Enter the Sandmen

by William Schlichter

  Doug scampers from the ramp, anticipating blaster fire, but no energy beams explode near him. He pulls the respirator from his belt pouch and shoves it in his mouth, needing more oxygen to run.

  Doug’s commlink blares nothing but static.

  Instead of pursuing, Ki-Ton jammed the communicators.

  Doug has no choice but to rescue the princess—alone. He peeks over the edge of the landing ramp, witnessing Ki-Ton disappear through a hidden door in the forward section of the cargo hold. Fully aware of many hidden storage compartments, Doug did not know of one under the main bridge.

  The Dragon shimmies.

  Doug grabs onto the edge of the ramp.

  Even in the limited atmosphere the dust stirs from under the Dragon’s oval hull section. The loose gravel vibrates from the mini earthquake.

  Doug witnesses the constant swimming skin across the hull leave the bottom of the forward oval section. The seams of the hull lower. Other silvery skinless panels slide open, and thruster rockets emerge. A hidden shuttle lowers from under the bridge section.

  Even if the lowering shuttle has clearance between the Silver Dragon and the ground, the expulsion of thruster fumes must go somewhere. Doug vaults into the cargo bay sprinting for the manual control station. Super-heated air surges up the ramp and fills the hold. Airborne gravel rains inside as the ramp fits into place.

  The shuttle skips over the ground as it launches forward away from the Silver Dragon.

  The hull skin swims back over the now-empty shuttle chamber.

  Once clear of the mother ship, the shuttle blasts out into the outer atmosphere.

  ••••••

  KI-TON’S THIRD ARM retracts back into his abdomen. He winces with pain.

  “Why do you perform such actions if it hurts?” Michelle twists her limbs, but the binders securing her wrists chafe her delicate skin. She hasn’t the tolerance for pain to struggle her way to freedom. She imagines for a moment Amye in her place and using the manacles to club Ki-Ton’s skull into a mushy paste, and using his blood as a lubricant to grease her hands free.

  “It won’t hurt much longer.”

  “They said you worked for Admiral Maxtin. Why would you betray Reynard?”

  “You detest the Osirian, maybe not as much as I do, but deep down you know he won’t return you to your home world, Princess.”

  “He will. He said when it was safe.”

  “The Mokarran occupy your planet. It will never be safe.”

  Michelle lowers her eyes unable to meet the gaze of the man who stole her. “Why not just kill me?”

  “A viable option, fastest solution, but killing gives a quick reprieve. Not what I want. I desire Reynard to suffer. He must agonize for the pain he inflicted upon me. I require you living to assist in my strategy.”

  “You joined his crew. What insult could he possibly have inflicted on you?”

  “You’ve been locked away in your room. You know nothing, your highness.” Ki-Ton checks the rifles secured in racks lining what little of a cargo area the shuttle has.

  None of her courtly training included weapons. She was expected to retain personal body guards for security. Diplomatic preparations allow her to recognize an IMC brand on each stock carrying with it a respectable quality and price tag. “I know he has saved the lives of everyone else on the Dragon...even mine.”

  “You’ve lost your disgust for him.” Ki-Ton checks her shoulder straps to ensure they are tight. “Makes your usefulness as a hostage limited.”

  “I’ve great wealth.”

  “The part of your Osirian blood bleeds like all the others. Greed—an Osirian motive. I care nothing for monitory—or even lustful—companions.”

  “My fortune’s enough to purchase a solar system.”

  “No, Princess, I’m above such minuscule pandering. My people need no shiny gems.”

  “What are you?”

  “You want me to tell you the story of my life?”

  “I want to know what kind of evil monster you are.”

  “Evil’s merely a point of view. Invented by simple-minded Osirians.”

  “Then why are you getting angry?”

  “Because you lack understanding. You have not fallen. I—was—a god. Now. I’m nothing because of Admiral Reynard.”

  Michelle’s mind contemplates many questions she could ask the normally calm creature. Somehow she has frazzled him. Unsure how to proceed, her next—and possibly last—question has to be the correct one.

  Reynard’s not an admiral?

