Gunship - The Series

by John Davis

  “Are you insane? You know I don't have three thousand more credits on me,” Walter Jones said loudly. “I'd be a fool to carry that kind of money.” he added.

  “Yes sir, I'd be inclined to agree,” Dalton replied, stroking rough fingers through the course patch of his beard. “Well, how about you boys empty your pockets into the bag, including your watches and such. Then we'll just call it even.” Dalton demanded, kicking the sackful of credits a bit as it moved closer to them in the lifeless dirt.

  “Are you kidding,” Walter asked snidely. “Why don't you get on the ground and take the man's gold tooth too for God's sake?” he added loudly as his gun struck man still lay on the ground, a blanket of pain and agony doing little to quiet his screeching.

  Several minutes later Dalton stood there with a smile painted to his face and a loaded bag in his hand. “God damn you Dalton James, you'll pay for this!” Walter yelled, his man now one tooth shy and rolling on the ground in pure oral pain.

  Never one to pass up a suggestion to make money, Dalton had pulled a pocket knife from his brown coat; using its small set of pliers to jerk the golden tooth from the man's skull. It would only fetch thirty or so more credits, but that was money owed to him by Walter Jones and he wasn't about to leave it laying. Of course the man would have to do without tough meat in his diet for the next few days, but that was of no concern to Dalton.

  “Well boys, it's been a blast. I guess this is it until next time.” Dalton said in his usual wise ass tone, turning to walk away from the deal gone sour.

  “Dalton, if you ever show your face here again I swear I'll cut that damn smile from your skull,” Walter yelled. “You tell Adam Michaels I said the same!” he added.

  “That 'aint gonna happen.” Dalton replied, his cigar burned down to nothing more than a saliva ridden stub.

  Shortly after, Dalton boarded the ship, walking up the steel grating of the ramp as he was greeted by Whiskey. His pooch had been with him for a while now, a loyal friend who even sported his own custom made brown leather coat. It wasn't as thick as the one Dalton wore on his back of course, but the couturier had thrown it in for free. Together they looked almost like twins, the fur on Whiskey's face just a tad thicker of course.

  “Where's the Capt'n?” Dalton asked, petting Whiskey for a moment before standing with the bag of credits, jewelry and that single loose tooth.

  “Right here.” Cambria said, slowly moving down the spiral stairs that led from the cargo hold to the crew's quarters. She was perfect in every sense of the word, her lush curves tightly wrapped in form fitting cargo pants and tight t-shirt that did wonders in showing off her upper body. The upper body that interested men, of course. Her skin had a glow of white satin about it, which only brought more attention to her vibrant blue hair.

  She was from the Drifts, a series of smaller planets on the fringes of charted space. Some of the planets lacked modern technology, while others simply shunned it altogether. Everyone from the Drifts had a unique look about them, and hers just happened to be a look of insatiable sex and electric innocence.

  Cambria Sims was still fairly new to smuggling, which was the biggest reason she laid down the kind of money she did for Dalton; which amounted to nothing more than drinking money. He had experience, was wise to the way things worked in this type of life and when things went wrong he was plenty capable of taking care of things with his own two hands.

  “Damn you are a welcome sight for sore eyes.” Dalton said, watching such a beautiful woman head into his direction.

  Kneeling down to retrieve the bag full of credits while looking up at him with a smile, her pouty lips only inches away from the most vital area of Dalton's body, the part wrapped in a zipper; Cambria smiled slightly.

  “I still say we should take this to the next level. I could make an honest woman out of you.” Dalton said as Cambria slowly stood to her feet, purposely keeping herself only inches from his body so their lips could be nearly touching when finished.

  “Maybe one day cowboy. For now though, good job on today's catch.” she replied softly as though she was ready to kiss him, instead turning to head back to the crew's quarters.

  “One day you are gonna be courtin' me exclusive. You watch and see baby, I'm gonna break you down.” Dalton said, grinning ear to ear as Cambria walked away slowly, her ass moving with only the slightest of bounces; a perfect testament to her capable curves. Rather than answer, she turned slightly and smiled at the experienced smuggler.

