Enter the Sandmen

by William Schlichter

  “We’re mercenaries first, even if we answer to a secret benefactor.”

  “There are plenty of ways to blend into the merc world without piloting a Mecat,” Amye assures him.

  “It’s the best way to make a name for ourselves.” Reynard marches from the elevator.

  “Not if we get killed first,” Kymberlynn whispers into Amye’s ear.

  “Name a famous Osirian Mecat pilot,” Amye requests of her captain.

  “You know I haven’t been in this future long enough to know popular sports stars.”

  “Five years or five hundred. No one recognizes Osirian warriors. Most aliens don’t even care about us. Even without war, Osirians have a short life span.”

  “So everyone says, but there’re hundreds of planets with millions of us on each.”

  “We never have accepted the confines of population control.” Amye slides through the bridge doors.

  The oval bridge configuration surrounds a series of control stations before a view screen that covers the entire end wall of the bridge. Nearest to the bridge doors sits the main control station with its form-fitting custom captain’s chair. Slightly below are the navigations and communications stations. Environmental, damage control, engineering, and weapons spread out among the four stations below the two. Optimizing configurations allow each control station to operate any of the ship’s functions, but each station’s layout works best for its primary design. Piloting the Dragon from the environmental station requires more skill than using the joystick controller at the helm. Before the view screen a horseshoe-shaped couch rests. The Dragon lacks a true communal area for the crew to gather. The designers of the ship focused on work instead of being social with their crewmates.

  Amye abandons her captain, passing his chair and two more stations to reach her assignment.

  “I’ve never seen a ship without some kind of view port, a window of some kind so you could run over and confirm whatever your sensors are saying you’re about to fly into. Not on the Dragon. Not a single window,” exclaims Kymberlynn.

  “This ship’s full of technology other species haven’t invented yet. The builders must have had a good reason to avoid windows.”

  “It would reduce hull stresses, and a seamless hull prevents so many problems on entering the atmosphere of a planet. Could be why a ship of this size lands on the surface with little issue.”

  “Don’t get too spoiled. You won’t always get to fly on a fancy ship.” Amye glances at the communications officer as he jams to inaudible music.

  “What I don’t get is why you hate him,” Kymberlynn observes.

  “Do I have to have a reason? He just annoys me.” Amye sinks into her chair.

  The spiky-haired strawberry-blond communications officer rocks back and forth in his chair, performing an air guitar solo to the music in his head. He sports the Silver Dragon uniform, only he’s decorated the leather with zinc studs and extra zippers. Under the jacket, but over the jumpsuit, hangs a ratty black Metallica concert T-shirt, Doug’s most prized possession from the Osirian home world. Even with the hole in the side, it is priceless. Besides his funny bottom lip, the cybernetic computer jack embedded in his neck below his left ear creeps Amye out. The device allows him to plug into any computer and speak with it. Osirians’ neural pathways fail to handle the implant. Even non-Osirians who have had it have gone insane. Amye knows Doug’s on the fast track to crazy town, and she doesn’t want to be on board when he snaps.

  “You should be friends,” Kymberlynn points out. “Like you, he’s not in the UCP. Gives him more of a choice in following orders.”

  “He gets no choice besides a clear lack of cognitive skills. He’s a felon and won’t risk pissing in Reynard’s pool since he paid Doug’s parole fees.”

  “Still, no reason not to be nice to him.”

  Amye could count the reasons, but that would lead to a scolding by Australia Wells, the Silver Dragon’s first officer and compulsive rule follower. Not one speck of her uniform doesn’t shine or appear perfectly trimmed. She has the front zipped up and the bibbed flap buttoned with the waist belt secure. Her blonde hair, when loose, reaches the top of her boots, but now it heaps in a regulation bun on the back of her head. The wrinkle-free outfit and flawless features are trumped by her eyes. Flaming sapphire blue in color, with no retina or pupil, just a haunting blue ball, the most common visible characteristic separating Nysaeans from Osirians.

