Enter the Sandmen

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Enter the Sandmen Page 25

by William Schlichter


  “Mercs are collecting Confirmed Kill Notches. CKNs get you paid. They won’t disable an enemy Mecat because someone else will get their score. Some merc consignments even offer bonuses based on number of kills acquired.”

  “If we’re going to form a Lance we need to fight that way.”

  “Commander, I recommend you hone your skill and survive before you worry about pay. If Admiral Maxtin funds your group, you needn’t worry about credits at first. An advantage you’ll have over every other mercenary.”

  “But CKNs build my reputation. Gives me street cred.”

  “Street cred?” Mark seems confused.

  “Terran term relating to your credibility as a thug.”

  “I knew it didn’t translate correctly.” Mark resets the simulator’s perimeters. “It should be ready.”

  Reynard climbs inside.

  As he performs his preflight checklist, Mark inquires, “Out of curiosity, Sir, what did the Academy aptitude examines reveal?”

  “Feel you’re wasting your time, Cadet?” Reynard has never been one for the manacles of command procedures.

  “With all due respect, I should be training full academy classes. I’m gifted in Mecat combat but barely remember to lace up my boots. I just wanted to know if you’re a gifted pilot or gifted at lacing boots.”

  “I understand. Everyone has an aptitude for certain skills and those aptitudes need to be cultivated.”

  “Had you been born in the UCP they would have tested you and tested you, shifting you into programs accelerating your natural skills instead of useless courses.”

  “The UCP eliminates freedom of choice.”

  “No, freedom of chance. You have choices. They’re just in areas where you’re skilled. Why waste money on resources to educate someone in an area they aren’t good at just because they want to try it? Think about it. If I am trained and challenged in an area I have a natural ability in I will excel further and be successful, which releases natural chemicals in my brain that make me feel good. Why would I not want to do that in my life? Everyone does what’s needed to benefit society.”

  “What if I had creative, artistic talents?”

  “You mean you want to grow up to be a poet? Entertainment’s a career. The UCP has a department making vid shows and holoemersion games.”

  “Not quite the same as someone writing a poem. Many cultures are measured by their poetry.”

  “No system’s perfect, but eliminating the useless drain on resources protects society, not an individual. It’s a highly debated issue, but one person is not worth more than the entire group.”

  “You’re here for one person. Your talents would be better served training squads of pilots, not just one man.”

  “My experiences on the Dragon and engagement into combat will benefit countless cadets.”

  The commlink chirps, “Commander, report to the bridge.”

  AMYE SQUEEZES HERSELF into the shortened leg room space below her weapons station console. With little wiggle room to maneuver, she flips her legs into the seat of her chair. With a small panel open she fishes a probe tool inside.

  Reynard holds in a laugh at the sight of Doug hanging over Amye’s position. To anyone just entering the bridge looks more like a twisted act of coitus rather than a repair scenario.

  Amye removes a small crystalized microprocessor from inside.

  Doug takes the probe tool, carefully inserting the crystal into his handheld scanner. After a few seconds he reads through the data.

  “How did you even find this?” Doug asks.

  “I simply searched for components I couldn’t access instead of continually trying to access the security level above the Command Code Level.”

  “So what does it do?” Reynard asks.

  “The Dragon’s full of them. They’re the higher-level protocols for advanced systems we didn’t even know she had,” Amye says.

  “Cloaking shields, a one-pad transporter, scanners capable of identifying subdimensional riftgates. What more advanced tech could possibly be on this ship?”

  “I doubt removing all of these crystals will release the security locks.”

  “It’s a start at least,” Reynard says.

  “More than a start. With this chip removed, Doug might convince Athena to track the shuttle by reprogramming the crystal.”

  Doug nods. “It’s possible to access just one crystal over the entire smerth’n security grid.”

  “A ‘divided they fall’ situation. One isolated security system would be easier to defeat than the entire next work,” Amye speculates.

