He sweeps around the front of the craft. The shuttle’s landing, even on the rocky outcropping, was smoother than the mother ship. Tangled landing gear in the stone kept it from sliding further forward.
Joe and Hauser maneuver around the engine housing to the rear hatch. Reynard matches their pace and slides around the front at the same time. The right side wing and chunks of the side are burnt away.
JC brings the palm of her right hand up slowly in the air as if she were stroking the destroyed wing. Azure sparks tingle her fingers.
“Powerful mental energy courses through this damage.”
“No mental blast could do this,” Hauser says. “Not even the whole of all your sisters at the temple could summon the manifestation to blast away a metal hull.”
JC closes her eyes as she continues absorbing invisible energy. “It’s powerful. The mind doing this wouldn’t even measure on our telepathic scale.”
“Australia, you familiar with anything like this?”
“JC would be the telepathic expert. There are strict laws governing them. I have never heard of any species with such strong mental power. Her order would certainly know about them.”
“It could be a planetary anomaly, but no humanoid could be this powerful. Not without the sisters knowing.”
“He drug Michelle this way,” Joe inspects bent green-brown foliage.
“Scout ahead. Damage on the inside?”
Near the entrance the living skin shifts from around a palm pad. Reynard places his hand, and the hatch slides open. Pistol drawn, he inches inside the poorly lit chamber. Hauser keeps his weapon ready while Reynard holsters his and jerks a rifle from the rack.
He finds the serial code on the underside of the weapon. “We sold these weapons or gave them to rebels. Ki-Ton switched them with fakes.”
“IMC arms are the highest of quality.”
“Not the ones we gave the Braeco’ns.” Reynard grinds his grip on the rifle handle.
“Avenge them,” Hauser slips past him to the control panels.
“Not before I find out why.”
“Got to get your ship spacebound. These controls appear undamaged.”
Commander.
JC’s thoughts drift into Reynard’s mind. As if she slips a view finder mask over his eyes, a picturesque version of what she witnessed clouds his own vision.
“Stay in here, Hauser. No matter what. Get back to Scott. He’ll use this shuttle to repair the Dragon.”
“I don’t understand, Commander.”
“You have to trust me.”
••••••
FROM THE GREEN-BROWN grass, riders mounted on tiger creatures stride forward to encircle the shuttle. The beasts dwarf a Terran elephant. Astride them are nine-foot-tall riders.
The glint of a John Wayne movie moment encompasses Reynard, but these humanoids won’t give him a chance to circle any wagons. They sport curved blades effective at knocking down the grass, and they wear chaps from animal skins. No shirts—only painted skin of tribal markings decorate their chests, and their long hair has uneven chunks cut out of it.
He doesn’t need Australia to explain they’re an aboriginal culture, except these giants sport modified Halcary pain sticks.
Even Joe’s seven-foot frame is dwarfed by the tiger riders. The master Calthos warrior launches through the air, landing on the saddle molded over the greenish-brown tiger. The rider breathes his last breath before he can raise the pain stick.
Leahla reacts with speed to match Joe’s. Her blaster scorches the middle abdomen of a warrior.
Reynard’s pointer and middle fingers slide down, reaching his holster. Before completing the grip on the handle, he remembers when he first felt the sting of the electrical discharge on Earth after the Iphigenians invaded. Halcary warriors were a part of the empire then. They still use the pain sticks a thousand years later. These batons modified for the tiger riders would be a partisan in Osirian hands. The whap of the weapon across Reynard’s temple—nothing.
“SMERTH.” SHE JERKS her hand back, but not fast enough to avoid being bitten by an electrical spark.
Mark jumps back from the bridge console he was disassembling. “These panels still have power?”
“Control yourself. Some remaining energy has yet to bleed out of the circuit.” The poor light prevents Amye from determining how bad the burn is. “We clear consoles of all damaged mechanisms. We replaced components from the second deck, which should give Athena enough to incite self-repair.”
