ENTER THE SANDMEN
Copyright © 2016, 2017 William Schlichter
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by Indigo
an imprint of BHC Press
Library of Congress Control Number:
2016908321
Print edition ISBN numbers:
ISBN-13: 978-1-946006-93-6
ISBN-10: 1-946006-93-9
also available in hardcover and trade softcover editions
Visit the author at:
www.bhcpress.com
Cover design, interior book design,
and eBook design
by Blue Harvest Creative
www.blueharvestcreative.com
Silver Dragon emblem design by
BHC Illustrator Alli Kappen
No Room In Hell
The Good, The Bad, and The Undead
Book 1
400 Miles to Graceland
Book 2
The Silver Dragon Chronicles
The Dark Side
Book 2
The Fifth Planet
Book 3
Thank you, Katie Dejarnette,
for your invaluable time spent editing my work,
and having to deal with me as a writer.
My visions would not reach the
final stage of fruition without
the team of BHC Press.
Thank you.
Say your prayers, little one; don’t forget,
my son, to include everyone.
Tuck you in; warm within;
keep you free from sin;
till the Sandman he comes;
sleep with one eye open,
gripping your pillow tight.
Exit: light; enter: night; take my hand,
we’re off to never-never land.
Enter Sandman—Metallica
Thirty years after the Battle of the Twin Suns…
DARK BROWN STRANDS of hair fall into Amye’s sight line. Her attempt to blow the strings from her eye fails, and she must take her hands off the rifle to pull the tendrils back into the makeshift ponytail.
The wind blows her hair back across her face.
“Should’ve brought a hair tie.”
The voice echoes in her head until she glances at her doe-eyed sister crouching next to her. Kymberlynn should have never been allowed to accompany her as a backup spotter. The weapon has been designed for a single sniper to operate it, making Kymberlynn’s presence unnecessary.
No amount of training prepares a person to deal with annoying siblings on a military mission. Amye wipes her palms on her pants to dry the sweat beads before she grips the weapon.
“Shorter hair would thin your pudgy face.” Kymberlynn munches down on a sugar-coated food bar.
Amye would just as soon swing the rifle around and shoot her sister in the stomach, but she considers her choice and reminds Kymberlynn, “He likes long hair on his women.”
“So you think. You’ve never seen him with a woman since you met him. He does nothing but train and learn how to function in our world. The one time—the one moment—when he might have actually made a pass at you, you stormed from the room so fast he had no chance to check out your ass.”
Amye peers through the telescopic sight, enhancing her vision across the canyon.
The dry riverbed was once home to water powerful enough to cut a trench over two miles wide and three miles deep. Now plants clump together in the arid region, clinging to what life they hoard from leeching miniscule moisture from the air. The image in the scope tracks across the riverbed. When it crosses flora it chirps, surrounding the image in blue light and prints out a technical readout of the life form. Amye slides the scope before the information registers. She cares nothing for plants. A lizard, so thin and smashed flat it could be mistaken for a rock, scampers toward a plant. The scope registers the red heat-filled image of the creature burrowing into the chloroplast tissue and drinking water. Above the lizard, the cold metal of a shuttle craft draws her attention. The Tri-Star Federation logo shines on the side of the vehicle. Amye searches the area for the owners.
“There are two north of the craft!” Kymberlynn exclaims.
Amye doesn’t need this. She has to concentrate. No matter how advanced the calculating computer built into the rifle is, she must still operate the weapon manually. It takes all of her mental prowess to keep focused on the task, despite Kymberlynn’s attempts to intercede. Not an unattainable shot for her to make, but its level of difficulty ranks just under impossible.
Amye checks the temperature. She adjusts the scope, allowing for the heavier gravity on this planet. She does the math in her head, but this rifle’s design removes the necessity for turning any green grunt into an expert marksman. The Commander—her captain—wants an impressive demonstration, and she performs distance shots with precise proficiency.
Kymberlynn’s at best a distraction, at worst the bane of any sister’s existence. Perfect in every way, and no matter what she tries, she completes it flawlessly on the first attempt. Amye wishes she would have stayed on Tartarus instead of joining the same crew as her blood. Her uneventful life would be uncomplicated, and Kymberlynn would have the dream piloting job she’s always felt Amye prevented her from getting.
“Are you sure you’ll hit them from here? It’s almost a three-mile distance across, with heavy cross-current winds. You can’t even keep the hair from your eyes with this wind.”
“Your encouragement’s always welcome, Sis.” Amye says Sis as a substitute for bloated sea hag.
“Unlike me, you have little value to the crew. I’m an expert-rated pilot, and you’ve nothing to offer the team our captain’s building. He wants a crew of the best, and you turned him away from what you’re best at.”
“Enjoying coupling with males isn’t a skill.” Amye adjusts the scope to find the shuttle’s owners. “Pretending to enjoy it when a man flounders at it takes talent.” Amye sticks a beef stick in her mouth, lodging the meat between her cheek and gum, letting the saliva create juice.
“You certainly had plenty of practice at it,” Kymberlynn scoffs.