  “I could develop a Trojan horse to allow me to work my way to beat the system, but I have no time table for such a task.”

  “It’s impossible for us to search twenty-six star systems,” Reynard says.

  “Incoming transmission from Aurora,” Athena reports.

  “This isn’t healthy.” Reynard groans before ordering, “On screen.”

  The main view screen towers with the image of Queen Aurora.

  “I demand the return of Princess Aurora.”

  Doug silences the transmission, “She’s smerth’n serious?”

  “A ploy to appease the Mokarran,” Australia offers.

  “The transmission has a smerth’n tracking virus embedded in it. I’ll shut it out.”

  Reynard waves his hand signaling Doug to open the comm channel.

  “You dare send your assassin to end my life under the guise of ancient alliances,” the queen steams.

  “We’re not assassins.”

  “Micah Donkor would disagree. You failed with me, Commander, and Admiral Maxtin has been unavailable far too long.”

  “End transmission,” Reynard orders.

  “I’ll bet she dispatched those Halcary,” Amye says.

  “Worry about her once we get Michelle back. Find the shuttle.”

  “I came to the bridge to eliminate two star systems,” Australia reports.

  Scott ceases his computer programming to stare at his mate. “What have you found?”

  “With this last piece of information from the queen, I believe Ki-Ton has been perpetuating the elimination of Maxtin’s secret contacts. One of Maxtin’s agents is rumored to be on the moon of the sixth world in the Al’nurt system. I speculate this as his next target.”

  “He has the princess. Why drag her along as he makes an assassination attempt?”

  “Guilt. We show up and someone dies…we become suspected.”

  “Unless you find a way to track our shuttle, we’ll initiate our search there.”

  ••••••

  “TRACK HIM!” REYNARD shouts.

  “Locked on the engine signature. He jumps again, we got him,” Scott rejoices.

  “Commander, this has been his third traceable jump. His behavior has mocking tendencies,” Australia warns.

  “We know it’s a trap, but he has Michelle.”

  Amye works the weapons console. “He’s not activating his jump engines now despite being out of range of the null field.”

  “The third planet in the system has a humanoid viable ecological system,” Australia reports.

  “What is this system?”

  “TSF H00978. It is just a catalog number in a database.”

  “Means there are no civilizations of technological worth.” Amye performs her own scans. “Neurodynamic,” Amye mumbles.

  “What, Amye?”

  “There are two strong pockets of neurodynamic energy in the northern continent,” she says.

  “Telepathic life forms?” JC questions. She accesses the database. Under current law of telepathic registration, she should be able to learn facts about TSF H00978 from the Eir Basilica even Doug can’t access.

  The Dragon’s shuttle blends into the blackness of space until it aligns with the blue world.

  “Unless he attempts some kind of slingshot maneuver in order to lose us, he’s heading to the surface,” Scott says.

  “If he didn’t want
us to follow, we’d have never tracked him for the last three hyperspace jumps. He wants us on that world. I need planetary assessments.”

  “Nothing of interest about telepathic citizens,” JC reports. “It could be some kind of natural phenomenon.”

  Amye points out, “There’ve been no IMC mineralogical survey reports returned on the planet. They’ve yet to scan this system.”

  “No one cares when there’s nothing of value. Figures,” Reynard says.

  “I said no IMC reports, but they aren’t the only largest corporate mining operation in existence. Many others drill and grab as much from a planet before the IMC assumes mineral rights. Some of these microcompanies earn a substantial finder’s fee.” Amye draws up a mining company’s information. “I’m correct. This planet’s been surveyed, only…” Amye loses her thunder. “Doug’s going to have to hack their system.”

  “That had to hurt,” Scott taunts.

  “Smerth off.”

  “Ki-Ton’s flight path intersects with those pockets of neurodynamic energy.”

  Reynard matches the course and speed of the small shuttle. His fingertip rubs the weapons release button. He’d blast the craft from existence if Michelle wasn’t on board.

