Kantian’s crew—trained and trained—know their job. It’s been drilled into them what they must do until they do it in their sleep. The problem—none of them have ever had to do it while being fired upon. The marines experience live-fire exercise. They even train with shock weapons that send painful bursts of electricity through their bodies when hit to remind them what it is to be shot. But not bridge officers. It could be the real reason for the secure bracers on the helm and weapons stations. If the weapons officer flees for an escape pod with the first plasma blast impacts, he would destroy all morale.
“Lieutenant, call it—two minutes.” Kantian could stop all this at the two-minute mark. It would be dangerous to abort in hyperspace, but with two minutes they could stop all weapons locks and launches and feign engine malfunction. It would cost him his command over a half-assed interstellar incident. He has to take it all the way or not at all. Forgiveness will come from his victory.
“Two minutes, Sir.”
Two minutes of guaranteed life. Some of his crew will never see the UCP again. Never see loved ones. Never taste the air of their home world. Love another. Eat. Breathe.
Two minutes until the external cold, dreamless sleep engulfs them.
Kantian faces the reality there will be no turning back. This will make him the next VP-admiral of the UCP or a traitor.
The ever-changing wavering lights flash to a star field.
Klaxons blare, warning of instant activity occurring on the Deliverance.
Fighters accelerate past the main view ports. The transport crafts speed toward Summersun. Weapons locate and lock onto the most vital or vulnerable parts of the battle cruiser.
Transpiring with lightning speed in those first five seconds of materialization, no one on the entire ship with exception of Captain Kantian notices the beauty of the Mokarran battle cruiser.
The elongated ship resembles a Mokarran on its abdomen with the hammered front and no tentacles. Three dorsal fins line the center of her back with the middle one being the largest and possibly the location of the main command bridge. Ships of such magnitude should have redundant bridge stations operating the entire ship during an attack. Each designed to assume command if the other two have been damaged beyond operation. This class of cruiser does not register on the Deliverance’s battle computer, but clearly it is planet-killer size. Down the center of the craft extending from the mouth of the hammer is the end barrel of what could only be an electromagnetic projectile device.
Kantian’s seatbelt prevents his attempts to stand.
He wants to redraw his entire battle plan. Not knowing the cruiser actually was built around a rail gun changes the attack completely.
“Ensign, bring us to point-blank range.”
“Captain, our shields won’t hold.”
The Ensign’s protests fall on deaf ears.
The Mokarran craft fires. A small asteroid only about the size of a saltbox house smashes into the Deliverance’s hull. Since the device uses kinetic energy, the shields—designed to prevent energy penetration—are nonexistent. Even the heavily armored launch bay was no match against the first weapon used by so many creatures of intelligent design—a rock.
Gravity shifts all over the Deliverance. The hull’s bucking forces the ship off its trajectory. Kantian’s armrest digs into his side for the two seconds it takes for all systems to correctly adjust to the impact.
Fire alerts sound as other klaxons warn oxygen suppression systems have failed.
“Order all fire teams into the impact zone.” Kantian’s demeanor will reflect in the crew. “Ensign, bring us alongside.”
“We won’t last long against her plasma cannons.”
“We won’t last against mass driver.”
Even at the short distance between the two battle cruisers, the plasma beams flash before the view port like shooting stars. The beautiful sight clouds the fact each flash of light at the end of blue plasma is the ending of a life.
The Deliverance rattles from the impacts of plasma cannons on her shields. The swift returning concussion of her own cannons shakes the bridge.
None of his crew are shiny and untouched now. They have seen the face of death from battle and have withstood. Now they must survive.
“Captain, I’ve detected a power surge in what could be the mass driver’s engines. It took four minutes to cycle.”
“They would compromise their advantage maneuvering to face us if they are planning to shoot,” the Lieutenant offers.
More blasts rock the Deliverance. The white dots on the battle computer representing his fighters are outnumbering the red dots representing the Mokarran.
