“Not the highest level code. There are elements on the Dragon he’s still unable to access,” Kymberlynn points out.
“So how did Ki-Ton?”
“I’ll have to ask him before I kill him,” Amye sneers.
“ARE WE ABLE to track him?” Reynard buckles his seatbelt. Not his actual first question, but it is on his list.
“He broke orbit and spent a great deal of time calculating his jump into hyperspace, allowing Athena to speculate his destination,” Australia reports.
The parking lot full of spacecraft shrinks on the main view screen as the Dragon breaks the asteroid’s orbit.
“So it’s a trap.”
“One you have to spring. He took the princess.”
“Athena, plot a duplicate trajectory,” Reynard orders. “Track our shuttle.”
“Pull up the engine signature information from the computer,” Scott adds. “I’ve seen no schematics on us even having a shuttle.”
“It’s not a misplaced broom closet. It’s a fucking shuttle. What did you think was under the bridge?” Reynard snarls, angry at himself for never asking before.
“Athena won’t release information about the shuttle to me.” Scott slams his fist onto the control panel. “Commander, I thought it was energy cells.”
Australia presses in her command codes. “I show no record of a shuttle, and my clearance level…”
“Is not Genesis Level clearance,” Amye storms onto the bridge.
“There’s no Genesis Level clearance code.”
“I was just in the shuttle bay. Athena says there is. Somehow Ki-Ton has locked us out because he knew the higher level code than the command you have, William.”
“First, we recover the princess.”
“Who is this woman who takes precedence over finding Admiral Maxtin?” Leahla demands.
“A member of our crew,” Australia says.
“I’ve read little on the Nysaean. I thought the Tibbar invasion eliminated the species,” Leahla says.
JC finds Leahla’s utter lack of taste to be disconcerting. To remind Australia she’s the last of her species would upset most people, and JC’s sure it even affects that computerlike brain of her first officer. Australia fails to show distress. Before she pulverizes the graduating cadet. Australia motions to JC to keep quiet.
Scott’s use of procedure should put the cadet in her place, “Nice way to introduce yourself to your commanding officer, cadet.”
“Give her demerits later. Someone track the shuttle,” Reynard demands.”
“Based on Ki-Ton’s trajectory there are twenty-six solar systems on a direct path,” Australia reports.
“Too many. Narrow it down.”
“Athena, does the shuttle have a tracking frequency?” Scott asks.
“Shuttle information requires Genesis Level clearance code,” Athena responds.
Reynard enters his command code into the computer. “This cypher should give me access to all the ship’s systems.”
“Systems not including a hidden shuttle.”
Reynard hasn’t the computer aptitudes to find the Genesis encryption. He must take action or lose the respect of the entire crew, especially the three new additions.
“JC, take the cadets and get them some quarters. Amye, Scott, you work on accessing the computer core for this Genesis code. Aus, we need to narrow down those twenty-six star systems to one.”
Claxton alarms.
“I wasn’t wrong about the Mokarran,” Hauser points to the growing gray mass on the main view screen.
As the battle cruiser grows in size, targeting alarms warn of danger.
“Give me the coordinates of the closest system along Ki-Ton’s projected path. We’ll work out how to track the shuttle en route.”
“Course locked in, Commander,” Australia reports.
The Silver Dragon slips into hyperspace. The smooth transition from regular space to the folded dimension gives Reynard a moment to breathe despite the churn it stirs in his gut. “Athena, estimation until target solar system?”
“Four hours.”
“Scott, you have four hours.”
“Admiral Maxtin assigned us to your crew. Give us a task,” Leahla offers.
“Assigned to your quarters, first,” JC says.
“I desire to work with the Nysaean.”
“Through the academy you acquainted yourself with dozens of species. Why am I so fascinating?” Australia asks.
“Your ability to speak over two-hundred alien languages. Had the Tibbar not extinguished your people, imagine a ship with a living, thinking translator. Our linguist instructor at the Academy told us you could even speak the Tymonyan language.”
“Tymonyan, a series of insect mandible clicks,” JC says.
“It hurts to perform—only do basic greetings and polite questions. I do not count it as a language I have mastered. There are tones and pitches within each click. One octave difference changes the meaning. You could be asking for the bathroom or you could be insulting an ancestor.”
“You still make some of the sounds. I’ve met no sapiens who could.”
“What were you studying at the academy?” Australia asks.
“Navigation, weapons, command procedures…”
Australia interrupts, “You were allowed to follow only a few electives. What were they?”
“I wanted to do languages, but I couldn’t test into them, so liberal studies, xenology.”
“Rather basic. Maxtin wanted top students for field experience.” JC contemplates, The Admiral was to assign cadets he could groom toward his political policies and keep the UCP out of the Mokarran war. Tempted to scan this girl to uncover what makes her special, JC holds her thought.
“He understood my time with the crew would help develop my skills as a liaison officer, and Mark with his piloting skills. Simulators are effective, but the best pilots need to fly for real.”
“An accurate assessment,” Reynard concurs.
“Maxtin sent me to train you,” Mark chimes in.
“You should be training dozens of cadets and not wasting time with me.”