  The swift descent of the shuttle sends her between two rock spires.

  The Dragon’s left wingtip clips the top of one spire.

  Sparks of blue lightning flash across the hull.

  Throughout the bridge electrical surges bite each member of the crew. Control panels spark and power down.

  The lake at the base of the spires grows bigger and bigger on the view screen before the image blanks.

  “CAPTAIN.” THE COMMUNICATIONS officer jumps from her seat. “Captain!”

  Kantian moves quickly to her station without running. His first officer joins him, ready to pounce on the subordinate.

  “You’re a Lieutenant and a bridge officer. You represent example to the crew. Nicholls, you don’t scream out while on the bridge.”

  “Sorry, Sir.” She lowers her head. Behind her left ear a cable runs into her jacker implant.

  “What was the transmission?”

  “It’s not a transmission. Well, it was…my sister on the Crescent Moon wanted to know if I had seen this video uploaded to the ISN. People require authentication, Sir.”

  “Main view screen,” the first officer orders.

  “No. Always view data first, Dar’Jeryd, before you share with the crew. Prevention’s better than damage control,” Kantian offers to his first officer.

  “Play it, Nicholls.”

  The Silver Dragon’s footage of the Throgen/Mokarran encounter scrolls on the screen.

  Kantian holds his thoughts long after the viewing.

  Finally, Nicholls asks, “Sir, who would capture actual footage of a battle with the Mokarran? It has links to sensor readings as well.”

  “I’ve seen Mokarran/Throgen battle footage before,” Dar’Jeryd says.

  “We all have, but they were released by the Mokarran. Many had jump cuts in the footage and never a sensor log. This appears captured by a passerby,” Kantian speculates.

  “Sir, the Mokarran are letting their own fighters be slaughtered.”

  “Appears so, Lieutenant. You downloaded this from ISN?”

  “Jackers have attempted to destroy the transmission, but it shifts from one source computer server to another on a seemingly random time interval. Whoever programmed the release has more hacking skill than Near-Galely.”

  “Placement on the ISN by a computer hacker harms the credibility of the transmission,” Kantian says.

  “The Mokarran will claim as much,” Dar’Jeryd concurs.

  “The Mokarran have no credibility.”

  “The battle cruiser’s not firing its main cannons on the Throgen ship, Sir,” Nicholls notes.

  “Damage of some kind,” the first officer offers.

  “Make sure UCP Command is notified of this transmission, and send a copy direct to VP-Admiral Easter.”

  “Right away, Sir.”

  Kantian resumes his stance at his captain’s chair without taking his seat. Dar’Jeryd joins him. “Captain, those Throgen fighters were capturing as many Tri-Wings as they were destroying.”

  “I noticed. Authenticate the transmission. Have another jacker run the scans and get someone on the Autarchy to check it as well. We get a few more fleet captains viewing it and the UCP won’t bury this.”

  “Why would they? It’s valuable tactical information against Throgen forces if nothing else.”

  “Common knowledge of a tactic usually leads to changes of strategy in order to design a countermeasure to it.”

  “I hadn’t thought, Sir.”

  “Neither did the helpful souls who uploaded the video. It makes anything we learn about Throgen useless.”

  “I don’t think they were as concerned about us knowing how the Throgen fight as much as witnessing the Mokarran failing to provide covering fire to their own ships.”

  “I need to brief Admiral Easter.”

  Kantian seals the door to his personal office behind the main bridge, the ideal spot when a captain needs a private moment to consider a decision not produced by a high-stress situation such as combat. Maybe it’s better to hide in moments of weakness. Prevent the crew from witnessing their leader unsure of himself.

  He activates his communication console.

  Within a minute, Sergeant Yaren appears on the view screen.

  “Secret agents aren’t at your beck and call, Captain,” he snarls.

  “You’ve absconded with credits under your dishonorable discharge.”

  “Which has gotten my foot in the door with a merc lance, but I’ll be unable to drop everything to report to you and keep my guise.”