  “Now Whiskey, there goes a real damn woman. I know my away around the bedroom as good as any man, but my gut tells me she'd be able to show me a thing or two,” Dalton said under his breath with his trusted pooch by his side. “I'd almost give up drinking for fifteen minutes with...” Dalton added, interrupted by the shuttle pulling from the planet's surface.

  He quickly made his way to the ship's entrance, spinning the wheel which served as a handle, the metal door sliding shut as he bolted it into place with three locks.

  “Goddamn steam engine, I still hadn't got used to it.” Dalton said with ill intent.

  Cambria was Captain of the Outer Heaven. It could house only a small crew but was proudly made in the Drifts, needing nothing more than constant steam to operate. It had its advantages and disadvantages of course, but made almost no sound which was ideal for smuggling. It was a deep space capable ship, though it looked more like an airship or elongated balloon. A mixture of solid steel and thickened glass, the Outer Heaven was a marvel of Victorian technology.

  “Good shootin,” Dalton said as he turned to nod his appreciation to Skulls. His God given name wasn't Skulls of course, it was Trevor Lagrange. But he had a very odd hobby. He enjoyed collecting skin, bones, teeth and even the occasional shrunken head. A hobby that quickly led to his nickname. “This is for you pal.” Dalton said, pulling the still bloody golden tooth from his pocket and flicking it to the strange man.

  Skulls was a very tall human, nearly seven feet. He was far from large though, a majority of his frame nothing more than pale white skin and sturdy bones. He wore black leather from his boots to collar, though it was very loose hanging. A black top hat sat firmly on his head as the stringy haired man simply nodded his appreciation.

  His Salvation model sniper rifle hung by a nylon strap down the middle of his back. The Salvation rifle was a much older model and being bolt action made it less popular because of the accuracy needed to make a kill. Skulls loved the weapon because he was accurate. Damn accurate. Anytime he pressed his eye to the telescopic lens mounted onto the rifle, death would surely ensue.

  “Best head up and get your cut.” Dalton said, turning to make his way up the spiral stairs. They were narrow, made of all steel and noisy as hell; having taken a verbal lashing by Dalton more than once during the routine hangover.

  Cambria stood near the crew's table with Tank as they emptied the contents of Dalton's bag, credits piling high. Tank also answered to his real name, Greg Shelling, but Tank fit more appropriately. The dark skinned man was huge, at least six and a half feet tall with a muscular frame to go along with it. He stood there in a sleeveless white t-shirt, green pants and boots of black leather. His usual attire, day in and day out.

  “I'm keeping this watch if that's cool?” Tank asked.

  “Be my guest, too much flash for me anyhow.” Dalton replied as Tank held up a watch of rock solid silver.

  “Here's your cut, plus a bonus for job well done.” Cambria said, laying a stack of credits out in front of Dalton, accompanied by a wind resistant lighter that had been salvaged from the pocket of Walter Jones himself.

  “May want to quit giving me gifts like this, people are gonna start talking.” Dalton replied, winking at the flirtatious Cambria Sims.

  “I'll leave Trevor's cut on the table.” Cambria said.

  “'Aight. Me and Whiskey are beat, I'm dragging my sorry ass to my rack. Room for two if you change your mind.” Dalton said, looking heavily at Cambria with a smile.

 
“Never know, tonight might be the night.” she replied with a smile. Of course in the back of his mind he knew it wasn't going to happen, but flirting with a girl who was so perfectly sculpted with genetics seemed to make the trips through space more manageable.

  Whiskey was the first one in, immediately jumping onto the foot of the military style bunk.

  Dalton sat down several moments later, handing Whiskey a long string of jerky before leaning over to take his boots off. “I'm getting too old for this shit.” he said under his breath, unlacing his boots a bit before forcing them off. Leaning over to a night table, Dalton picked up a photo taken with Adam Michaels during their first war on Glimmeria.

