries old if it was a day. Such weapons were rare, and costly to maintain. Yet they were worth the effort. If the warrior were allowed to shift, a single blow would silence T’kon’s song forever.

  So T’kon would never let that blow fall. He dropped silently from the arch, bracing his stiletto against his armored boot as he fell. It too was forged from deresium, tapering to a tip a mere micron across. The weapon bit deep into the warrior’s shoulder, T’kon’s weight forcing it through the armor. He depressed a button on the hilt of the stiletto, sending his last jet of neurotoxin into the wound.

  The effect was immediate, and the warrior slumped soundlessly to the ground. T’kon knelt, hoisting the warrior’s considerable weight onto his shoulder, and hurried down the neighboring alley, ignoring the glances from the terrified ka’tok. They were unlikely to interfere, but it was best to work quickly. He dropped the paralyzed warrior against the alley’s far wall, in a puddle of of fermenting bile leaking from a nearby trash receptacle. The warrior struggled to regain his footing, but T’kon shattered his kneecap with a well-placed kick.

  “Your armor is impressive,” he snarled, “but affords little defense against kinetic energy applied in the correct proportion.”

  He delivered a second kick, knocking the warrior’s helmet away. Unlike T’kon’s armor, this wasn’t environmentally sealed.

  “You rely too much on size and strength, on having an overwhelming advantage over your foe. The neurotoxin will keep you from shifting, and remove that advantage. I’d advise you not to try, by the way. The pain is reputed to be...unrivaled.”

  The warrior tensed. A swift kick from T’kon spilled him back into the dark puddle, but he did not cry out. A true warrior, then. That would make what came next more difficult, but T’kon was prepared. He took a step back, holstering his stiletto in his boot sheath. The warrior’s fur slowly darkened from red to black, signaling his growing rage.

  “If you try to stand, I will be forced to incapacitate you. It will be both painful and pointless.” T’kon withdrew his pistol, a battered slug thrower. The lovingly repaired weapon wasn’t the most lethal in the Imperium, but it had served faithfully since his father’s father had forged it two centuries past.

  Besides, the ammunition was easily scavenged, and T’kon had to husband his limited resources.

  “What you do you want, honorless cur?” the warrior spat. His fur darkened further, and his upper nostrils flared. “Who sent you? Was it Krekon? Why? What does he hope to gain?”

  “Your curiosity is understandable, but my time is limited.” T’kon knelt next to the warrior, keeping the slug thrower aimed at his face. “If you cooperate, then I will honor your body. If you do not--if you resist--I will devour your still-beating heart. I will mark you as og’ok, for any passerby to devour. The Nameless Ones will have your soul.”

  “No,” the warrior whispered. His fur lightened to a wan yellow. “Surely even you have more honor than that. You would not do such a thing. You know what they would do to my offspring.”

  “There is a hatch on the rear of the planetstrider Vkat, on the base of the control unit where it sits upon the creature’s back. I need the passcode for that door, and I need to know more about the defenses around the heart of the mound. Give this to me, and I will honor your body. Your children will be safe.” T’kon didn’t bother repeating his threat. It was already doing its work, and in a few moments he knew the warrior would make the only choice allowed to him.

  “You will say the rites?” The warrior’s tone was heavy was resignation.

  T’kon reached up to unlatch his helmet, removing it so the warrior could see his face. “I will speak them well and true.”

  “You are Ganog.” The warrior’s eyes widened, then narrowed suddenly. “What do you seek at the mound? Why do you wish to access the planetstrider?”

  “I am of the Azi clan.” T’kon smiled grimly at the other’s reaction. “Ah, yes. I see you’ve heard what befell us in the Yrata system--what your clan leader did to us.” His fur settled into a deep red. “I am interested in vengeance, but not against you. You have a choice remaining, a way to affect the world one last time. Will your line continue after your death? Or will it end with your prideful need to protect another man’s secret?”

  The warrior’s fur darkened a half-shade, to a ruddy brown. “Very well. By my honor, I will give you the passcode, if you swear by yours to perform the rites. But before our bargain is struck, hear this: you are no true Ganog, no true warrior. Azi are nothing but mongrels.”