“It’s not a waste, Sir. The Admiral said…”
“There’s a learning curve on Mecats, I’m unable to grasp.”
“Your people did when the Iphigenians invaded your home world. They trained them to fly combat weaponry and it hasn’t changed much.”
“They screened those with an aptitude for the technology. I was not selected on my math skills,” Reynard says. “We’ve time to utilize the simulator, Cadet. Let’s see how well you instruct.”
TASKED IN FINDING the Genesis code, Amye takes what she learned in the storage bay to access Athena. As she waits for a program to run, she glances at Scott, who also attempts a reprogramming. Doug jacks into the system. Kymberlynn relaxes across from her station and rolls her eyes.
“I’ve never met a telepath either,” Leahla says.
Oh great! JC screams in her own head. “We’re not exactly popular. Personal thoughts are all anyone has considered truly private.”
“Not when you’re around.”
“Only the law and harsh punishments prevent unauthorized brain scans.”
“Must be difficult to control.” Leahla fails to hide her curiosity.
“I’ve been trained since childhood to control my gift. Some women never leave the temple unless they accept a lobotomy. Some never master the control of keeping the voices out.”
“I would think you’d want to know what everyone’s thinking,” Leahla says.
“No. Most surface thoughts are mundane. People wonder about the dumbest mind-numbing things,” JC says.
“What am I thinking?”
“I don’t need to read your mind to know you’re excited about field operations and working with alien species you’ve never met before.”
“Admiral Maxtin selects only the top students for a field internship.”
“Glad it makes you happy.” Amye rolls her eyes.
Leahla smiles. She shifts into her professional mode. “Why do you dress like that?”
“Like what?”
“The low-cut leather top squishes your mammary glands out so much.”
“It’s actually a trick to circumvent the law,” Amye chimes.
“I don’t understand,” Leahla admits.
“Liaison officers learn from their telepaths,” Australia adds.
“Even nontelepaths are capable of controlling their thoughts or hiding thoughts from a scan unless they are distracted. Telepaths are female. Gives us a distinct advantage. Deep scans are forbidden by law, but surface brain traffic naturally radiates off most people. So we dress in a revealing nature to cause distraction, allowing more thoughts to float on the surface. We learn information about people without breaking the law,” JC explains.
“Fascinating.”
“It’s extremely effective on males who are genetically disposed to be attracted to breasts for mating purposes.”
Leahla cups her own chest. Her smile slumps a bit as most of her figure is padded uniform.
The graduating cadet’s eagerness bothers JC. “Time to report to your quarters.”
“Take the mercenary to his as well,” Australia orders.
Hauser hops from the couch and pats his pistol. “No weapons check?”
JC can’t figure out how she forgot about him. Whatever implants have been added to his facial reconstruction block her surface scan.
“Unnecessary. You’ve no clearance level.”
Kymberlynn leans over to whisper to Amye, “She’s bugging Australia and the telepath. Keep her off your back. I do wonder why she’s so interested in the Nysaean.”
“In thirty years Aus’s the only Nysaean to arrive in UCP space. There are few enduring records of the entire people. The Tibbar decimated everything about their culture.”
“Nysaean rarely traveled off-world. Since their computer brains remember everything, she has memories of the invasion and before, of a peace-loving group of people.”
“Isolated peace lovers make for easy targets for imperialistic invaders seeking to dominate the universe,” Amye notes.
“The Tibbar didn’t seek domination. They needed a new home planet. They believe they must die in battle. Instead of claiming an uninhabited world they invaded an occupied one.”
“A world of peace lovers isn’t much of a challenge to a warrior race,” Amye notes.
“JC knows something about the Tibbar invasion…” Kymberlynn adds, “She isn’t sharing.”
“She might have gleamed someone’s thoughts. Relieving information would endanger her under the law.”
“It’s more. Watch her gaze toward Australia.” Kymberlynn points at the telepath.
“She’s unable to enter a Nysaean mind—something about their brain chemistry—she’s probably making an attempt to see if it’s possible. I think I would if there was a mind I couldn’t read.”
“I’d want to see if I could.”
“Amye, pay attention next time. JC has knowledge about Nysaeans she’s never shared with Australia. I’ll bet your next bottle of liquor.”
“How are you going to prove it so we can bet?”
“I’ll find a way if it keeps you from a drink for a few hours.”
“I don’t drink excessively,” Amye snaps.
“You’re the textbook case of co-dependency.”
“Osirian psychology mumbo-jumbo doesn’t apply.”
“To just you or the entire Osirian species, because you have alcohol bottles hidden, not just in your quarters, and you drink to suppress your pain.”
“What do you know about it? You weren’t there. You weren’t there to protect me.”
“You weren’t there to save me,” Kymberlynn quips back.
“Childish.”
“You know the truth. You can’t accept it. I’m here because you can’t accept the truth. If you could you wouldn’t need the drink to conquer how you feel.”
“You don’t know what happened,” Amye says.
“Tell me. Tell me, so you and I can move on. Better yet…tell him.”
“Not Reynard. He’s…He’s the kind of person I want to be with, and if I tell him what happened…why I do what I did before I met him…he’d never want to be with me.”