“One professor at the academy talked of developing self-repair systems with nanotech, but I’ve never heard of it being applied.”
“Microtech of this standard is beyond anything in the known galaxy. This is limited but highly specialized repair drones.” I think. “The designers wanted basic repairs to be controlled by the computer, but not major system overhauls. They didn’t want the A.I. deciding one morning not to need the crew.”
“Then it’s impossible to fully restore this ship,” Mark speculates.
“William won’t accept such talk about his home.”
Mark takes out a blackened computer panel. “Explain to me how such a young Osirian achieved the rank of commander.”
“What do you mean, Mark?” Kymberlynn pulls on Amye’s thoughts. Or maybe just the suspicious part. Maybe the cadets want to figure how to schmooze up to command, but both seem to ask a lot of questions about the crew.
“Reynard. He has the UCP rank of commander.”
“I thought it was just his title since he’s captain of the Silver Dragon and leader of our mercenary group,” Amye feigns.
“Makes sense, I guess. Admiral Maxtin would have to jump promote him because no way he earned the rank through the academy or the years of experience advancing in the fleet. He’s not much older than me, and he lacks distinct knowledge about simple flying.”
“He’s a crack pilot of the Dragon.”
“Jockeying a Mecat requires different dexterities.”
“Never an easy craft. You have to drive, walk, aim, fire, avoid, and breathe all in the same second. Not all Osirians have such coordination,” Amye snaps free charred controls.
“I bet your Calthos warrior would clean up on the battlefield, with four arms.”
We don’t own him. “I’ve seen him practice his forms. It’s poetry. The Commander has great form with his sword, too. He’s quite the master of the blade.”
“And he’s faster on the draw with a gun, but even with those quick reflexes he’s not meant for Mecat piloting.”
“The Admiral wanted you to share your skills with him. Find a way to train him.”
“I don’t want the man killed in his first battle, and he’s yet to master the simulator.”
“He’s had no training the way we have from birth in such talents, and yet he has gained the skills to pilot a spacecraft and face the Tibbar.”
The bridge rocks.
Amye knows the feeling of an internal explosion and the danger it has to what few systems were left undamaged by the crash. She bolts from the bridge, barely holding on to the fire suppression canister she grabs on her way through the doors.
Amye vaults over Doug to reach the burning wall panel. The white foam suffocates the fire, returning the corridor to darkness.
“Smerth’n hell! How many brainless draznots does it take to upset the power cuplinks? We don’t have the surplus to damage any more systems ourselves.” Amye grips the canister as if to brain Doug.
“Don’t yell, Little Sis.”
Amye whips her head around to find Kymberlynn behind her.
“Reynard said you died on Tartarus.”
“Do I look dead to you?”
“Amye, there’s no one there,” Doug shines his light to find an empty corridor. “Maybe you need an air filter. Still a smerth’n lot of fumes in here.”
“I just got the bridge components cleaned out, and you’re blowing up the corridor.”
“There are bound to be overloads.�
�� Doug changes the subject. “Are any of the self-repair systems functioning?”
“Nothing.”
“Scott wants to skip the bridge controls and wire directly into the engines. They seem undamaged, unlike these.” Doug drops a multiple-limbed robotic creature onto the tarp where Amye collects damaged parts.
“The ship’s repair drones.”
“Kelex and Kelor are both cooked,” Doug kicks the blackened mess.
“This ship has more automated repair systems?” Mark asks.
“All limited.” Doug explains, “The builders wanted to make sure no artificial intelligence became more important than the crew…”
“We’ve already hit upon that,” Amye snaps back to Doug. “What’s Scott want to do? If we wire directly into the engines to control the ship, bridge repairs are a waste of time. Three hours I could have fixed something we needed.”
“Correct. The forward cannons are only accessible from the bridge,” Doug confirms.
“We were cleaning out environmental and navigation. I haven’t touched weapons yet.”
“We’ve got to have a dry dock. Engines are essential,” Mark says.