  The main view screen shifts from the field of stars to Admiral Maxtin.

  “Were you able to deliver the weapons to Youshon?”

  “Without incident, Admiral,” Australia answers.

  “I hope my old friend was well.” Before Reynard answers, he continues, “I require your crew to undertake another mission, Commander.”

  “You do pay the bills, Admiral,” Reynard jumps in to answer, demonstrating he’s in control of his ship.

  “Lock in your coordinates for the Aurora solar system, third planet.”

  SMOLDERING LUMBER AND melted steel slag stand like skeletal remains in what was once the warehouse district of the city. The non-wounded are herded away from the area, protesting their leaving without missing loved ones. Loved ones are buried under the splinters of sheetrock and foam insulation fragments of former buildings. Wails of anguish for the dead and dying fill the streets as Mokarran order the area cleared.

  Heavily worn military-grade boots kick over a splintered wall fragment. Underneath, a Mokarran roasted from the incinerating blast rests. Before the owner of the boots investigates further, the Mokarran hisses for him to evacuate the area.

  Not wanting any unnecessary attention, he tromps back through the smoldering rubble, melting into the shuffling refugees forced out of the warehouse district. Despite the distinctness of his Tibbar hide leathers, once mingling among the herd, he becomes another of their faceless numbers.

  The warehouse explosions mushroom above the skyline. As most humanoids escape the fires with little possessions, two figures keep vigil on a rooftop a few blocks from the glowing balls of heat.

  Disguised in tattered rags, but lacking the smell of being soiled and unclean for weeks with tightly trimmed hairline, is a poorly disguised soldier. Once the heat blast from the explosion full of dust and ash subsides, the male soldier uses the eye lens connected to the headset as binoculars to zoom at the center of the explosion.

  “The Admiral went in that building.” Inexperience prevents him from completely keeping concern from his voice.

  “What do we do?” The equally manicured female, also hidden by rags, flips her eyepiece over her right eye in order to activate the magnifying ocular lens.

  She witnesses a charcoaled, ember-stained Mokarran stagger from the building. Refugees flee as flames consume the nearest structures.

  “Not much to do until the fire subsides, and the Mokarran clear out.”

  “They could find him. Inspect the bodies,” she protests.

  Morosely, he explains, “There will be dozens of bodies. It will take time to get to the center and the Admiral’s location. The Mokarran don’t care for extinguishing their own warriors. I doubt they will take much time inspecting overcooked bodies.”

  Within minutes hovering tanker vehicles arrive and spray chemical foam onto the flames. Local blue-skinned authorities evacuate the refugees.

  Mokarran soldiers move their transport back from the spreading fires, but continue to inspect and commandeer the street denizens even as they flee.

  She says, “Dealing with the fires should be more important than collecting people?”

  “The Admiral’s MIA, and you are worried about those pantaztines?”

  “The poor and hungry aren’t…” She barely blurts the slur. “…pantaztines. The Mokarran economic structure has reduced these people to…”

  “Here we go again.” He rolls his eyes. “I don’t need a sermon. If they won’t take up arms to protect themselves, then they are willing participants in what the Mokarran are doing.”<
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  “You’re an Academy cadet, about to graduate and be a UCP officer. Your mandate will be to protect those weaker…”

  “I know the oath. And I will. With my life, if I must. It still doesn’t detract from the fact those oppressed should wait for others to save them. Now what about our Admiral?”

  “The Mokarran are scanning DNA cards. We’ll both register as UCP soldiers here illegally. An act of war, but I doubt it matters to you. You’ll just be upset you won’t graduate.”

  “Inspecting the burning wreckage is out.”

  “You two don’t seem good for much.”

  They both spin at the voice behind them. The male cadet touches the top of his blaster on his hip but halts his attempt to draw when he realizes a gun barrel hangs before his face.

  Unwashed and scum-covered, the olive-skinned Osirian has dirty long hair in his face and the smell of someone living on the streets. An eye patch hides his left eye, but not the burn scars around it. His weapon hums with power. The strange pistol-like weapon designed to be held like a rifle implies it has more power than a standard armament of similar size.