“You think he wants a drunk? Some hussy who immerses herself in drink to ply away at the bad thoughts plaguing her? No. He wants someone stable. No matter what else he wants in a partner, he don’t want a crazy.”
“You don’t help with my sanity,” Amye says.
“I’m your sanity. But if you want I can leave and never come back.”
Amye tears up. “NO. I can’t deal without your help. I’ll cut back on the drinking, but I won’t make it if you were to leave me…again.”
THE MECHANIZED WALKING combat tanks line the battlefield like ancient knights before a joust. Long-barreled cannons replace lances.
Reynard activates the Battle Analyst Computer. The red outline of enemy tanks highlight as targets. He locks missiles on three targets directly in front of him, sending the most missiles at the center target. If the pilots on either side of him do the same enough ordinance should expend to eliminate the enemy.
The battle call sounds releasing the warriors into combat. Reynard finds it strange a medieval practice continues. Allowing the enemy to line up, get ready, and then charge went out with the American Civil War, but it hasn’t here. In fact, it seems to be a common preparation to prevent the destruction of many cities.
It reminds him of video games as he unleashes racks of missiles and counter measures to distract enemy missiles screaming toward his vehicle. He turns the Mecat. The brunt of the impacts dent the armored hide.
Klaxons.
Plasma bolts shear at the armor plating. More rockets impact.
The explosions tear through his cockpit. The white-hot sting of death fills the cockpit with choking black smoke. All goes black.
Mark lifts the hatch of the simulator. Smoke wafts out.
“You lasted a full thirty-seven seconds.”
Reynard coughs, “Great. You’re supposed to log five-hundred hours in this thing before piloting a real Mecat. I’ll be using training wheels forever.”
“The average life span of a green Mecat pilot is less than two minutes,” reminds Mark.
“Guess I’m dragging the average down.”
“You’re a black ops team for Admiral Maxtin. You don’t have to be Mecat lancers. Osirian mercenaries aren’t the most popular on planets anyway. You’re a good starship pilot. Stick with it.”
“Not as good as I would like. Athena still compensates for a lot. In a shuttle without computer assistance I fly wonky.” Reynard crawls from the simulator.
Mark examines the control setting of the machine. “You’ve this set on extreme difficulty.”
“I beat level easy.”
“Commander, with all due respect, I don’t think you’re ready for the experienced level in the simulator.”
“I defeated the other levels. What exactly makes you an expert?” Reynard asks.
“I hold the record top score in the simulator.”
Reynard balks at pointing out a simulator re-creates reality. Not the same as being on an actual battlefield. No matter how realistic a simulation feels, the brain will always know death can be reset.
“During simulated Mecat war games, I’ve never been defeated. Admiral Maxtin felt it was time I was placed in actual combat situations to hone my skill.”
“You’ve pointed out we’re not a Lance.”
“You’ve experienced combat situations,” Mark says.
“There’re different levels to being shot at,” Reynard scoffs. “But nothing gives you the shakes like the first time.”
“You shook at that casino?”
“I certainly did.”
“The conflagration with the Mokarran’s inevitable. All our combat-hardened soldiers have been off the field for thirty years commanding a green
fleet. The Admiral wants me to gain battle experience through my time with you, and train you.”
“I understand the purpose of the program and why he assigns senior cadets to my crew. You need to be immersed in combat so you’ll lead your troops into battle and not be as untested as they are. What I want is to become a better Mecat pilot.”
“Keep practicing. But turn off the smoke effects. You restart the simulator over immediately and not have to wait for it to air out,” Mark suggests. “You aren’t untrainable, Commander.”
“I don’t have the aptitude for Mecat controls,” Reynard admits.
“A thousand years ago the Iphigenians invaded your planet, conscripting millions into their army to operate the combat vehicles highly similar to Mecats.”
“Maxtin shared all this with you?”
“The Admiral filled me in on a few facts.”
“I was placed in cryostatus over being trained to fight.”
“Doesn’t mean you couldn’t be trained for combat. Others were completely rejected and released. You were selected for another reason,” Mark says.
“None of which has much to do with making me a better pilot now. I need criticism on my piloting since the alternative is death.”
“Pilots who make it past their first battle have an increased ratio of future survival,” Mark says.
“Experience does help.”
“And mercenaries add a lot of hardware, improving their chances with the credits they earn. UCP pilots are forbidden to modify their Mecats, and Mokarran Cats are factory—no custom modifications. Behooves you to learn the weaknesses in each model Mecat. Take the ZN3-11s. They have a defect in the right leg joint. Focus your rocks there, and the intense heat will wield the joint tight or blow the leg off.”
“If the leg freezes, it’s still capable of firing,” Reynard says.
“Accurate. But it leaves them as a stationary target.”
“In the simulation, Mokarran Mecats—all Mecats—look the same.”
“They aren’t. There are different models. Learn them. Learn each type’s weakness. Target those areas. You’ll eliminate more of the enemy using less missiles. Leave cleanup to the smaller Cats who come in and finish those you damaged.”
“Military training, but I’ve studied merc lance footage. They aren’t cohesive in battle,” Reynard remarks.
Enter the Sandmen Page 24