Amye adjusts the telescopic sight until the silhouette of a biped humanoid moves from a blurry gray mass to the sharpened red-heat image of a Mokarran. Even from miles away, the bulky frame of such a powerful creature causes fear, but Amye suppresses any anxiety from her sister.
The seven-foot creature has the upper torso of a hammerhead shark with four yellow eyes and seven tentacles dangling before its twin rows of razor-sharp teeth. A bony dorsal fin on the top of the head juts like a spear, adding to the creature’s fearful height. Gill slits involuntarily move on its neck. The metallic gray skin ripples with muscles designed to propel it through dense water. The meat-eating species dominates most of the Tri-Star Federation through the oppressive fear they instill in lesser humanoids. She’s thankful she doesn’t have to face it up close.
Amye scans a second alien. Both are shirtless due to the swim fins dotting their skin. They carry heavy rifles most species would build for use on transport vehicles due to their intense recoil.
“He’s watching you.”
Amye spits, refusing to hide her distaste for Kymberlynn’s playground taunts. She scowls at her sister. You have to prove yourself useful echoe
s in Amye’s head. “It’s not a test.”
“Sure it is. Everyone on the Dragon is the best in their respective fields. You bring nothing to the crew but a sister with famous piloting skills.”
Amye wants to send Kymberlynn back to the ship. She is wishing she could send her back to whatever hell spawned her when a third Mokarran fills the scope completing the shuttle crew. Her brain estimates the trajectory angle.
“You’ll never make the shot,” Kymberlynn whispers in her ear.
“Shut up, Kymberlynn,” Amye says, snapping the hunk of beef in her mouth in two. She swallows the juice in a huff, losing all the calming effects the protein was to provide her.
“I’m just saying you’re still not calculating for the massive wind trajectory gusts across this canyon. It’s over two and a half miles to your target.”
“I know how to adjust for wind.” Amye presses the toe of her boot hard against a rock to steady herself. She pulls the rifle butt tight into her shoulder. “And it’s only two point two miles. Shouldn’t someone who has to land aircraft be a better judge of distance?”
“You miss this shot and he won’t keep you around.”
“You’re disrupting my concentration, Sis. Now shut the smerth up.” Amye follows the alien with the scope. She sucks in all the breath her lungs hold.
Her sister’s correct. She must make this shot.
The image inside the scope zooms closer to the monster’s face. Amye loads the cartridge of rocket shells into the gun and racks a round into the chamber.
“Don’t miss,” Kymberlynn whispers in her ear.
Amye swats at her sister like a fly, but she jumps back out of reach. She doesn’t need the constant reminder of the necessity of proving herself to her boss, but expecting her to deal with the toughest alien species next to the Tibbar and her sister’s taunting could be the most difficult task in the known galaxy. Of course, he had no idea her sister would bug her while she attempts this shot.
“You should have stayed on the ship,” Amye snaps, making one final mental calculation before placing her finger on the trigger.
“Being the world-class pilot I am, I should be at the helm, but I’d rather watch you miss.”
Amye pushes Kymberlynn from her thoughts. She centers the crosshairs on the target’s center mass then drops it down to the alien’s belt line. Amye slows her heart rate. She reaches a level of calm, blocking out even her sister. Amye exhales at the same moment, depressing the trigger with a soft squeeze.
The Mokarran steps forward.
The bullet, propelled by an injection of rocket fuel to span the distance of the rocky canyon, splatters the chest of the Mokarran over the wall behind it. It collapses to its knees. A milky liquid dribbles from the tentacles as an inky paste drains from its left hand. Without the major internal organs in its chest, the Mokarran slumps dead.
Within a quarter of a second, she jerks the slide and reloads the weapon. A second Mokarran explodes. The milky liquid coats the third alien. Amye loads the rifle again and blows off half its hammerhead-shaped face.
“Great job, Sis. You made the shot,” Kymberlynn congratulates her.
“I had no doubt.” Amye blows the dust and dirt from the smoking chamber.
“Now he has to keep you as part of the crew. He’s put together a team of the best, and there are only, like, four or five Osirians who could have made such a shot, and my sister just happens to be number six.”
Amye pushes herself to her knees, then jumps to her feet. Her black uniform’s covered in the chalky dust of the ground. Amye sneers at Kymberlynn, who of course remains completely impeccable as always with her tiny petite body, not one blonde hair out of place or speck of dust covering her. With the way the wind howls, she should be covered in dirt, but the gods must be protecting her from even the grime.
Amye locks the rifle’s kickstand into place under the barrel before she shoulders the weapon. She marches back to her audience of seven males for the evaluation of her shooting.
She already knows Lieutenant Scott Beers’ opinion won’t count. He believes there’s only one kind of Mokarran—a dead one. Eliminating three will excite him, no matter how impressive her shots were. She knows little of the humanoid Ki-Ton. He once worked for Admiral Maxtin and placed in the crew to assist Reynard with smuggling missions. Her captain would have a stoic stature, but he’s too young to be ominous.