  How does a simple Osirian like Reynard retain the power to subjugate a god? A viable question but not one she should ask—yet.

  Her mind drifts to what she shouldn’t ask. “What makes you a god?”

  “I won’t play the games of an unspoiled girl-child.”

  “You took me—to force me.”

  “I’ll metamorphosis a suitable appendage to satisfy an Osirian, but I have no such desires. I’ve no urge for fornication. My species doesn’t procreate.”

  “Then how does your species continue to exist?”

  “It doesn’t—anymore.”

  BEEP. THE SCANNER chirps.

  Nytalyan inspects the chamber for listening devices.

  “I’ve checked. The Mokarran aren’t monitoring us,” Saltāl assures her.

  “My success in translating the language demands we proceed with caution.”

  “You know what they are doing?” Saltāl smiles at her.

  “If this was strictly academic it would be cause for celebration and your smile. Even the common Mokarran citizens would appreciate what I’ve begun to understand, if they weren’t forbidden to learn of their own religious teaching.”

  “The strategy of regulation fails to effectively control the masses when they have access to so much off-world resources.”

  “But the Mokarran are taught as pups they are the superior species of the galaxy. Why would you listen to the teachings of lesser species? Plus Mokarran aren’t allowed to interact with the masses.”

  “The masters in power have thought this through.”

  Nytalyan nods. “The species crave order. They were given it. Who cares if a few thousand people disappear as long as you are promoted and your lifestyle improves.”

  “The Mokarran still need other species,” Saltāl says.

  “For now. Purging all of us at once will deplete the economic system, but clearly with each new graduating class of Mokarran they are eliminating the need for so many other humanoids.”

  “What did you uncover?” Saltāl asks.

  Nytalyan slips a small hand-held computer from her belt. “I used a self-contained computer.”

  It creates a holographic blackboard before the pair. “I’m going to make this extremely simple…” to protect you. Her mind completes her sentence. She does trust him, because at this point they would both be executed after days of torture if they are discovered.

  She scrawls several symbols on the blackboard. The blackboard enables her to write with her finger as if it were a pen. “Here’s my concern. Take this symbol.” She points to the first mark she made. “It means ‘apple’ by itself. If I add this symbol before ‘apple’ it becomes ‘bad apple.’ You add this back grave accent and both symbols become ‘conquest.’ If the symbols are drawn together like in cursive writing, they take on a different meaning based on the grave mark at the onset of the scrawl.”

  “How do you undertake translating this?” Saltāl asks.

  “Those chosen to be priests do nothing but study from birth to understand the text.”

  “The devout Mokarran have to trust their priests aren’t lying to them.”

  She shakes her head. “If you miss reading one of those back graves the sentence means something entirely different,” Nytalyan adds.

  “Wouldn’t the sentence just be gibberish if you miss the mark?”

  “Makes this language more dangerous. Much of the texts tell one story, a completely different story, if
you miss the mark. It’s almost as if it was written with two stories in mind to tell.”

  “It was written in code?”

  “Why? It’s highly complex to do, and if you don’t allow the masses access at all, then why bother?”

  “Let’s forget about the why. I doubt it has significance on the translation,” Saltāl says.

  “Everything has significance in this language.”

  REYNARD SLAMS MARK against the wall.

  The cadet squirms. Even his advanced combat training never prepared him for the Calthos maneuver now forcing his lungs to beg.

  “Designated assignment?”

  “Train Commander Reynard in Mecat combat tactics,” Mark spits when his windpipe’s allowed to open.

  “You’re assigned to my crew. We don’t have time for petty vengeance. We all have jobs to do in order to retrieve Maxtin. I need you to follow orders.” If I knew what those orders should be, maybe we won’t all die. Kirk was the youngest star fleet captain. He had command experience. I’ve been trained in combat and piloting, but this kid’s had more leadership in his cadet classes than me. Just because I came with the ship doesn’t mean I was ready to command her.

  “Do you have any more weapons, Hauser?” Reynard remains unsure how far he’s willing to trust this man on Maxtin’s payroll. Nothing the Admiral has been doing seems trustworthy. Assassination, spying—the entire gamut of espionage makes his stomach uneasy. It may be the world he has been brought into, but he can find more honorable ways to bring out the Mokarran defeat.

