by Jay Allan
It towered in the air, three times taller than the tallest of the spires. The surface was an uneven brown-orange, the stone and metal coated by streamers of rust pulled from the spires by the wind.
The mound contained Vkat, the planetstrider that had delivered the death blow to the Azi clan’s power on Yrata. It was the oldest and most powerful of Takkar’s striders, one of the very oldest in the entire Imperium.
Millions of tons of rock and metal had been fused over each planetstrider, obscuring them from planetary scans. The mound also provided rudimentary protection, and could absorb the full fury of a dreadnought’s planetary barrage for several seconds. That was almost always enough time for a strider to fire back, and more than one fleet leader had learned that being in orbit provided no protection from the mighty weapons.
T’kon completed his last rotation, winding past the very base of the mound. He kept his head down and his cloak pulled up to shield his face. The guards would see nothing more than a tired laborslave, taking the shortest route back to his hovel. He shuffled along as if in no particular hurry, conscious of the guards as he passed another squad.
The red-scaled saurians were inattentive, laughing raucously at a joke told in their harsh tongue. Four per outpost, six outposts in total. Twenty-four gate guards meant that the group was small enough that everyone would know everyone else by sight. Impersonating a guard was unlikely to succeed.
That left stealth or violence, either of which he could manage easily enough--for getting in, at least. Getting out would be another matter, one that would require several items he didn’t possess.
Fortunately, every planet like this one had a thriving market. All he needed to do was find someone willing to sell him what he needed.
Chapter 3- Market
T’kon paused next to the ruined building, using its blasted-out shell as cover while he studied the market. He counted nearly three dozen stalls, ranging from repurposed transports to clusters of multicolored tents.
Most of the activity was centered around an uneven stage. A Ganog in scarlet armor dragged four blue-scaled saurians--three females and a male--onto it as the crowd pressed eagerly forward. The low buzz of conversation grew louder.
The Ganog roared out at the crowd. “Saurians are the finest laborslaves in the Imperium; all know this. I present my finest breeding clutch. With these, you could have your own army in just a few short years.”
T’kon took the opportunity to join the flow of traffic. No one paid him any mind--exactly as he liked it. While his armor disguised his heritage, it couldn’t hide his height, so it was best that he be about his business quickly and quietly. He scanned the market again, surveying the stalls. Some were open, with customers browsing through bins of scavenged junk. A few were more private, and it was those he sought.
He shifted his course slightly, angling toward an array of bright blue-and-green tents. They wavered in the breeze, not quite managing to resemble an ocean, as their creator had clearly intended. It was common Whalorian material, cheap to construct and fast to disassemble if you were fleeing a raid.
Such raids were common out here, along the fringe. Ka’tok were always ready to scurry back into the shadows, if they wanted to survive the Imperium’s boot.
T’kon ducked through the flap into the relative coolness of the dim interior. Rows of trays, each brimming with junk, sat atop misshapen tables. Many of the items were rusting; some were raw scrap. Other trays were filled with scavenged starship parts.
There was even an antiquated missile platform in one corner, though T’kon doubted it was functional.
A Whalorian lurked behind the tables, peering up at him through goggles perched on a long, bumpy head. She rose no higher than T’kon’s waist, but had roughly the same body mass as he. She wore a standard Whalorian water suit, and the goggles made her large eyes appear even larger.
“Welcome, welcome. You here to trade?” Her voice was high and piping; whalorians had evolved underwater, and their speech was very difficult to understand in a standard atmosphere. “You tall one. Very tall.” She bobbed her long, spotted head, her grin exposing worn baleen where most species had teeth.
“Yes, I’m here to trade,” T’kon allowed. He’d left his helmet on, and didn’t plan on removing it. She would remember a Ganog, and whalorians were notorious gossips. “I have some very specific requirements. Let’s start with some opa root. Can you get it?”
“I don’t stock it, but I can obtain it easily enough.” She eyed him curiously, but didn’t ask questions. Hopefully that signified discretion.
“What about ekur guano? And sulphur?” he asked.