“It could be an automated cycling system. Until they attempt to fire, press our attack.” Kantian calculates his next order. “Have the fighters break formation and—”
“Captain, from the parlor orbit! A second Mokarran cruiser was hidden by the planet’s magnetic field.”
Kantian has no time to complete his order.
The second saltbox-house-sized boulder threads through the Deliverance’s hull above the weaker skeletal framed launch bays. Decompression klaxons wail. Bodies lacking environmental suits float past in some sick menagerie of humanoids, some still gasping for those last seconds of air.
Bulkhead seal.
The minable breathable atmosphere loss is negligible. The lost to morale is devastating. Kantian couldn’t help but count crew floating past. Twenty-five bodies he saw. There could be seven or eight times as many. So many deaths will turn his virgin crew into panic whelps.
“Damage report,” Kantian demands, remaining professional.
“Decks fifteen and sixteen are fully exposed to vacuum. Shield emitters have ceased function in…”
“Ceased. They’re gone, Captain. A single plasma bolt in that region...”
None of his intelligence suggested the possibility of a second plasma bolt. Retreat remains an option, but the consequences do not. His entire fighter squads and marine units would be lost, and he would have a crippled flagship and a prison term. Better to die one of the valiant in the attempt to protect the innocent than in retreat.
“Move us portside and directly under the first battle cruiser.”
“Sir, we won’t be able to fire the main guns at it.”
“Nor will they, and the second cruiser won’t be able to fire the mass driver for three minutes,” Kantian snaps.
“Sir, a third ship just dropped from hyperspace near the edge of the system. ETA three minutes.”
A third battle cruiser fully capable of firing now. The Mokarran are determined to keep Summersun, even if they scorch much of the crops they win by destroying such a necessary food supply to dozens of planetary systems, and I will lose my crew.
HIS BODY REFUSES to move. Reynard must move to survive after being backhanded through the glass wall by Ki-Ton. Seconds. The passing time has to be just seconds unless the impact blacked him out. Possible, considering the force sent him through something as hard as durasteel and designed to protect an object for ten thousand years.
His mind seeks a solution in the first seconds of denial. More remelted stone like in the tiger rider’s throne chamber. Remelting the rock somehow reinforced it against intense heat of a comet impact. They sent Ki-Ton off-world. So they had limited space flight. Why would shape-shifters need a spacecraft? Amye could tell me all about this rock.
No movement from his body keeps his thoughts racing. Some kind of giant telepath’s developed on this planet after the catastrophe. How long did evolution take? How long has Ki-Ton been alive? Shape-shifting hurts him.
Body, move!
Spring-loaded, Reynard leaps to his feet, gun in hand.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten durasteel shells slam into Ki-Ton’s frame, and luckily none strike Michelle.
Mushroom clouds of goopy flesh explode from the impact points. No blood spatters as the flesh gropes to catch the fragments. Each tear melts Ki-
Ton’s control over his body. Reynard spots his physical structure breaking down into the liquid state. With each step, Ki-Ton’s legs become a wobbling mass.
The mesomorph doesn’t use Michelle as a shield until JC scoops up a cylindrical container from inside the protected room. She activates controls on the side as if she knows the ancient device’s purpose.
Ki-Ton warns, “Don’t unleash the Sandman!”
JC flicks the final lock before Reynard protests.
The end cap falls to the stone floor. Bursting forth, sable robes jut and swirl around the ivory mask of some formless creature. It hovers in the air between them.
The mask full of twisted mangled humanoids swim across the surface as if trapped just beneath the surface. They scream voiceless screams of pain, struggling to break the grip of the ivory, but no effort allows them to leave. Mutilated people freeze as the creature’s bone hand lifts the mask.
Ki-Ton envelops the creature in a cocoon of his own flesh. The robes encase Ki-Ton’s flesh. They struggle to escape each other’s grasp.
Ki-Ton’s skin solidifies.
A tendril swims from the fight straight for JC’s forehead. Reynard, without thinking, shoves her and takes the impalement of darkness.