  “It took all I had to get this one inside,” he says as he pats his blaster. “But you shouldn’t need any to march out the front door.”

  “We have to find Amye and Scott.” JC points at the cadets. “Won’t those two spark interest when they check out?”

  “We get our guns back and leave. It shouldn’t be difficult to fight our way from the entrance back to the Dragon.”

  “Not much of a plan,” Hauser sneers.

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  Hauser adds nothing.

  JC finally breaks the silence, “Amye and Scott will improve our firepower if we have to blast our way out for the entrance.”

  “Joe, find them. Send them to the entrance.” Reynard says to Hauser, “You stay with the cadets. Cover them if they aren’t allowed through.”

  “Front door or a shootout. Osirian simplicity.”

  “Are you going with us, or do you have your own ship?”

  “I’ve my own ship.”

  ••••••

  THE CASINO ENTRANCE foyer falls silent for a full second. A dozen Braeco’n warriors eject energy clips from their weapons and slam in fresh ones. The charging hums break the quiet as do the emergency alarms. Blast smoke, burnt ozone, and cooked paint from blaster scorches on the wall fill the chamber with an unbreathable haze.

  Dead Aurulent attendants are strewn about the floor.

  Questions dance in Reynard’s head.

  He spots Hauser in the casino. Weapon drawn, he shields the cadets. Reynard tries to strategize how to escape. Why are the Braeco’n here and shooting at me? Logic would dictate somehow I offended… How? If the crew did make offense, the list of possible turncoats on the crew narrows to Scott, Ki-Ton, or Amye. Valuable information if he lives long enough to utilize it in his investigation.

  Reynard scopes out the tiny window opposite his spot of cover. Casino security will swarm the entrance soon enough.

  He tucks in next to JC. “I need my gun out of that room. Any suggestions?”

  “I’d say a mad dash across the room wouldn’t end well.”

  “No cover.” Reynard pops up empty hands in the air.

  The Braeco’n take aim, but none of their weapons have enough charge to fire.

  “Youshon would not permit this.”

  The biggest Braeco’n lowers his weapon, “You brought him defective weapons. You knew they’d explode after three blasts. Now you die! We kill Admiral Maxtin next for your deception.” His weapon rises.

  Reynard dives for the window.

  Plasma bolts fill the chamber.

  Chunks of the wall crack.

  The Braeco’ns disperse to secure the room.

  So the traitor framed us first with the IMC rifles. Narrows down my list of suspects. Reynard contemplates. He notes the wall under the window could be damaged enough to make a hole if he could last under another barrage of plasma. He doubts it.

  JC leaps to her feet and waves her arms. The mental blast causes two seconds of turbulence in the Braeco’ns’ minds, giving her and the Commander a chance to dive back into the casino.

  Splintered gambling machines send showers of credit chits smattering everywhere as super-heated plasma impales them. Surprisingly, many of the patrons refuse to scatter. Instead, they scoop up the ill-gotten earnings. Several are cut down in the process of greed.

  Hauser moves the cadets back.

  JC collapses from the weight of the mental burst. The Braeco’ns march past her, unconcerned with a crew member they don’t know. They hunger for Reynard.

  Reynard plots to get back to the room of weapons. He could attempt to disarm a Braeco’n. They are too tightly bunched together for him to take one out.

  The carpeted floor has no under padding as Reynard lands hard a quarter of second before plasma bolts fragment chunks of a gambling computer. He covers his ears as credit chits rain down around him. Unable to return fire, he attempts to rescue his hearing.

  Plugging his ears he realizes the blast was not from Braeco’n weapons. Instead, at the entrance, five Halcary Headhunters fan out. Bounty killers here to collect on Hauser. They blast Braeco’ns who return fire on the Halcary.

  The hum of their rifles echoes around the chamber, deafening the howling screams of the Tibbar in pursuit of the Commander. He digs his heel against the smooth floor to initiate a stop-and-jerk twist to use his momentum to accelerate and land at the weapons receiving window. Energy balls smash into the wall above him.