  “New information surfaced.”

  “The broadcast of Throgen and Mokarran fighting. Lancers are swilling over it.”

  “What do a bunch of mercenaries care?”

  “Mokarran hire mercs. None of them will want to take a Mokarran consignment knowing they’ll be abandoned on the battlefield.”

  “They’re drawn to Summersun for Mokarran credits.”

  “Not this time.”

  Kantian raises from the comfort of his chair. “Have you learned why?”

  “I fell in with this merc group, The Bettys, they’ve taken the emblem of buxom women who used to adorn the bombing planes during some German-American war on Osiris. Someone’s hiring Lances and they need a fifth man to fill out another barb to get a special rate consignment.”

  “You achieved your goal faster than you thought possible.”

  “I’m refitting a Mecat now. No one seems to know who hired us, but it wasn’t the Mokarran-controlled Summersun government. It was an off-worlder who put out a call. Hired some Lance called the Monster Squad to bring in the mercs, or so rumors say.”

  “An outside third party wants the secession of Summersun…” Kantian taps his index finger on the console. “I need regular reports.”

  “I’ll report what I learn when I’m able.”

  “If conflict initiates…”

  “I’ll inform you, Captain. It will be soon. Too many bored mercs leads to its own problems.” Sergeant Yaren flips off his view screen.

  “I’M HAVING TROUBLE with this translation,” Nytalyan admits.

  “You’re doing so well with apples,” Saltāl encourages her.

  “The Mokarran have no word for apples. They’re an aquatic species. Apples are a dry land fruit. It was just an example.”

  “Still, you’re understanding the language.”

  “Not as well as I thought.”

  “Try explaining it to me,” Saltāl says.

  “In their prayers the Mokarran use the phrase over and over again: To cleanse, have cleansed, need to cleanse. I’m not sure which it is. It changes meaning in some of the text.”

  “We know the Mokarran want to cleanse the unworthy.”

  “It’s not translating right. I
never thought this would be so difficult.”

  Saltāl grabs a bound book from a drawer. “I was reading some text on recovering dead languages. Treat the Mokarran religious speak as a dead language and piece it together.”

  Nytalyan’s impressed with her cohort. “It might be viable to explore. How’d you consider this?”

  “I was using some archeological research to locate the Mokarran’s origin planet.”

  “I’m not even sure the Mokarran know. I assumed it was an oceanic world with an expanding sun,” Nytalyan speculates.

  “What drew such calculations?”

  “Evolution. They’re shark creatures in transition to land dwellers. Significant physical transition means the oceans were drying up enough to drive them towards land. They breathe air both from water and gas. The evolutionary process seemed to have halted once the Mokarran left their planet and explored the stars.”

  “A reasonable deduction. Should we bring in an evolutionary biologist into our group?” Saltāl asks.

  “Only if they could lead us to a home world and the planet has original material to translate.” Nytalyan considers for a moment. “Actually, if you feel we need another co-conspirer, I would feel comfortable with someone inside the communications department.”

  “If you think we need one, I’ll investigate for a trusting soul. We must keep our sedition small—I figure.” Saltāl digs the edge of a coin into the nearly invisible seam of the wall panel. The panel pops from the seal. “I discovered much of the command base was not constructed by Mokarran, unlike the new fleet being built at the Engal IV shipyards.”

  Nytalyan lowers her computer pad. “Changes the dynamics of the ships?”

  “The Mokarran are so massive they physically won’t fit inside some of the narrow maintenance tubes sometimes necessary inside a star ship. The new designs forgo such hatchways to eliminate the need for smaller species on the ship. This base has still a string of tunnels too small for any Mokarran to fit.” Saltāl lifts the panel from the wall.

  “Explains why the Mokarran are sending older vessels with those they consider lesser species into battle on the front lines. They use up the resource and eliminate those they consider unworthy without hurting their war machine.”

 

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