  “So you two know Admiral Maxtin.”

  “Who are you?” The male cadet keeps the tip of his finger on the top of his blaster, ready to execute this raider at a convenient opportunity.

  “UCP reconnaissance training leaves much to be desired as you two were spilling secure information, never caring who was in earshot. Second, you may be in tattered garb and from a distance appear to be a part of the refugee population, but you both still have tall and proud strides. These people slump, are beaten, broken husks of former humanoids. They have no pride left. Most important, you kept your UCP-issued boots on. Clean, unscuffed, well-polished. In espionage everyone forgets the footwear.”

  The cadets glance down at their captor’s boots. Scratched and beaten, one appears to be held together with some kind of electrical tape.

  “Mistakes we won’t make again.”

  “You won’t get the chance.”

  The dirty Osirian fires. Two swift bursts of a red swirling beam send both cadets into heart-stopping convulsions.

  ••••••

  THE LARGEST SUMMERSUN city, Silvanus, has multiple docking ports for incoming spacecraft. Segregated by use, a passenger transport would be out of place at the farming port as much as Lancers at the civilian terminals. Admiral Maxtin was using the agriculture port as a guise to meet with mercenaries. Logically, if successful before the explosion, those mercs would have evacuated back to the spaceport.

  Across the tarmac of a landing port, the dirty Osirian pushes a crate large enough to hold two well-crumpled bodies toward a line of spacecraft. He keeps his head down as he passes Mokarran unloading the souls they captured on the street. He eyes the unloading process peripherally.

  The captives are marched into a transport and stripped of all personal items as they reach the top of the ramp. Bundles of rags fall from a hatch in the back of the craft onto a waiting ground cargo transport.

  As he swings his crate to keep a wide berth of the Mokarran, he spots the side of their ship. Emblazoned are characters translating from the Mokarran language into “Organic Humus.”

  It won’t take him much guessing to how the Mokarran have been fertilizing the crops.

  He wheels his cart up the ramp to the modified cargo transport. The shuttles appear to have once belonged to a royal convoy transport down to extra exterior armor to protect the passengers, but they have long since been legally flight-worthy. He secures the crate before pressing the ramp control panel. As the back end of the shuttle rises into place he glares at the “organic humus” transport.

  No promise to himself will be too great enough. One day he will be more than just a party to the downfall of the Mokarran. He will stand over the last of their species and pull the trigger, ending all they have done to contaminate the galaxy.

  “I AM THE Outer Dimensional Coordinator for the entire UCP fleet. I want the Deliverance deployed to the Neri system for military exercises,” Vice-Presidential Admiral Wendy Easter sneers at the holographic image of a UCP officer with captain pips on his uniform.

  “Won’t my presence be viewed as an antagonistic display?” Captain Kantian offers as an indirect reminder to his commanding officer and one of the rulers of the United Confederation of Planets without spelling out the complicated situation in the neighboring system of Summersun with the Mokarran.

  “Are you accusing me of saber rattling?” The age lines of the older Osirian woman quiver.

  “No, Admiral. I’m just concerned about the fragile state of our negations with the Mokarran. They need little reason to invade now the treaty expired.”

  Across the desk the holographic Captain Kantian remains at parade rest while addressing Admiral Easter.

  Easter taps her withered index finger before dragging it across the panel under the monitor screen built into her desktop, activating a series of computerized records and reports all bearing Kantian’s name. “You’ve been overdue for a promotion for some time now, Kantian.” She reads printout after printout of Kantian’s service record where she has highlighted dozens of reported actions.

  “There’s no dishonor in captaining the UCP flagship.” Kantian remains in his at-ease stance.

  “To command one battle cruiser is worthy of most, but you aspire to much more,” she concludes.

  “I aspire to protect the UCP from the Mokarran.” A textbook answer.

  “I’ve read your service jacket, more than once. Protect would be a political term. You, like so many, want to grind the Mokarran into dust—with the heel of your boot—like they deserve.”

