“Computer Jacker implant,” JC says.
“And Doug’s the only Osirian with one?”
“They drive humans insane. It also prevents a deep telepathic link—only surface thoughts.”
“You’re unable to read Aus’s, Ki-Ton’s or Doug’s thoughts. I wouldn’t want to read Scott’s. What about Joe?”
The hooded figures inch closer.
“I’ve not tried a Calthos warrior before, but as he trains his body he works on controlling his entire nervous, circulatory, and muscular systems. He lowers his heart rate to nothing, and he empties his mind of thoughts in order to meditate. I bet he could regulate what I saw in his mind. It would take more than one telepath to breach his control.”
“Legally, you’re unable to read Amye or me…at least you’re capable of piloting a Mecat.” Reynard brushes his hand over the pouch on his gun belt. He won’t get the DNA implant, so he carries hard credit chits.
His reflexes are quick without enhancements. He has a hold on the wrist of the thief, the money pouch still in his hand.
A quick twist and elbow to the jaw. Reynard spins holding his attacker.
The other assailant grabs JC’s armband. The inhibitor rushes faster through her blood stream leaving her lightheaded. She loses track of who she is.
The second assailant finds the cold edge of Joe’s blade draw across the supple neck skin. All of his training inches the blade to sever arteries, but Joe holds back until ordered by his adopted clan brother.
Reynard tears the clasp on the black hood; underneath he finds the unmarked garments of what appears to be a teenage girl.
He slams her against the wall, pinning her arm behind her back a mere quarter of an inch from snapping. “I don’t always bring my Calthos bodyguard, but when I do, no one fucks with me.”
“Please…” she begs. “You’re hurting me.”
“Bet it will be hard to pick pockets with a cast.” He glances at JC wondering whether they even cast broken bones anymore.
She leans against the wall herself in a drunken woozy stagger to stay on her feet.
“I guess this would be the place for a pickpocket to work. Less use of implanted DNA cards and more use of physical currency.”
The knightly armored security guards and an Aurulent, along with JarBok, surround the commotion.
“Arguments are settled in the Dracon Arena,” JarBok explains.
“No argument. This little girl just attempted to steal my credits.” Reynard tears his pouch from her hand. “I prevented it.”
“He was stealing my credits,” the girl protests.
“Smerth’n hell.” Reynard flips up his jacket revealing a spot where the pouch attaches to his belt.
“No good. Severe this is. You all will have to come with me.”
“This woman stole from me, and I caught her. Where do we need to go?”
“Disputes are settled here in the same manner—the Dracon Arena.”
“IF I’M NOT welcome to those in authority, why bring me back to Zayous?” Maxtin keeps himself poised in his chair restrained by seatbelts.
Thierry punches commands into the computer, “I don’t understand why when you had the one opportunity to send a message, you activated a bounty on a criminal.”
“I won’t let being commandeered by you stop my duties. Not sending out my bounties could arouse suspicion by those under my command who were expecting it. They would wonder why I hadn’t done it.”
“Logical. It makes sense. You were off-world secretly. By activating orders, you appear still in your office. No one will suspect you’re gone.” Thierry speculates, “You work the system too well for it to be the only reason to do it.”
“And you avoided my question. If the Zayar Counsel has repudiated me—why are we here?”
“I told you, the Qarban R16. I need to find more. You’ll soon understand why.”
“I see the effect of the Mokarran war daily. I visit the refugee camps growing outside of the Riftgate.”
“It’s different when it’s your own people.”
“In thirty years my people are doing better than most.”
The ever-changing waves of light patterns streaking, bending, and squiggling before the clear durasteel window dip back to the twinkle of a million tiny dots in the ocean of black.
The craft lurches.
The shift in gravity sends Maxtin forward. If not for the seatbelt harness, he would feel the cold surface of the windshield.
“Something’s a hazard with your disengagement buffers.”
“I’ll get it repaired. We lack the resources to maintain our ships,” Thierry admits.
“Buying new parts would lead someone to suspect your planetary resources have dwindled. Showing weakness would invite attack. Do you firmly believe someone is monitoring every purchase made by the Zayar conglomerations?”
“Don’t you have people auditing the Mokarran purchases?”
Maxtin points out, “Weapons purchases are different than cargo ship repair notices.”
“A cargo fleet needing an overhaul could mean an increase in transporting goods. If I were an investor, I’d be monitoring ship repairs.”
“Being Zayars we’ll verbally fence and get nowhere. You’re a cargo shipper. Stopping on a planet to make a repair will go unnoticed. Things break on a ship, even those from Zayous.” Maxtin notices the closest twinkling dots have grown in size and are not stars but dozens of battle cruisers hanging in space just outside the gravity well of the planet below them.
Garbled squawks blast from the comm. Thierry punches in a code, and they stop. He activates the sunshield, and the clear durasteel window darkens.
Maxtin spots hundreds of his people gathering at the windows of the battle cruiser as they drift past. Women and children crowd the front. All, even the two or three babies he spots, look like ancient men with long white hair and rough face lines. At least in the eyes of Osirians his people naturally look old.
“I hate this part.”
“I would think you bring them hope.”
