Treasure of the Silver Star

by Michael Angel

  Cannon fire ripped open the Ranger’s left wing strut. Sebastiàn converted the sudden loss of lift into a barrel roll. Ruger’s coup de grace missed. The shells blasted an outcropping of rock, showering the valley with gravel. Desperately, Sebastiàn dropped the patrol ship down to the canyon floor. Jet wash churned up the stream below. Gunfire kicked up spray in their wake.

  “Pull up!” Drake cried, as the stream bed ended abruptly in a rocky ridge.

  Sebastiàn grunted, throwing as much power as he could to lift the ship’s mass. A cracking sound as they took off the tops of trees. Then a splintering concussion behind them as Ruger’s strafing ripped apart the rest of that section of forest, setting the area afire.

  “Can’t make it out this way,” Drake muttered. Then his eyes widened in realization. “Tally, do we still have a link to the temporal engine’s control console?”

  “Still there,” she acknowledged. “But we can’t transport anything in that could possibly stop that shuttle.”

  “There’s one thing I can think of,” he said, as Sebastiàn did another sickening drop. Ruger’s fire skated over them. “Do you remember the spot in Ogala City where we took off?”

  She nodded, trying to understand.

  “Look up those coordinates! Ruger forced us to give his cruiser our spot every year at this time!”

  “Got it!” she exclaimed, catching on.

  Tally got to an open console. She didn’t look up as she input the data. The ship heeled to the right. She heard the angry squeal of rending metal.

  “I’m losing power,” Sebastiàn stated. “Controls getting sluggish on me.”

  Tally punched in her last instruction, sending the order to the Sargasso engine as it sat patiently in its subterranean chamber.

  Ruger squinted he lined up the smoking, crippled wreck of the patrol ship in his sights. The tips of his fingers curled forward to apply the deadly pressure.

  Then he saw the strange shimmer in the air ahead.

  His breath closed off in a harsh rattle as the impossible took place. The shimmering form hardened like the facet of a diamond. His eyes widened in horrified recognition.

  That’s my ship! How in all that is holy could it…

  Implacable shimmered into existence, her bow and stern almost touching the sides of the narrow gorge. As she solidified, the blast of the slipstream caught her upper decks. She rolled to starboard, exposing her underside.

  Ruger’s shuttle slammed into the cruiser with enough force to breach the armor plate. The shuttle’s mass fireballed into the cruiser’s lower decks, setting off internal explosions with a skull-flattening concussion. Blue and yellow flames fountained from the hull breach, and the ship sank with a slow majesty to the canyon floor.

  A rumble came from deep under the planet’s surface. From the base of the canyon, far to the rear, a puff of black smoke reared its head into the sky. With power to the temporal anode lost, Implacable never completed her fall. Instead, the huge ship rippled and faded before she touched the tree tops, disappearing as if she had been a trick of the light.

  Epilogue

  The Ranger lay on the beach like a crippled falcon, one of her wings hanging limp against her frame. Her hull, never a thing of beauty in ages past, was now pitted with dozens of shell fragments and dotted with ragged holes. Ferra fingered one of the openings punched in the thick metal. She absently gave thanks to whoever had designed her baby with enough armor plating to keep her occupants safe inside.

  She joined her companions as they stretched out around the bonfire they had built further up the shore. The flames were bright, but the wood they had taken from the local trees gave off a minty scent that got into meat. So instead of using the fire for cooking, the crew chose to live off the emergency stores in the Ranger’s hold.

  “Most of the damage isn’t serious,” she reported, and she saw Drake relax at the news. “We’ll be able to finish patching up the important stuff in forty-eight hours.”

  “Isn’t that great,” Tally yawned and stretched her legs out. “Stuck out here in the middle of nowhere for two more days with nothing to do.”

  “Couldn’t you get anything working on the bridge?” Kincaid asked, as he hobbled over on a makeshift crutch.

  “Got the sensors working for a little while,” Drake replied. “Sebastiàn confirmed what I’d guessed: there aren’t any other ships in orbit around Sargasso.”

  “What? How?”