  “I want to protect the UCP.”

  “I’m dying, Kantian. I’ve no time to placate diplomatic phrases with my replacement.”

  “Admiral?” The change in topic shocks him.

  “It’s a slow cancer. There’s no cure. Nothing to be done. It’s my badge of courage from the Battle of the Twin Suns.”

  “The citizens haven’t had a vote for a new VP admiral since the founding of the UCP thirty years ago.”

  “It will be a first. I know full well you have your own agenda despite my attempts to groom you towards what serves the populace the best.”

  “I share your views.”

  “No, you don’t, not completely. I don’t want to name a lap dog to replace me.”

  Kantian notes Easter has stated twice she wants a heritor. “It’s a free election. Not a monarchy where you name your successor. Mandated elections will leave it in the hands of the citizens. Even as the captain of the UCP flagship, I’m not a household name on most worlds.”

  “We both know my deathbed endorsement would carry a lot of weight to your election.”

  “There are plenty of others within the UCP who’ll be favored over me,” Kantian states, unconvinced of his own importance.

  “Because you’re a captain of a single ship, something I plan to amend. The Tri-Star Federation can ill afford a war with us due to the growing threat of the Throgen Empire. If we move now, engage them in a conflict over the planet Summersun, and force them into a new peace treaty.”

  “How do I fit in?”

  “I’m assigning your ship to patrol the Neri planetary system. Since it borders Summersun. When an incident occurs you will seize the opportunity.”

  “Or I’ll bring the UCP into a full-scale war. I’ll be the downfall of everything you’ve spent the last thirty years building. I want command. I even want to be a president. Never the harbinger of our doom.”

  “You won’t be. What I propose has been carefully orchestrated for maximum effectiveness. You must follow my instructions without deviation.”

  “It’s impossible to control all factors in a battle. I may be forced to improvise.”

  “I’m counting on you and your skill as a captain.”

  “Military practice maneuvers on the border of a solar system about to erupt in revolution will send the Mokarran into full-
alert status,” Kantian points out.

  “I’m aware of Mokarran tactics. Unlike most of the captains in our fleet, I’ve actually fought against them. Your current orders offer our presence near the situation, signaling we won’t allow any spillover of such a conflict to bleed into our territory.”

  Kantian’s mind calculates the possibilities of dealing with the Mokarran and of the VP admiral’s offer. Success would make him one of the five most powerful humanoids in the UCP. He knows it’s nearly impossible for a battle to bleed over across a few hundred light years. For the Mokarran to invade Neri or him to take the Deliverance deep into Summersun space has to be a deliberate act of aggression.

  “If you are incorrect in this, I stand to not only lose my commission, but my career, and face prison as the catalyst for an unauthorized war.”

  “You’ll not see prison. I assure of that, Kantian. You’re taking a gamble. It could ruin your career, but follow my procedure and you’ll become the next vice-presidential admiral of the UCP when I die.”

  REYNARD RARELY DISPLAYS himself in the standard Silver Dragon uniform, let alone the full plumage of the decorative dress version. Despite the wild, frivolous, and seemingly undisciplined nature of Osirian mercenary groups, many have contributed significantly to the military operations of hundreds of planets. Calling for the occasional attendance of official function requiring many Lance units to formality sport a dress uniforms. This forces the mercs to adopt elaborate formal outfits to bring them in line with a standard military code of conduct.

  Reynard prefers pants and a T-shirt to the V-neck jumpsuit and fully zipped and buttoned jacket. How Australia wears hers to code every day while on duty is beyond him. The leather’s comfortable but not with the belts secured. They may be employed by Admiral Maxtin, but they are not military. They barely function as a mercenary unit. Reynard sees them as a failed football team waiting for the coach or high school janitor to step in and give the inspirational speech to send them forward to win the championship game, altering their lives for the positive forever. The limited scope of all those ’80s movies from his home planet provides no insight into the world he woke up into a thousand years later.