“I bring them a lie. Each time I fly past, they think I’ve brought enough Qarban R16 so enough atmosphere will be purified to allow a return to the surface.”
“You have a full cargo hold.”
“You know our people. They will mathematically calculate the numbers to death. No one gets to the surface unless the number crunchers are sure life’s sustained without affecting what echo system has been repaired.”
“Won’t you bringing me mess up those numbers? Or will I have to remain in an environmental suit my entire visit so I don’t consume any extra air?”
“If they don’t shoot us both, it’s entirely possible.”
The milk brown sludge makes Zayous VI look like a micro gas giant instead of the fertile world in orbit around the green sun. The shuttle sinks into the muck.
Maxtin finds nothing familiar to focus on. His people have strict building laws, and resource management controls the population. In some areas, the ecological system was so precious that if Zayous had to reside there, they had to do so underground, saving many people during the biological attack.
“Southern Hemisphere. Lan’gore Province on the largest continent, but it was a colossal forest.”
“Lang’gore Research Center was below ground there.”
“And a geothermal power system.” Maxtin spots the plume of a cerulean flower below them as the ship levels off and nothing but the brown mud juts across the window.
A monitor on the control panel powers on. Below them are two azure domes. The large ten-mile-wide one and a smaller one centered over a landing platform some fifty miles away.
Thierry brings the ship to hover directly over the platform. The craft touches the dome. Jets of a chemical spray powerful enough to push the ship upward pelt the underbelly of the craft.
Thierry maneuvers the joystick controls, keeping the bucking forces steady as possible.
More high-powered steam soaks the ship. White
foam soaps every inch of the craft. As the top of the wings dip below the sapphire dome, cannons of the chemical activate and hose down the exposed top. The force’s so powerful it lifts and drives the craft down at the same instant.
The jets of chemical cease once the cargo ship has every inch purified.
Thierry brings the vehicle down gently, landing on the pad.
“Must the entire surface have to be cleaned of this plague?”
“Making sure we didn’t bring any in with us.” Thierry activates the cargo ramp before releasing Maxtin from the harness. “After you, Admiral.”
Workers in biohazard suits vacuum the foam dripping from the ship and falling into gutters around the landing pad. Other Zayars remove the cargo crates from the ship while three Zayars greet Thierry until they realize he does not emerge first from the vehicle.
The female Zayar unholsters her sidearm.
“Put that away, Vartika,” Thierry orders.
“You brought a traitor to—”
“His home world and the damage we hide from everyone. Interacting with off-worlders isn’t sin even if The Conclave frowns upon it. We need his help, or we’ll never restore Zayous.”
“Foolish you are, Thierry, to consort with Maxtin without approval,” the male to Vartika’s right scolds.
“Professor Emuukha?” Maxtin wonders.
“I always knew you’d never conform, Maxtin.”
“Foolish consistencies, Professor.”
“At least you listened to one lecture.” Emuukha smiles.
“We should arrest him,” the other man offers.
“No, Qwanell, we need a man with his misgivings.” Emuukha grits his teeth. “Vartika, show the emperor our problem. I will deal with the perfunctory.”
“I’m only one of five elected presidents of the UCP government,” Maxtin corrects him.
“A government you founded and gave yourself a life term as leader of. You may have abandoned us but not what it means to be a Zayar.”
“I don’t know why Thierry thinks you’ll help us,” Vartika huffs.
“I might be able to get Qarban R16 in greater quantities without arousing suspicion.”
“If we don’t, we’ll lose most of the planet to this chemical.” She approaches the edge of the azure shield. “I’m sure Thierry told you some of this. I’ll spare you most of the science.” She slaps the dome.
A bird flies from the closest tree.
“Wildlife.”
“Minimal. Only enough to keep the exchange of oxygen in balance.”
“Don’t birds breed?”
“Quite frequently. When they do, we capture the young and freeze them to be released later when the dome grows or we find numbers depleted. We have many species in cryofreeze. Lang’gore Research Center has been transformed into a zoo.” She points outside the dome. “Emuukha needs your advice on our latest problem.”
“An oak tree?”
“It takes seven full-grown Zayars to reach around it. We have reached the edge of part of the old-growth forest. To extend the force field and clean each tree, we have to envelope each plant in its entirety. The shield extends underground and passes through the root system as well.”
“Feel the shield—hard as a rock.”
“When we have enough Qarban R16, we reduce the density of the force screen and expand it. It scrubs the chemical from whatever it passes through. Before we run out of chemical we reharden the dome and wait for the next shipment. The calculation team then figures if we release an animal or bring down a Zayar citizen to balance the needed air.”
Maxtin nods.
“Adding today’s shipment, there’s only enough Qarban R16 to scrub half this tree. We don’t harden the dome through living organisms, or it will cut them in two. If we leave the dome soft, the chemical leaches back through the clean part of the tree from the still-contaminated part.”
“The forest has ten thousand trees with equal diameters.”
“And if we expand and don’t take the entire tree, including the correct percentage of roots, we undo all this work.”
“You need an expansion rate allowing you to get people off those ships.”
“It would open up room. Even twenty people gone from a ship would ease the tensions. Rumors are they want to force the government to found a colony.”