  “I will speak your rites well and true.” T’kon placed his hand over his heart, nodding slowly. He ignored the warrior’s rancor. The man knew death had found him; of course he would spit in death’s eye. “Give me your name.”

  “Very well. I am Uval of the Vkash clan, and I serve clan leader Takkar, even in death. Speak true, Azi. Send me to the afterlife with honor.”

  Chapter 2- Rites

  T’kon darted another glance up the alleyway, but the flash of movement was merely another passerby. The saurian hurried by, clutching orange-stained robes closely about her. No one was interested in what was happening in the shadows; these people had grown adept at surviving, and had learned that asking questions often ended in a swift death. The Imperium had taught them that over a thousand generations, each more brutal than the last.

  T’kon turned back to the warrior’s body, which he’d arranged as funerary custom dictated. The corpse’s hands were clasped over the heart, his eyes open and staring at the sky. T’kon didn’t have the proper oils, nor could he mummify it for the prescribed seven days, but he’d done his best with what he had at hand.

  He used his stiletto to carve the Sigil of Nupaah into the bony ridge above the warrior’s eyes.

  “Nameless Ones, avert your gaze from one who was worthy, one who fought with honor and served unto death. Allow warrior Uval, of the Vkash clan, to escape your terrible wrath. Ignore any transgressions he may have committed. Allow him to escape into oblivion.” T’kon’s tone brimmed with reverence as he continued to carve sigils along Uval’s brow. “Uval was worthy, and his body is sacred.”

  He withdrew a small black bottle from his pocket, sprinkling droplets up and down the corpse. He did it quickly, but made sure to cover it evenly, then withdrew a firemaker from his pocket and lit the corpse ablaze. Hot, oily smoke filled the alleyway as the corpse was consumed by thousand-degree flames.

  The stench was terrible, even after T’kon’s lower nostrils scrunched reflexively shut.

  “Rest well, Uval.” T’kon turned on his heel, picking up the skarskin pack he’d dropped when he engaged his opponent. He slid the straps over his shoulders, and stepped back onto the thoroughfare.

  No one paid him any mind as he joined the few travelers who’d not yet made it home. Night would soon fall, and the nights here were bitterly cold for those lacking power. T’kon’s armor would protect him, but maintaining a survivable temperature further depleted his starlight generator. He’d been trickle-
charging where he could, but this world was blanketed with clouds. If he did not find a more reliable supply of power, he’d run out in a few more days.

  He made his way north, between what had likely been the heart of this once-prosperous city. The rusting hulks had been picked clean of everything useful, and now served as shelter for the throngs too poor to afford a way off-world.

  No one came to this world. Ganog 7 had no resources, no strategic value. It lay at the very edge of Vkash clan space, and provided passage to nowhere of importance. It was a footnote, marking the Imperium’s boundary in this sector of space.

  Yet clan leader Takkar had brought not only his mighty fleet, but all three of his planetstriders. It made no sense. Why send so many resources to a single world? What did he hope to gain?

  That was, in part at least, why T’kon had come to this world: he needed to find out why the fleet was here, and get that information back to his clan.

  That information was secondary to his true purpose, though. All three planetstriders were here, and that meant security had to be divided between them. Security would be stretched thin, and that left the planetstriders vulnerable.

  The road narrowed as it reached the western market. Traffic thickened as T’kon approached, until he was surrounded by hundreds of aliens from half a dozen worlds. Most were whalorians, ill-suited to dry planets like this one. Their suits maintained a thin layer of water around them, but replacing one was damnably expensive.

  There were a few saurians, lean and hungry-eyed as they went about their business. Those he watched carefully, especially the red-scaled ones. They belonged to Takkar, and were probably here buying opa root, or seeking females of their species--or any species. Saurians weren’t picky.

  T’kon’s path carried him in a rough spiral, closer and closer to the largest of the mounds where Vkat lay. The mound was a truly impressive structure, especially from this vantage. Drifting over it in a dreadnought had never filled T’kon with the sense of its majesty.