••••••
THE TIGER RIDER’S blade cleaves through Leahla. The pain, fear, and powerlessness of her death consumes Reynard. He failed to help her. He’s lost all ability to function. Not ready. How could anyone be ready for this? Some dumb farm kid dropped on an alien world. Yes, he had training. None of his training involved witnessing someone under their command just be killed. They just killed her. Reynard barely spoke to this girl who was added to his crew. He knew nothing about her. Leahla…He’s unable to recall her last name. She wasn’t just some extra to demonstrate the dangers found on this planet. She was a person…his responsibility. He was too preoccupied with his own ineptitude as a leader. Leahla’s death brings doubt to his ability to lead. Reynard’s unable to lead this crew. He can’t pilot a Mecat. He can’t fight the Mokarran. He can’t kill a Tibbar. He can’t protect the princess. He should have been found unworthy by the Iphigenians and left on his home world. Denied the gift of experiencing the wonders of the universe. Dead—like all his friends and family.
The tiger rider king raises his blade and cleaves Leahla in twain again.
Reynard’s stomach churns with the fear of not wanting to be next. He doesn’t want to die. Better Leahla than him. He wants to go back home. He shouldn’t be here. He never figured out how to lead these people. No thousand-year-old Earthling has the capacity to stop the Mokarran. He barely lived through the casino firefight without a change of underwear. How does he protect those under his command when he has to concentrate on not evacuating his bowels? Each one of those plasma blasts means someone wants him dead.
Dead like the politician Micah Donkor. He was a good man. He didn’t need to die. He was protecting his people even if it meant assisting the Mokarran. More people stayed alive than were slaughtered because of him. Now so many will suffer at Mokarran hands because of Reynard.
The tiger rider king raises his blade, cleaving through Leahla’s body. The two halves separate, and her insides fall out. Everything vital for a humanoid to exist splatters on the floor in a useless pile.
Reynard curls into a fetal ball. His fault—Leahla’s dead. Her blood is his fault just like Micah Donkor and all his people. Youshon’s death is his responsibly. He should have tested the weapons himself. Instead, he let Amye do it. He asked her to do his killing for him. How does he lead anyone if he doesn’t lead his crew? He can’t pilot. He can’t protect them. He can’t save anyone. Michelle will be dead. An innocent girl will die because of him. They should have never pulled him from cryogenic sleep. What was he thinking when he took the Silver Dragon? He could play Buck Roger and chase green women like Kirk.
The tiger rider king raises his blade and slices through Leahla. It was quick. It had to be painless as her eviscerated body pulls apart by the warriors holding her. Reynard hears the goopy splatter of entrails on the rock. As the warriors drag the separate halves, Leahla’s right breast plops from her clothes. Undignified, Reynard shifts his eyes, but not before he sees the mark. The red tattooed patterns the Queen, Micah Donkor and Youshon all wore decorates Leahla as well.
Reynard snaps from his depressive fear. The cadet, far too young to be at the UCP founding, has the same mark. His fear abates to anger at a clear conspiracy.
The tiger rider king kills Leahla again, only this time Reynard’s mind tugs back toward—fear. Something wants him to be afraid. Facing whatever invaded his mind. Not being afraid staves off his attacker.
Maxtin was personally assigned Leahla, and she has the mark of three UCP founders Ki-Ton had the crew interact with. Maxtin was a UCP founder. Maxtin has a book with the same mark. Leahla’s death doesn’t hang entirely on him. Not if she was sent as part of some grander conspiracy.
Did she have a mark, or has his mind placed it on her due to its importance?
JC holds a jagged-edge quartz. The Sandman slinks from sight, yelping in pain.
Reynard’s mind adjusts from being in the tiger rider king’s throne chamber. The smell of Leahla’s blood permeates his nose. He brushes his pointer finger against his nostrils, finding them wet. He smells his own blood.
••••••
“IT WAS IN my head—controlled thoughts—memories.”
Before JC speaks, Ki-Ton’s arm grows and slaps the crystal from her hand. It smashes into halves on impact with the ground.
“You invite those things with your actions.” Weak, Ki-Ton retreats from the chamber, abandoning Michelle.