“So are weapons and life support. It’s a long trip,” Amye snaps.
“We don’t know what dangers we face on this planet.”
“A monster with the metal capacity to use thought waves to crash a ship.”
“So pretty much any life form other than you,” Amye snaps at Doug. “Smerth’n git. What kind of plasma weapon could hurt a creature so powerful?”
“If you three don’t have anything better to do, I suggest we continue repairs.” Scott carries a lantern in one hand and power cables in the other.
“Well, ranking officer, if you want to change the repair schedule, then you better inform your underlings,” Amye barks.
“Insubordination suits you well, Amye, but now’s not the time.”
“I wasted three hours of time cleaning up bridge controls you don’t need.”
“I don’t know if I could rewire the controls. I was the one wasting time if I couldn’t and we’d be three hours behind on bridge repair,” Scott explains.
“Little compensation. I need some air.” Amye gathers the bundle of unrepairable parts and storms from the corridor.
••••••
AMYE DUMPS MORE cooked components onto the accumulating pile. She kicks over a few slagged parts. She gets two steps toward the cargo ramp before thundering snaps whir her around gun drawn.
Black smoke trails dust clouds billowing from above the tree line. Thruster engines whine like a wounded beast.
Amye slaps her commlink, unwilling to acknowledge Doug’s talent in getting them to work. “Companies arriving and they don’t sound happy.”
The treetops scrape along the bottom of the stolen shuttle. It makes a desperate hop to clear them before smashing into the clearing, skittering to a halt before an unmoving Amye.
The undercarriage, covered in deep scratches and gashes from being dragged for miles, marks the possibility of no more flight. The sheared-away wing assemblage guarantees the craft won’t be spaceworthy again.
Hauser steps through the smoke belching from the craft’s rear. He throws his hands up in a don’t-shoot gesture. “Easy, sweetheart.”
“Where’s William?”
“Your captain was taken prisoner by some locals.”
Amye levels her gun.
Scott snatches it from her hand. “Let’s hear him out.”
Amye sneers at the chief engineer.
“I’m not sure what my status is in the crew, but Reynard ordered me to return this shuttle to you,” Hauser explains.
“You’re not much of a pilot,” Amye says.
“I’m a good enough pilot to get it here without half the wing span and thruster chassis.”
“Navigation intact?” Scott knows the importance of the wounded shuttle.
“Whatever damaged us only took out the shuttle’s wing. All computers still function.”
Scott calculates a new repair plan.
“There’s more. Full racks of new IMC weapons.”
“The delivery for the Braeco’ns. No wonder they tried to kill us at the casino,” Amye steams.
“Ki-Ton’s been playing us for fools.”
“We’ve got to find William.”
“Keep your head, Amye. You don’t know his location. He wants the Dragon functioning. We’ll use the shuttle’s systems to operate the Dragon’s main controls. We’ll find him faster with sensors instead of running through the forest blind.”
Amye sucks in a breath. Of course Scott’s assessment’s correct, but somehow rewiring a shuttle doesn’t seem the best way to find William. She will not lose him on top of realizing her sister died in a shuttle accident on Tartarus. Wait, she just talked to her sister. She can’t be dead. The princess’s retrieval remains essential. She’ll never earn any normal life with Reynard if he loses Michelle.
“Athena claims we didn’t have clearance to control the Dragon from the shuttle controls.”
“I’ll override the computer by direct wiring into the shuttle to disconnect each system. We’ll replace bridge controls. At a real dry dock.”
“Whatever docking web or tractor assembly the Dragon uses to draw in the shuttle has to be as damaged as the rest of her.”
“Those things prevent paint scuffing. At this point I care only for a tight seal and a clean coupling.”
“I bled a lot of power to get here. I doubt you have enough juice for more than turning this shuttle around,” Hauser adds.
“We got some power restored to main engines. We could run some cables across the cargo bay and feed whatever tractors in the shuttle.”