“I could offer a planet.”
“No. Getting more Qarban R16 could be suggested, but not now. All the battle cruisers are poorly modified generation ships now. They could not protect a colony.”
“The UCP has the capability.”
“You’ve spent too much time among non-Zayars.”
“Reason perpetuates what I do.”
“Maxtin, get us the Qarban R16. Show your support for our plan and we go to The Conclave. We propose a small colony and build from there.”
“The Mokarran are nearing a shooting war with the UCP. I won’t be able to offer much aid.”
“It’s always the Mokarran with you, Maxtin.” Emuukha hobbles to join them. “A war on two fronts would maximize expenditure of all their resources. The Throgen Empire knocks at their door, and a conflict with the UCP would pull enough of their fleet from the front lines they would crumble. Even with your limited fleet, you’d defeat them.”
“They hold a great deal of their military in reserve. And shipyards supplied by Shalenotun VII are building a new class of battle cruiser.”
“Those cruisers have been delayed. Something about the assassination of political leader Commodore Micah Donkor. His planet was supplying most of the raw construction materials, and now the power vacuum his death has created has left a debate on continuing to fund the Mokarran project.”
“Those fools. The Mokarran will just slaughter them.”
“Micah Donkor was a friend.” Maxtin slides a small leather bound book from his uniform pocket. He traces the faded symbol reminiscent of the Chinese I Ching as if he were offering a silent prayer. “Donkor never agreed with the Mokarran but was appeasing them to keep his people safe. He supplied the Mokarran with just enough material to keep the fleet yards operational. His death will mean the death of millions. If they don’t deliver, the Mokarran will just take.”
“This is why our people want to hide their heads in the sand,” Emuukha says.
“You taught us better.”
“Those that listened.”
“The conflict over government control may delay the building of those cruisers for a while, but once the Mokarran have full control, they will move forward their timetable. I must return to Parliament.”
Vartika leers, “Choosing to save the galaxy over your home planet again?”
“My people choose to not accept help. Those in the galaxy are begging for it.”
“DIG!”
Unable to maintain her bearings, Amye staggers from a shove to her gut. Metal clinks on the floor next to where she lands as something slides along next to her.
Before she wakes from her hangover, she hears the bolting of durasteel. Cold bites at her naked arms, and the poorly filtered air causes a cough.
As she blinks off the drug haze, a small green alien, malnourished and in tattered rags, approaches her. The alien has lost enough weight that the cybernetic jacking implant juts from its neck, about to fall out if it weren’t bonded to the loose skin.
It chatters.
Female. Amye recognizes the Scalterrian language, but scarcely identifies this creature as once female.
“I don’t understand you,” Amye lies.
The creature continues its bleats.
Better she think I don’t understand. Osirians lack the tongue, the actual tongue, to make whatever diphthong moment necessary to speak Scalterrian, but she understands parts of it.
Dig or die is easy enough. Dig what, is a better question. Amye places her hand on the wall. Rock is rock. It feels like rock. What were they mining here? The hazy light, no brighter than a single candle, forces her to squint. A few aliens chip away at the rock. Amye kn
ows better than to lean over one of their shoulders to learn what they are digging for. They are all slaves. Some by their own choosing, she bets. The Scalterrian used all her money to enjoy whatever fantasy Scalterrian indulged in. Now they threw her down here to earn more funds. She knew this place smelt of a scam when they stepped off the Silver Dragon.
So that pirate rolled her. If she could check her DNA implant information, she would bet her credit level’s zero. So they threw her down here to not only hide what they did, but by the time she earns enough to escape, those pirates will be long gone.
Dig. Dig. Dig.
Amye wishes the Scalterrian would chitter on about something useful. Like what she should dig for. She should just snap the creature’s neck and put her out of her misery and prevent the betrayal—it will come—later. The creature will wait until Amye has dug up something, whatever it is, before attempting to steal it. The poor thing’s desperate. But not desperate to escape, desperate to return to her fantasy life. It’s worse than a drug addiction. The brain experiences no punishing hangover. Nothing to make a person feel worse. Nothing to convince a person not to imbibe again. The fantasy reality just continues on, and those engrossed in it no longer want anything to do with the outside world.
Amye scoops up the metal pail the guard tossed on her. In it is a small rock hammer, sifting screen and a trowel along with a plastic case with marking lines. Each line is a credit amount of whatever she is to dig. Whatever’s left of the mineral they want remains in flakes. What could be so valuable they still want flakes?
Amye snags her bucket and marches past those already digging. Whatever it is, this is only the way to find what’s left, and if not for slave labor it wouldn’t be feasible. Too bad this place wasn’t an IMC mining facility. I’d could crack the code on the door and escape. No, if this was just an asteroid she doubts they would have even built a mine. They would have drilled the rock and blown it into smaller boulders, running it through a processing ship. The IMC would pulverize the stone to powder and siphon away what it wanted.
Amye picks a spot no one seems interested in digging at. She runs her fingers over the stone. She chips away a gravel-sized piece. She inspects it short of putting it in her mouth before tossing it on the ground.
Enter the Sandmen Page 18