“Yes, both are available. Mmm, cheaper than flash powder, if you know how to make your own. You are hand-loading cartridges?” She blinked up at him.
He ignored her question. “Do you have a portable starlight generator?”
“Mmm, that I have over here, I think.” She waddled over to a tray and begun plucking out parts. “Why do you need that much power?”
“My ship was damaged on reentry,” he lied, moving to the tray she was searching. He watched as she hunted through parts.
“Aha,” she cried, hefting a cube into the air. It was a little larger than his fist, but the iridescent surface was dark. “Hmm, one moment.” She shook the cube, and it glimmered faintly. “Looks like most of the power is used up. I can trickle-charge it, but it will take all night.”
T’kon considered that. The longer he was on-world, the more chance Takkar would find him. The death of Takkar’s warrior wouldn’t go unnoticed. Speed was T’kon’s ally.
But he couldn’t proceed hastily; he needed the proper tools.
“If you can provide for my other needs, I might be willing to wait that long,” T’kon allowed. “Do you have any ferro gel?”
“Mmm, mmm. A power source, and an explosive.” She waddled behind the counter, pausing to face him. “I have ferro gel in the back. Is there anything else you need? A transmitter perhaps?”
T’kon tensed, reaching instinctively for his slug thrower.
“Mmm, don’t be hasty,” the Whalorian piped. She raised her short little arms protectively over her head, scrunching her eyes shut. After a moment, a tentative eye opened. “Not going to kill me? Mmm, good, good. Your business is your own, and I don’t want to know it.”
“Why do you think I’ll need a transmitter?” T’kon kept his tone neutral, slowly easing his hand from his side arm.
“Ferro gel is highly explosive. It will vaporize matter. Mmm, not healthy to be near detonation. Best caused from a safe distance.”
“Yes, I’ll need a transmitter.” T’kon reached into his pack, removing the vibro-axe he’d liberated from Uval. “I’m willing to trade this.”
“Mmm, interesting. Very interesting.” The Whalorian waddled forward eagerly, extending her arms. T’kon handed the weapon across, and she carried it over to a low counter. She reached for a pair of magnification goggles on a wall peg, fitting them awkwardly over the lenses on her suit. “Mmm, fine craftsmanship. This weapon is old. Very old. Came from the forges of Kruuth, judging by this maker’s mark. Mmm, selling this will get me killed, though. This weapon will be sought by its owner.”
“The owner won’t be looking for it--or for anything else. That’s why I’m willing to part with it so cheaply. If you find the right buyer, this could purchase a way off-world.” T’kon hesitated, then decided to take a risk. He reached up slowly, undoing the clasp on his helmet, and removed it, tucking it under his arm.
The Whalorian froze, her eyes going comically wide. Her mouth worked, and short little pipes came from her blowhole. “You are Ganog. Mmm, thought maybe, with that height. Your business is your own, I promise. I won’t talk. There’s no need to silence me.”
“I’m glad to hear that, because I have no wish to silence you. If you can provide what I need, and if I can trust your discretion, then this can be the single most profitable day of your life. If you feel the need to gossip, ho
wever...” T’kon left the threat unfinished.
“Mmm, I will not speak of this.” She ran thick fingers over the blade. “Do you need a place to stay while the starlight generator charges? If you stay here you can keep watch. Then you know I haven’t gone talking to anyone.”
“I think I might like you, Whalorian. What’s your name?”
“Mmm, I am called Aluki.” She gave another one of those grins, exposing her baleen.
“Delight at your meeting, Aluki. I am T’kon of the Azi clan.” T’kon clasped his fist over his heart respectfully.
Aluki blinked as if she recognized the name, then the smile widened.
Chapter 4- Breathing Room
T’kon followed Aluki down a narrow hallway, its blue cloth walls bulging inward from the keening wind. The hallway emptied into the rusted hull of a centuries dead freighter. The floor had been swept recently, and the room was completely empty save for a workbench and stool in one corner.