“I’ll check on the systems, but the shuttle will have to turn around.”
Amye crawls into the shuttle bay. None of the docking clamps seem damaged. As long as they line the doors up the stupid idea should work. Along the rim of the bay before the living skin flows around the shuttle bottom, she discovers shield emitters. Buffers to keep the shuttle from banging into the walls, but such an advanced ship should have more of a docking system.
Doug drops a power cable through the door. “Find the tractor system yet?”
“Just shield emitters.” Amye runs her hand along the smooth walls. Even if such a device is hidden, she hopes to find a seam for the storage compartment.
Doug snaps the power nodes into a floor receptacle. He punches a command into the handheld computer, and energy whirls to life. Lights bombard the chamber, and the shield emitters glow with a light haze.
“Athena.” Amye calls to the computer after pressing her watch.
Nothing.
“I’ve not even gotten to a point to jack in. Power to main systems has been priority.”
“How long until the shield emitters have enough power?”
“Now. They don’t store it. They just work when needed.”
“Let’s get the shuttle in here. Access Athena through its computer. I need sensors online.”
“We’ve got to hardwire the shuttle computer into the hyperdrive engine.”
“Doug, we have to find William.”
“Smerth’n hell, Amye. We’ve got to fly first.”
“I’ll fix the sensors. You get us off the ground,” Amye pushes Doug into the cargo bay before activating her commlink. “Bring her in, Scott.”
The living skin parts as the shuttle slams into the ceiling of the shuttle bay. Amye lands on top of Doug from the crash. The Dragon rocks back, sliding into the lake a dozen feet. Water laps at the landing ramp. The shield emitters hold the shuttle. Once Amye hears the docking clamps lock, she shoves herself off Doug.
“Draznot. Scott, you git-minded frelling dreck-head. We don’t need more damage.”
“I had no lateral control.” Scott steps out of the shuttle. “Doug, if you’re done with your nap, we need to run optic cables from the shuttle to main engines.”
Doug rolls to his stomach i
n order to push onto his knees. “Primitive.”
“But fast.”
“It’s a lot of impaction to push through such cables.”
“Then run as many as you have to lighten the load. Amye, since I know you’re going to anyway—fix the sensors. I want to be airborne in three hours.”
CONSTANT MURMURS STIR in Reynard’s ears. The murmur expounds into chanting, fully rousing his thoughts to documentary footage of African tribal dances. His eyes focus on the nine-foot warriors hop-dancing in place with raised weapons in the air. They grab at their hair cutting loose chunks to toss in the flames consuming their fallen companions. Even in his blurry state Reynard deduces this ritual dance honors fallen warriors. The question racing through his sluggish mind is how they honor the killer of their brothers.
The pain stick blast was stronger than the one he received a thousand years ago on Earth. Reynard won’t forget the surging arcing agony. It was the worst pain he’d ever felt, even more than the exhausting fatigue brought on by training under Joe’s clan; now this new attack tops his worst moment. His head remains foggy. Finger spasms trail up his arms. Nerve control has yet to be regained.
From the setup of this funeral ceremony he’s been unconscious for hours.
Strange alien planets, adventuring pirates, and ray guns are the fantastical moments of imagination boys dream of if they don’t want to be a cowboy or fireman. No matter how much he wanted to be Buck Rogers or Captain Kirk, real space adventures are little to nothing like a TV show. Never mind the tedium of training every day to understand technology nuances, Osirians are the bottom of the food chain for most societies—socially and physically. A humanoid species themselves, the Iphigenians found the perfect cannon fodder on his planet.
How does he take out a nine-foot alien with a primitive projectile gun? The magnum works among aliens closer to his own frame. Plasma blast resistant fibers are woven into most clothes and will absorb some of the beam, but they are not Kevlar and a bullet tears through them in an instant. Durasteel shells penetrate Tibbar armor, but it takes a lot to kill a Tibbar.
Enter the Sandmen Page 28