  Sebastiàn looked up from where he’d spooned out another serving of canned peaches to go with his dried beef. “Nobody can be sure, but I think the final use of the Sargasso engine finally did what we’d been talking about. Bringing in Implacable changed the time line.”

  “I brought Implacable out of your own repair dock, one year ago,” Tally explained. “The one Ruger kept kicking you out of so he could refurbish his ship.”

  “Rather poetic justice, when you think about it,” Drake remarked, as he took a gulp from a hot cup of instant coffee. “But there could have been plenty of other changes. I just hate not knowing what we’re going to find if we head back into Terran space. For all I know, there’s an all-points nullspace transmission out for our capture, dead or alive.”

  “A nullspace transmission?” Sebastiàn sat up. He hit his forehead with the heel of his hand and exclaimed, “Soy tan estúpido! Of course!”

  “Your niece’s present,” Kincaid said, catching on. Sebastiàn dug in his pack and brought out the comm pad. “I can’t believe I didn’t think about that.”

  “Quiet,” Ferra admonished. “I want to hear what’s happened.”

  Sebastiàn wasted no time setting up links to the Terran news archives and data banks which were hundreds of light years away. Yet they poured information into his machine as if he were at a news stand in Ogala City.

  “Here’s the headline for the Kennedy Reporter, one year ago today,” Sebastiàn said as he passed the comm pad to Drake with a mysterious smile.

  Drake looked at the softly glowing screen. It was a picture of Implacable, her port side blown open and sunk into the sticky Ogala mud. The large print article read: FREAK SHUTTLE ACCIDENT WRECKS CRUISER.

  “Among those missing and feared dead is Fleet Commander Vernon Ruger, twenty-five year veteran of the Terran military service,” Drake read. His eyes went wide as he continued. “Commander Benjamin Drake, interim chief officer of the Ogala-based Terran Home Guard, was at a loss to explain why...”

  “Commander?” asked Tally.

  “Of course,” Drake said, and despite himself, he began to laugh heartily. He gave Tally a knowing glance. “Like I told you, I’ve been in the Guard just about as long as Ruger.”

  “And command positions are given out by seniority,” Tally finished. She shook her head in amazement. “With Ruger dead, you were next in line!”

  “Wait a minute!” Kincaid interrupted. “Does that mean we’re not going to have every captain in the Terran forces out gunning for us?”

  “What, do you think I’m going to issue an arrest warrant for myself?” Drake finished off his drink with a final swallow. “No, I’ve got a feeling that we’re going to be walking into some new lives for ourselves, and we’d best figure out how to fit into the new arrangement.”

  Ferra snorted. “Who would believe us if we told them the truth? That Ruger really died out here on the galactic rim?”

  “Well, if Ruger never sent us out, then how do we know that we ever really blew up the Sargasso engine after all?” Sebastiàn asked. He did an immediate double-take. “What am I saying?” He shook his head to clear it. “This time travel stuff is too complex for me.”

  “The engine’s gone,” Ferra confirmed. “I tried to patch the link into it after we landed. There’s nothing left to receive. I guess…well, that the universe is a lot messier about dealing with paradox than we’d like.”

  Tally sighed. “Such a waste. The things I could have done with that machine.”

  “Cheer up,” said Drake, “Remember, if
Ruger never turned on us, then he never froze your bank account, either. So at least you’ve got access to your money again.”

  “Now that I think about it,” Kincaid said, brightening, “If she’s got her credit back, and you’re filling Ruger’s spot…”

  “Then maybe we poor souls can transfer to a real military outfit!” Ferra broke in, her voice merry. “How about it, Commander? Care to use any of your newfound clout to help out your loyal crew?”

  “Loyal? That’s gratitude,” Drake joked. “You finally get somewhere in life and all your good people try to leave you.”

  Someone on board the ship managed to locate several bottles of wine, all of which were consumed with much celebration through the rest of the evening. Darkness fell as the silver-tinged sun sank below the horizon. One by one, the crew of the Ranger left the glimmering pile of glowing bonfire embers on the beach and turned in for the night.