JC grabs the quartz chunks. “The key to fighting those creatures.”
“They were pulling fear thoughts from me.” Reynard rubs his thumb over the blood. No clear fluid has mixed in.
JC’s own mind has tugging thoughts from the two crystal halves. She slides the broken grooves together, and the quartz seals as if it were never smashed. A focused beam of energy radiates to the floor, leaving behind a sleek sable feline.
“Samantha.” JC seems to just know the feline.
Reynard’s hand scoops his magnum from its holster. Shock still overcomes him from the fascinating unearthly events he witnessed. But trust has to be earned.
“There’s no need for your weapon, Commander Reynard. I am a mouthpiece you would recognize for the Hex Darmight.”
“Who to what now?” Confused, Reynard refuses to relax his grip on his gun.
“Michelle.” JC, still in possession of the crystal, breathes the purpose for them being here.
Reynard scoops the tiny girl into his arms, bringing her away from the corridor.
As he cuts free her bound wrists, he asks, “Where’s Ki-Ton?”
“The measure to ensure protection from a planetwide disaster disrupts telepathy.”
“Did he hurt you?” Reynard asks Michelle.
“I just want to go home,” she whimpers.
He holds her tight. “I share the feeling.”
“What do you know of this place?” JC demands from the cat.
“I have access to the knowledge of the Hex Darmight. But as it has been fragmented, so is the information contained within it,” Samantha explains.
“Why did the orb create you?”
“To guide you to its brother pieces. I’ll aid your finding of the fragments in order to reseal the Sandmen in their dimension.”
“After we get out of here, we’ll re-evaluate dealing with these Sandmen.”
“Commander, it’s not a choice. By using the Hex Darmight to drive the Sandman from your mind, you’ve revealed yourself to them. Perceived as a threat to them, you will be now and you must be prepared to defend yourself.”
Reynard contemplates shooting the cat. He snaps a glass fragment dangling from what was once the display chamber. As he rubs his fingers over the clear substance it doesn’t feel like glass or clear durasteel, but cras
hing through it will leave bruises. Certainly the chamber was meant to be protected through whatever catastrophe evolved the planet, so why would Ki-Ton damage it now? Reynard slips the ocular eyepiece from his belt, using its recording function to snap pictures of the shattered text now scattered on the floor.
He rolls the containment cylinder with his boot. “How did you know how to operate this device?”
JC waves her hand over the shattered word fragments. “There was strong…mental energy here.”
“Like the stones the witch doctor wears?”
“No. Older. Much more powerful. It called to outside. I was the Hex Darmight. It was inside. I didn’t know it was the seal to keep the Sandmen inside.”
Reynard slides a full clip into his magnum. “I have so many more questions. But we better finish Ki-Ton while he’s weak.” Reynard pockets his eyepiece. “Get Michelle out of here.”
“You’re forgetting the tiger riders.”
“Let them in. Maybe with an open door they’ll forget about us.”
••••••
IN THE CHAMBER beyond the grand room are dozens of cylinders containing a gelatinous mush. On the central raised platform Ki-Ton jams electrodes into the hardening mass of his body. Each moment sends grunts of pain from him. He struggles to pick up the next electrode.
Reynard uses the slowness of his advisory to properly aim. “You’re through, Ki-Ton!”
He turns. Soft flesh cracks where his skin hardens. “You Osirians are quite a stupid species.” Ki-Ton flings a bone spike from his hand.
Reynard leaps. The bone impacts the rock ground.
Can’t argue with you there after chasing you down this rabbit hole. “You could at least explain to me why you want to kill me. You went to an awful lot of trouble to become a part of my crew. With your abilities I could have died at any time at your hand.”
Ki-Ton grows another spike from his arm. “Physical death is not enough for a man like you.” The spike sends shrapnel pelting Reynard’s thigh. It works like buckshot into his skin.
Wet soaks his pants. Reynard ignores the pain. “Now would be as good a time for you to twirl your mustache and explain to me your diabolical motivations.”
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