“And too young to have a rank of Commander,” Kymberlynn adds.
“How did you know what I was thinking?”
“I always know what you’re thinking, Little Sis.”
Hard as it is, Amye attempts to ignore her sibling. Three Braeco’n warriors accompany her crewmates. Amye’s never met anyone from this species before. Two of them are young but clearly battle-hardened soldiers. The leader, despite his advanced age, maintains the strength of a warrior. The shorter, weaker alien looks like a G’Kenrts. They are not known for having any fighting ability, so she figures he must serve as some kind of accountant.
The whistling winds prevent her from hearing the transpiring conversation of the males until she gets closer to her captain. She drops her eyes in disappointment. The most remarkable shots she’s ever made and they aren’t speaking of her.
“Commander Reynard, you must compliment Admiral Maxtin on his selection of weapons,” Youshon, the older Braeco’n, says as he peers through binoculars at the dead Mokarran. “With distance weapons we can attack Mokarran installations and remain safe.”
“You do have to have fine marksmen. The rifle won’t shoot itself.” Reynard keeps one hand with a thumb hooked on his gun belt just behind his weapon, ready for a quick draw.
“At least he acknowledged it takes a good shooter,” Kymberlynn taunts. “He’s expert with a pistol, but he’ll never hit a target like you with a rifle. Not to mention, my piloting rating’s twice his.”
Amye holds off on punching her sister before the Braeco’ns. They value barbaric strength, but not displayed in such a useless fashion. She wonders, if she did, whether the gods would even let her bloody her sister’s nose and mess up the perfect hair. Amye turns her head so the wind blows her own hair behind her head.
Kymberlynn’s locks stay perfectly in place and bouncy even in these gale-force winds. It could be because she stands in the windbreak of the petrified coral trees. Some millions of years ago this planet was nothing but ocean, and life teemed on this ridge. When the planet dried up, the thousand-year-old coral reefs dried and became a forest of brittle rock.
The wind seems to have little effect on Lieutenant Scott Beers. Handsome, strong with chiseled features, he destroys the typical image of a knuckle-dragging grease monkey.
Hidden in the coral near the Braeco’n vantage point, Amye finds the rifle crate.
“Don’t you just find him mesmeric?” Kymberlynn’s doe-like eyes widen with desire.
“Actually, no.” Amye opens a metallic rifle case. Two rifles rest inside with a blank spot for the weapon she carries.
“Genetics couldn’t produce a more perfect Osirian with the kind of stamina he brings.” Kymberlynn flushes with her thoughts.
“I don’t want to hear about it. It was bad enough I walked in on the two of you.” Amye removes an aerosol spray oiling the chamber. She wipes out the chemical, making the weapon look unfired.
“Then you know for an Osirian he’s huge.”
“Something so massive isn’t desirable. I want girth. Enough to be comfortable. Not shred me.” Amye secures the case.
“You’ve tried enough men to know what makes you comfortable,” Kymberlynn quips.
“What’s next, we try to yank out each other’s hair? Enjoying sex doesn’t make me a whore.” Amye changes the topic before her sister drives her to pound her. “Why are the Mokarran on this rock? This planet has no strategic value.”
“People who resist the Tri-Star Federation hide here. Enough reason for the Mokarran.” She closes the case and secures the hasps. She prepares herself to play
the dutiful subservient female.
Amye presents the rifle in a bow to Youshon. Kymberlynn curtseys in respect behind her. Amye gives her the stink eye. She twists her face down away from Youshon’s scrutiny, glancing for her captain’s approval.
He’s such a young man. She’s not old. There’s only a year’s difference in their biological age. His birth age shouldn’t count since he spent a thousand years in cytogenetic sleep. Kymberlynn’s correct. He’s too young and inexperienced to be the commander of a special operations unit.
Youshon fondles the rifle, inspecting mechanical parts. Amye takes her place at her captain’s side, but slightly behind him. Braeco’n warriors resign females in their own culture to household duties and believe women have no place on the battlefield. Women aren’t confined to mere domestic chores, but fighting brings status to the men. Amye takes another step back so her captain doesn’t lose face. If anything, she and Kymberlynn should represent his ability as a warrior. To the Braeco’n, the greater the warrior, the more mates he’s allowed to procure. This way the next generation will be one of even greater warriors. In the Braeco’n convention, for someone so young to have two females and command a ship must mean he has achieved greatness among his fellow warriors.
“He’ll not understand the respect you offer.” Kymberlynn speaks low enough for only Amye to hear. “Without Australia to brief him, he has no idea about the customs of any of these non-Osirian species we encounter.”
Amye defends him. “Not everyone’s had the IMC courses in cross-cultural species customs. Some much-needed training did you a universe of good. Even with extra preparation, we were going to be stuck on Tartarus—forever.”
“Being stuck on a frozen ice ball was your prerogative, Little Sis. You’re the one who flunked. I was on the fast track to advanced piloting school,” Kymberlynn reminds her. “IMC fleet captain. One of the youngest.”
Enter the Sandmen Page 1