  Alarms scream.

  Replacing Reynard’s moment of reprieve is the crunching of a slot machine collapsing under the weight of a seven-hundred pound Tibbar landing on it. Credit chits cover Reynard, which shields him from the lizard bite. The creature crunches down on the metal ingots instead of flesh.

  The Halcary and Tibbar hunt the bounty.

  The Braeco’n demand revenge.

  Reynard desires his magnum.

  Hauser fires on the Tibbar. The weapon does little to harm the creature’s hide. It gives the Commander a distraction. He bolts from between the gambling machines.

  Mark and Leahla scramble further into the casino.

  Halcary and Braeco’n plasma bolts chase after Reynard as he dives behind Hauser.

  “Where the hell’s casino security?”

  “They aren’t used to dealing with guns.” Hauser yanks Reynard to his feet and they bolt.

  “We won’t last long without guns, either.” Reynard peeks from their current position of cover to witness the Braeco’n and Halcary turn their weapons on each other.

  Confusion allows Doug to slip inside the casino with a weapon still on his hip.

  “Now if our communicators worked in here.”

  The Tibbar snorts and charges at the pair. Hauser opens fire, not at the creature but at the chandelier suspended from the ceiling. The beautiful crystals transform into impaling spikes crashing down onto the Tibbar. The makeshift projectile daggers shear flesh. None of the fragments do any major damage due to the thickness of the creature’s hide, but they do open the skin.

  Hauser fires.

  The beam cooks the now-exposed muscle tissue, sending the lizard limping for cover.

  “Bet you’ve never seen a Tibbar retreat before,” Hauser jeers.

  The crashing chandelier sends more than the Tibbar scrounging for cover. All energy weapons have ceased discharging. Reynard uses that second to scan the casino.

  Humanoids attempt to gather the lo
ose credit chits distributed across the floor from the decimated gambling machines. The Braeco’n, now weakened in numbers, have taken a position allowing them to fire on anyone moving toward the exit. The Halcary had the same idea, only on the opposite side of the entrance. The wounded Tibbar maneuvers itself behind some machines.

  Raptor lizards travel in packs of three or five. Reynard’s unable to locate any more of the Tibbar.

  Doug assumes a position between the Tibbar and the Halcary. When his eyes meet Reynard’s, he taps his watch.

  Reynard missed the chirp of his communicator during the exploding plasma bolts. He activates it.

  Doug’s whispers crackle through, “The Halcary cut through the casino’s communication jammers.”

  Useful, Reynard notes, but none of his crew members have their equipment. Somehow they must commandeer a weapon from the Braeco’n or the Halcary. A retreat deeper into the casino could allow him to ambush one of them.

  “Not to smerth’n rush you along, but Ki-Ton has taken the princess.”

  His numerous questions don’t outweigh getting out the front door.

  “We’ve no weapons.” Reynard focuses on the current pressing issue. “Hauser, cover me.”

  Without explanation Reynard bolts for the corridor leading to the Dracon’s Arena.

  Halcary fire.

  Hauser picks off a Braeco’n warrior who took too long to aim. Both groups of warriors leave the gambling machines around Hauser a smoldering slagheap, allowing Reynard to escape.

  Aurulent attendants and the knightly armored guards block him from reaching deeper into the casino.

  JarBok waves him back, “They hunt you. We won’t allow you to bring further destruction. Go back and we won’t turn you over.”

  Not directly, but going back means capture or death, “Not without a blaster.”

  JarBok snaps a finger and a knightly guard hands Reynard a pole arm weapon.

  “How do I get to my weapons?” he demands.

  “Only Aurulent genetics are allowed to enter the weapons cage.”

  Getting past the Halcary’s complicated without having to protect one of these slave girls.

  The hum of the e-clips curdles his blood. Reynard dives to the ground, covering one of the Aurulent slaves with his body. Intense plasma bolts incinerate parts of JarBok and his contingent. Armored knights burst from hidden wall panels in defense of the complex but are met with firepower shredding their durasteel decorations.