“Mmm, I rent out this room sometimes, to people I trust,” Aluki explained. She gave another broad smile. “Denok has guano, and probably opa root. I’ve already got the rest of the stuff. Mmm, ten minutes? Maybe less. Denok’s got the stall next to mine.”
“All right,” T’kon allowed. He deposited his pack in the corner next to the workbench. “I’ll trust you not to run, but if you aren’t back in a quarter cycle I will find you.”
“Mmm, I know. I know. Can I tell you a secret, T’kon of the Azi clan?” Aluki blinked her oversized eyes, leaning conspiratorially close. “I think you’re here to get revenge for the slaughter at Yrata. I think you’re going to do something to hurt the clan leader. If you are, then many, many people would speak the rites for your body.”
“Thank you.” T’kon was at a loss. The Azi clan had never been large, and before they’d been broken the heart of their strength was over a thousand light years away. That the ka’tok on backwater worlds knew of the attack attested to the savagery Takkar had used. “Why do you hate the Vkash?”
“Mmm, they took my husband as a laborslave. He is nearly a techsmith, as close as a Whalorian can get. Takkar’s warriors were purchasing goods in the bazaar, and one saw him fixing a starlight generator. They dragged him back to the ship like he was just another one of their packages.” The whalorian’s tone deepened, and her broad face took on a determined cast. “I could do nothing. I have no way to find Halut, but I can get vengeance. Mmm, in a small way, maybe.”
“Vengeance, I can understand. How did you hear about Yrata?”
“The clan leader made sure of it,” Aluki said. She balled her bulky hands into impressive fists. “He broadcast the attack, as it occurred. The entire Imperium saw your people die, cut down by orbital bombardment, then slaughtered by his planetstriders. Mmm, were you in the battle?”
“Yes, I was there.” T’kon sat on the stool next to the workbench. His fur darkened, and he didn’t try to stop it. “Takkar’s brutality is unparalleled. He engaged our forces on the southern continent, with a force three times as large as ours. We thought that meant a ground war, but his men were only there to keep us pinned. The sky rained fire, and people on both sides died. We were wiped out nearly to a man, leaving just a few thousand scattered refugees. Takkar sacrificed an entire army to eliminate us.”
“Mmm, so awful.” Aluki waddled closer, patting him gently on the arm, which was as high as she could reach. “Many people here have a similar story. Wives, husbands, fathers, sons--all of us have lost someone. Mmm, we’re powerless. We cannot fight back, not against the armada. But you can.”
She gave one more broad smile, then waddled out of the room. Her pipes began humming a happy melody, and T’kon couldn’t help but smile. The whalorian’s enthusiasm was infectious. He bent to his pack, withdrawing a small leather bag of spent cartridges, and started picking through them, looking for those that had been warped the least. There were only six usable ones in this bunch, and he lined the shells up along the workbench.
Next he removed a wire brush from his pack, picking up the first shell. He scrubbed at it, removing traces of powder. It took several minutes to repeat the process with all the shells, but he enjoyed the activity. His breathing room, he called it. Some people meditated; he mended his gear, and hand-loaded his ammunition.
T’kon fished a small hammer from his pack, and began tapping dents out of the shells. It was laborious work, but this too he enjoyed. He was lost in the flow of it when he heard shuffling footsteps. He reached for his slug thrower, then relaxed slightly when Aluki reentered the room.
She carried a large tray laden with a variety of objects. Setting it on the corner of the workbench, she paused for a moment to watch him. “I brought the guano and sulfur. Mmm, I’m guessing you already have a reloading kit?”
“Part of one,” T’kon admitted. “I was almost caught at the spaceport, and had to abandon some of my equipment.”
“Mmm, and one of the things you left behind was a molder?” she asked, nodding at his hammer. “Trying to fix warped bullets is very inefficient.”
“It’s better than having no bullets,” T’kon countered, setting down the shell he’d been tapping.
“Try this. Much more efficient.” Aluki picked up a dark brown box from the corner of the tray and handed it to T’kon. “Look inside.”