  Dalton was decked out in an old brown duster with shotgun in hand, his arm wrapped around the man who had been like a little brother to him. He smiled a bit, remembering the day it was taken and the great night of drinking that followed. “I miss you old buddy.” Dalton said in a low voice, finally placing the photo back onto the bedside table as he turned the lamp out and tucked in for bed.

  Nine months earlier.

  “Next.” the prison cook said solemnly as a single line of the most incarcerated men in the Skyla System waited patiently.

  Roman stood there, gazing out of the small window behind the buffet line that wasn't suited for an animal to enjoy, much less a human being. The stars looked as beautiful as ever, even if only from a window that was less than ten inches wide.

  “Prisoner Raines,” a heavily armed guard shouted loudly, using the wooden stock of his shotgun to push Roman forward forcefully. “He said next!” the guard added as Roman turned to face him for only a moment.

  There was a time when pushing Roman Raines in such a way would have been considered suicide, however this was no such time. His hands and feet were both tightly bound in heavy chain as deep scarring was visible all across his body; a place that once was home to nearly indestructible Goliath shielding. Less than a month after he had been aboard, the warden thought it best that Roman's metal exterior be removed with surgery in order to better protect his guards.

  It was a procedure that had been given only a slight chance of success, and if Roman would have died on the operating table then life aboard the prison ship would have continued without him. And die he did, for nearly two minutes he had escaped this life of caged horror only to be brought back with electrified paddles. The next few months were spent under heavy guard in the infirmary, his gaping wounds healing slowly on their own without the assistance of pain killing treatment. He wished that he would have been left dead, rather than being brought back to this nightmare of bad food and torture.

  “Still looking for your friends I see,” Zane said, almost in a joking fashion as the badly scarred body and fully bearded face of Roman Raines slowly sat down in front of him in the prison mess hall. “It's been nine months now. They 'aint comin'.” Zane added.

  “You let me worry about that.” Roman said with stern intent, his eyes reflecting a hollow rage.

  “All I'm saying is we need to start working on our own exit strategy. Just in case.” Zane replied. He was a large man, there was no doubt about that. A bit over seven feet tall, the former soldier had a rock like complexion across his face with a roughly shaven head which left a thick patch of brown hair in mowhawk fashion. Roman took a few moments to let Zane's words set in as he glanced around.

  A single file line of once mighty warriors now left humbled, begging for a spoonful of slop as though they were less than human. Then there was the window. That damn window. Every single meal since Roman had been locked up he glanced out of that ten inch window into the cluster of thick stars hoping to see the Gunship arriving to save the day. Adam Michaels had given him his word that he would return, and Roman knew Adam was a man of his word. That said, the possibility that Adam had tried and failed started to become the only good explanation.

  “You're right. We need to get to work on something of our own. I'd rather die trying to get the fuck off of this ship than live like this.” Roman said, glancing up at the gun rack.

  It was the name of the cage that overlooked the prisoner's mess area and standing inside was a prison guard with a high caliber rifle and the authority to shoot to kill.

  “It's about time my brother. It's about time.” Zane replied, smiling slightly before once again becoming stone faced as a patrolling guard walked by their table.

  It was Corporal Raykes, a guard that Roman knew all too well.

  “What the fuck are you staring at?” Raykes asked, walking by the table slowly.

  Rather than respond, Roman continued his stare, eyes cutting through the man who hid behind the authority of a badge. “That will be one motherfucker I'll enjoy killing. Just hope I get the chance.” Roman said in a low voice as Raykes had moved down a few tables.

  “Not your favorite huh?” Zane asked.

  Roman remembered his arrival to the prison ship. How Raykes had spit in his face and dared him to retaliate. How he had heard the faint laughter of Raykes during his forced surgery, steel being pulled from flesh without remorse.

  “Son of a bitches like that put on a good front, but when it's killing time they cower down. I'll either kill the bastard or bring him to the point that he wishes for death.” Roman replied as the guards began ordering them to stand and return to their cells.