  Tally remained at the last, looking out meditatively at the horizon where Naq Al Sharif sent out a final few rays of light. Drake emerged from the ship and came to stand at Tally’s side. He extended an arm to her, and she snuggled in close.

  “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to join me tonight. To stay in my cabin, I mean,” Drake began awkwardly.

  She gave him a curious look. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Well, it did cross my mind that things could have changed for you now. I mean, we’re no longer on the run...”

  Tally sighed, but it was one of sympathy, not annoyance. “Benjamin, you’ve been flying ships around the solar system for too long to really understand women.”

  They were quiet for a while.

  “So…” Drake urged, “things haven’t changed?”

  A soft, feminine laugh. “Of course not. Keep the bed warm for me, okay? I’ll be along in a bit. I just need to be by myself for a little while.”

  “Are you sure that you’re okay?” he asked.

  “As a matter of fact, everything in the world seems very right about now.”

  He nodded, and then brought her in for a hot, passionate kiss. Drake went back inside. Tally waited another minute and then knelt by the few remaining flames of the bonfire.

  She pulled out the crumpled, bloodstained paper she’d had in her pocket and smoothed it out. It hadn’t looked like much when she had pulled it from the ruins of Ruger’s jacket, but treasure maps can be deceptive in appearance.

  Tally read through the compilation of temporal anode sites. Then she went over the long list of transported artifacts used to test out the platforms. Some of the items were thousands of years old and worth more than her entire collection.

  She read the list one more time, and then closed her eyes, reciting the contents to herself.

  Tally fed the paper into the remains of the fire. The sheet crinkled and blackened into powdery ash. She smiled her trademark grin, and the bonfire’s flames continued to dance in her eyes as she walked back to the ship to rejoin Benjamin Drake.

  # # #

  Meet Michael Angel

  Michael Angel's worlds of fantasy and science fiction range from the unicorn-ruled realm of the Morning Land to the gritty 'Fringe Space' of the western Galactic Frontier. He's the author of the bestselling Centaur of the Crime, where C.S. Lewis meets CSI. His many books populate shelves in languages from Russian to Portuguese.

  He currently resides in Southern California. Alas, despite keeping a keen eye out for griffins, centaurs, or galactic marshals, none have yet put in an appearance on Hollywood Boulevard.

  Find out more about his latest works at:

  www.michaelangelwriter.com

  New Book Preview

  Enter the World

  of Michael Angel in

  Strangelets with a Side

  of Grilled Spam:

  Season One

  "...A slam-bang science fiction story!"

  - Dean Wesley Smith, USA Today Bestselling Author

  After the original short story spent 21 months on the Top 100 Lists, Strangelets with a Side of Grilled Spam: Season One takes us through the entire post-apocalyptic saga. Pursued by packs of deadly 'steelies', Lieutenant Shane MacWilliams and his Humvee crew journey through an America shattered by an alien invasion.

  Things look grim...until MacWilliams comes across something that could turn the tide. It falls to him and his crew to get the word out across a land choked with post-apocalyptic wreckage and teeming with deadly alien monsters.

  Their journey is blocked by steelie hunter-killers, vision-shrouding sand storms, and nightmare plains turned to radioactive slag by nuclear fallout.

  And at the end looms their final confrontation with a horde of aliens set to wipe out the human species!

  The pages that follow

  provide a glimpse into

  Strangelets with a Side

  of Grilled Spam:

  Season One

  Available from

  Banty Hen Publishing,

  and at all major

  eBook retailers.

  Strangelets with a

  Side of Grilled Spam

  Michael Angel

  Chapter One

  I got nothing against Willie Nelson. But I’ll swear on a stack of Gideon bibles that listening to On the Road Again for two solid weeks has got be grounds for murder. And no sensible jury back home would convict me.

  But I couldn’t kill Church. He was my friend, even if he did believe that the last four words of the National Anthem were ‘Gentlemen, start your engines’. And I needed someone behind the wheel of the Humvee while I handled the roof-mounted machine gun. I sure wasn’t goin’ to put Professor Norbett on the SAW. The Doc’s a fine guy, but the recoil would knock him on his pencil-pushing ass.