The box contained a dozen molds, each properly shaped to hold a standard slug. “The molds are nice,” he said, “but I still need a way to melt the bullets.”
“Watch.” Aluki plucked the box from his hand, picked up the bag of shells from the table, and closed the box, twisting the lid until it clicked. She opened a slot on the top, pouring in all the shells, then there was another click as she pressed a small black button on one side. “Mmm, it will take about thirty seconds.” She set the box on the workbench and back away with another of those broad grins.
T’kon waited for the box to stop humming, then opened it. Inside were a dozen perfectly formed bullets, just waiting for primer and powder. “How much do you want for it?”
“Nothing. Mmm, this is part of the deal for the vibro-axe.” She patted his arm again. “I’ll leave you to relax for a while. I imagine you’ve got a busy day tomorrow. Mmm, one that will leave many Vkash dead.”
Chapter 5- Approach
T’kon knelt next to the rusted pipe, slowly filling his canteen. He took his time, to the annoyance of the small crowd of aliens waiting behind him. This was their water supply, located across the rubble-strewn street from the mound’s southern guard post, and coming here was likely how most started their day.
He risked a glance at the guards as he tightened the cap of the canteen. All four saurians lounged just inside the mouth of a tunnel leading into the mound. The only defense was a waist-high fortification shaped from the same metal and stone debris as the rest of the mound. It was easily leapt if needed, and--since the saurians were standing--could also be fired over if necessary.
T’kon ambled away from the pipe, and the next person quickly slipped into his place. He walked away from the guard post until he was out of sight of the mouth of the tunnel. Had the fools stationed even one lookout they’d have seen him creep up to the wall of the mound, but this lot was lazy, and clearly avoiding the sweltering sun.
In their defense, an assault on a mound was unthinkable. It was, so far as T’kon knew, the first time such a thing had been done. Even thinking of it would be considered treason by every clan.
Succeed or fail here, he’d be hunted.
Yet it would be worth the price, if he succeeded.
T’kon paralleled the mound’s towering wall, staying as close as he could. He walked slowly, no one paying him any mind as he approached the shadowed opening. He was close enough to hear laughter and the clink of coins.
They were gambling. Even better.
He paused at the mouth of the tunnel, extending a small mirror from the thumb of his suit. He angled it to provide a view of the guards, studying them all in a single glance, then pulled
back, analyzing what he’d seen.
None of the guards were looking in his direction. Their attention was focused on a mat spread across the ground. On top of the mat were some shohji dice and a pile of golden credits, most of those in front of the guard sitting crosslegged near it. His reptilian face was split into a grin. The opposite expression sat on the faces of the other three guards.
The timing would never be more perfect. T’kon withdrew a heavy sphere from his pocket, rolling it silently up the corridor. Its surface was dark and roughly scored, to prevent it from reflecting light. The guards were unaware as it rolled between the first man’s legs.
T’kon depressed a button on his belt, and the sphere began to dissolve. A thick cloud of dense black smoke billowed up around the guards. He set his atmospheric scrubbers to high, counting to three before darting around the corner. Three of the guards had already slumped to the ground. The last was rising, reaching shakily for his blaster.
T’kon glided forward, knocking it from the guard’s grasp, then slammed his elbow into the guard’s head. The guard fell to the ground, twitching feebly, then the gas completed its work. His eyes closed.
T’kon knelt, carefully holstering the man’s weapon. Then he withdrew a vial from one of his own pockets, sprinkling the brown powder on each of the guards. If they were discovered, their superiors would assume they’d been snorting opa root. The practice was so common that it likely wouldn’t raise an immediate alarm, and they guards would have a tough time explaining that they hadn’t really been snorting it when it was scattered all over their clothing.
Still, every moment was vital. T’kon sprinted up the hallway, vaulting waist-high fortifications every fifty meters. His footsteps sent echoes up the corridor, but that couldn’t be helped. Right now, stealth was less valuable than speed.
He came up short when he found the hallway barred by a thick, durasteel door. It was heavy and crude, with a physical mechanism that had been locked from the other side. There was no easy way to open it from this side.