  “They are waiting for you my lady,” Lieutenant Lassiter said calmly as he approached Sarah Blaine. “Sarah. Are you alright?” he asked as she burst into tears.

  “I can't do this anymore,” she said crying heavily. “I can't go on without Adam next to me. It's killing me inside.” she added.

  “My lady, everyone is outside waiting for you to deliver your acceptance speech.” Lassiter said with panic.

  “Tell them to find someone else. How can I possibly lead the Colonial Army if I can't even sleep at night? I miss him!” Sarah replied as she continued to cry heavily.

  Once lovers on the verge of marriage, Sarah had chosen her Colonial duty over the man she loved. Truly loved. He was a man of virtue and truth, something she hadn't seen a lot of in the military. She had regretted her decision only minutes after watching him fly away, their storybook love shattered because of a mistake that had haunted her every since.

  “Sarah. Just go out there and tell these people what they need to hear. Let it come from your heart. As soon as you are finished we will get to work on finding Adam.” Lassiter replied.

  “Really?” Sarah asked, calming just a bit.

  “Yes my lady, I will personally see to it. Now please, take a moment and then lead these people to the freedom they so desperately need.” Lassister replied. Sarah simply responded with a nod of gratitude as she began to wipe away the aftermath of tears and poised herself to deliver a speech.

  Several moments after Lassiter had left, Sarah reached into a drawer on her thick wooden desk. She took several pills, chasing them with a glass of pure water as her eyes fixated onto a photo of Adam Michaels which had remained on her desk. She had no intentions of taking her own life, but rather medicating herself to the point of making life bearable. A habit that had become increasingly dangerous, but made her numb to the pain.

  Sarah sat for a moment, overwhelmed by the loss of her true love as the medication began to mask the hurt inside of her. She had all but stopped crying, looking out of a small window behind her desk. Hundreds of Colonial brass were outside waiting, each of them sure that Sarah Blaine was excited about taking over the military side of their government.

  Of course she would show them the mask of happiness, though she was slowly dying inside. After convincing herself to push through this technicality of taking command; looking forward only to the possibility of once again seeing the man who held both her heart and soul captive, Sarah left to deliver her speech.

  “What's on your mind?” Dalton asked, a look of whiskey laden concern on his face. His smile was covered in the usual scruff, unkempt hairs flaring wildly.

  “Just thinking that maybe
it's time to move on. Starting to give up the idea of somehow finding a way to work things out with Sarah.” Adam replied as he took a drink from the frothy mug of ale before looking around the lodge. It was one large room built of shaven tree trunks and mortar. The perfect combination for a dwelling that was torch lit and heated by two gigantic fireplaces. It was filled with Benzans, all of which had come in to escape the unrelenting snowfall while grabbing some brew.

  While they were highly trained killers, the Benzan Mafia did its best to stay out of sight and out of mind. The small moon of Tirious provided perfect cover for them, a refuge of thick trees and constant snowfall. Bitter conditions that kept even the toughest law officers far away. In fact, aside from the Benzan settlement there was no other life on Tirious. Giving them a huge area to train, live and feel the embrace of true freedom.

  “About damn time, we should have been trying to rescue Roman a week after we left.” Dalton replied, lighting a hand rolled cigar and biting the end off, spitting it onto the floor.

  “I couldn't agree more,” Adam replied. “What were we supposed to do though? It's pretty obvious that the Benzans have their own pecking order and we are at the very bottom of it.” Adam added.

  “They are a strange group, I'll give you that much. But the 'sumbitches treat Whiskey like he's royalty so I can live with strange.” Dalton said before taking a lung jarring puff from his cigar and turning up a bottle of rough scotch.

  “Yea, Whiskey is a hit. That much is a fact.” Adam replied, turning to look at their four legged pet for a moment. The once mangy dog was doing a lot better now, his thick fur gleaming as he was outfitted with a small leather saddle which held several bottles of rock whiskey.