  “Damn it all, Church,” I seethed, “you’re just plain gettin' on my nerves now. Turn Willie down so I can finish my broadcast.”

  “Powerful sorry ‘bout that, sir,” Church moped. He flipped a switch on the sun-cracked dashboard and Willie fell blessedly silent.

  Over in the passenger seat, Doc Norbett breathed a sigh of relief. He went back to watching the cracked asphalt whiz by under our wheels.

  “Apologies to all you Nelson fans out there,” I added into the CB microphone. “We’re a stretch southwest of Kansas City now, on what’s left of I-35. We reckon on making the refugee camp near Tulsa soon, but if there’s anyone listenin’, y’all speak up plain. Until tomorrow, Lieutenant MacWilliams, out.”

  “Think anyone will respond to our pleas for communication?” Doc asked.

  “Doubtful. Been gettin’ static ever since we crossed into Kansas. Probably another radio-dead zone. Can’t tell where to get reception no more.”

  Doc nodded, then pulled out a battered tin that used to hold breath mints. He offered me some of the ropey-brown contents. “Dried grasshoppers. Sorry, Mac, but we’ve consumed the stores of soy paste.”

  I took my hunting knife out of my pocket. Speared one, and popped it in my mouth. Crunch of papery wings, mushy squish of guts in my teeth.

  Tasted as good as it sounded, too. I never could get used to chewing on bugs. But anything bigger than a rat had been eaten by the steelies after Day Zero. Or just ended up dead. Like most the rest of the world.

  It had gotten harder over the last three years. Not just to survive. To recall what it was like to feel alive.

  I shuddered. Sat up straight in the back seat of the Humvee as we rolled on. My senses tingled. The hair on the back of my neck stood at parade-ground attention.

  Don’t you think that I’m exaggerating. You ain’t seen the back of my neck, which is about as wide as a damned parade ground. But I listen to my instincts. I scanned the countryside rolling by the sides of the old highway with a cynic’s eyes.

  Day Zero had been hell on men and animals. But plants were doing well for themselves. Brambles dotted with flowers spilled like falls of green and purple water out of abandoned cars, burned-out buildings. The trees by the roadside grew green and lush. ‘Un-kept and wild as a weed,�
� my momma would’ve said.

  A whole flock of goose pimples pricked up my arms when I saw it. One side of the trees up ahead didn’t look right. Too regular. Not natural. Not quite right. Some alien intelligence behind it.

  “Hellfire,” I breathed.

  Church’s knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. Doc snapped to and laid a hand on the shotgun he kept up front. They’d heard me curse like this too often. I never did so without reason.

  “We got steelies, Lieutenant?” This from Church.

  “Reckon so. Gimme a sec to get behind the SAW, then floor it.”

  “Floor it? Or drop the hammer?”

  “Christ, you think we’re goin’ to flame the engine out again?”

  “Naw, I got it fixed, skipper. Pretty sure.”

  “Pretty sure?” Doc’s eyes bugged out. “There’s a stretch of asphalt north of Atlanta that I would venture is still smoking.”

  “Doc’s got a point,” I said. “Same thing that happened outside of Nashville and St Louis.”

  “Y’all are just a barrel of laughs,” Church huffed. “But I re-jiggered the compressor so that it’ll run as smooth as Johnnie Walker Blue.”

  I considered. Church was one hell of mechanic – otherwise I’d never have let him talk me into putting a supercharger onto a Humvee’s motor block. I honestly wouldn’t trust him to count to twenty-one without unbuckling his pants, but the man knew his way around engines.

  I slipped my goggles on under the brim of my helmet, gave him a thumbs-up, and then popped the roof hatch. Hot, dry air whistled in my ears. Taste of road dust and gritty earth in my mouth.

  I slipped my fingers around the sun-warmed grip of the machine gun.

  “Drop the hammer, Church.”

  The compressor spooled up with an oily belch. Then a WHAM! as the supercharger erupted with the howling wail of a banshee getting an ice-water enema. Our Humvee became a Bondo-colored blur.