The Army Of Light (Kestrel Saga)

by Fender, Stephen

  “It looks a bit rough down there,” she said as she turned her head towards the captain. “Think you can handle yourself?” She followed her statement with a single raised eyebrow and a smirk.

  The captain didn’t take his eyes from the controls. He merely nodded his head in agreement and patted the area beneath his coat where his pistol was holstered.

  *

  After Shawn had taxied the ship to the landing pad and shut down the engines, he noticed that no one was outside the ship waiting for him. At least, no one he could see. He asked Melissa to stay aboard until he had fully ascertained the situation. Shawn pulled a small pistol out from under his seat, handed it to Melissa, and instructed her how to seal the door behind him once he’d left the ship. Hoping that she’d heed his instructions this time, they stepped out of the control deck and into the passenger lounge. He opened the portside hatch to exit the ship, but then turned to give Melissa some last minute instructions.

  “If anyone starts shooting,” he began in all seriousness, “I don’t want you to hesitate for a second. I want you to—”

  “You’re bravado is unnecessary, Captain,” she replied halfheartedly. “I’m not going to leave this planet without you.”

  He gave her a puzzled look. “Who said anything about you leaving?”

  She looked back at him in confusion. “Weren’t you about to tell me to get to the controls and take off for my own safety?”

  “Are you joking? I want you to get your ass out here and start shooting back.”

  A gentle breeze brought the tangy smell of abandonment into his nostrils as his feet touched down on the hard, cracked surface. In the distance he could hear the sounds of metal panels creaking and moaning in agony, as if the structures around him would collapse if the wind gusted any harder. There were very few windows visible on the structures, and what little glass remained looked as if it’d been painted over long ago. In several sections, the large corrugated metal skin had fallen away, giving the captain inviting glances at the rusted, lattice-like skeletal remains of the derelict warehouses.

  Shawn hated these kinds of transactions. With the proper planning, he could have easily dropped off his cargo inside the secure confines of the main trading post. At this distance, Shawn doubted that anyone in the main port would be able to discern a small explosion, let alone weapons fire in the vicinity of warehouse number seven. There were too many places here to be ambushed from, and it was all Shawn could do not to turn his head at each offending sound that wafted into his ears. The only other person who knew he was there was the landing control officer who’d informed him where to touch down, and it was anyone’s guess where his allegiance lay.

  A door creaked opened near where the large number seven should have been painted, and out strode two iridescent scaled Denarian’s. That is, Shawn knew their true coverings to be iridescent. The creatures were almost entirely cloaked in dark, projectile proof leathery suits and matching helmets. One of the creatures was noticeably taller than the other by a good two feet. It was the taller one that removed its open-faced helmet first, and Shawn immediately saw a large pink scar etched across its angular left cheek. As Denarian’s went, these two were not the best looking representatives of the species, not that such a creature actually existed who could lay claim to that distinction. Their faces looked like a ghastly joining between a human and a turtle. Their shimmering green and black scales were pitted and, in some cases, peeling away entirely. Yellow eyes beamed from sockets set deep under their angular brows, with jaws strong enough to bite through thick tree branches. The taller being had a laser rifle slung against his shoulder, while the shorter of the two had its three clawed hands in its trouser pockets—but was no doubt armed as well.

  It was then that the shorter creature removed its helmet and addressed Shawn as the two beings lumbered within earshot.

  “Mister Kestrel?” he slithered in a guttural version of galactic standard that left much to be desired. It’d sounded more like ‘Mekster Kestrok.’

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “Excellent,” The shorter man continued, although Shawn had to strain his ears to translate the noises into something recognizable. “Our employer wishes to see you without any further delay.”

  The captain stood motionless, trying not to betray any sign of apprehension on his part. Denarian’s were well known for taking any show of fear or other trepidation as a personal insult to them. As a culture, they were some of the most renowned arms manufactures in the galaxy. They also had the dubious reputation of being the coldest backstabbers in the galaxy—but only when you refused to pay them. Needless to say, they were an aggressive and hot-headed species—prerequisites for excellent thugs.

  “I don’t recall an armed escort being a part of the deal,” Shawn said, careful not to make any moves toward the sidearm he was glad he had under his jacket.

  The taller alien gave its rifle a pump, charging up the internal magnetic accelerator, but it was the shorter one that continued to speak. “The arrangement has changed, Captain.”

  In that fraction of a second, on a scale from one to ten, Shawn’s level of nervousness had catapulted from a two to an eight. He only hoped it didn’t show, considering his life might depend on it.

  The shorter creature spoke again, this time in a more insistent tone. “Mister Kestrel, I repeat: you will come with us without any further delays.”

  “I heard you the first time,” Shawn said calmly, then inclined his head slowly towards Sylvia’s Delight. “I still have to unload my cargo. And, by the looks of you two fine, upstanding gentleman, it doesn’t seem like I’m going to have any help doing it.”

  The shorter creatures face contorted in a fang lined sneer, probably its best attempt at a smile. It was a grin that would give young children nightmares. Without averting its marble-like yellow eyes from the captain, the short alien raised its right claw, and flicked two of the three digits towards the Mark-IV. Without additional warning, the taller, scar faced Denarian fired a single round into the air, the magnetically accelerated round sailing into the air in a flash of brilliant light.

  Inside D’s cockpit, where Melissa had been stealthily watching the exchange through one of the side windows, she instinctively jumped back in surprise at the weapons discharge. Lightly bumping her head against one of the overhead consoles, she chided herself for being so easily startled. She withdrew the small blaster Shawn had given her and, checking its charge, crouched back down near the window.

  Outside, moments after the Denarian had discharged his weapon, Shawn heard a distant, rumbling sound, which was quickly followed by a slight vibration in the splintered concrete under his boots. Three large trucks, most definitely military issue and not looking at all like surplus, hovered slowly out of the warehouse behind the two aliens. The trucks moved slowly past the captain, their hover jets kicking up loose debris that spiraled around Shawn’s boots as the vehicles made their way towards Sylvia’s Delight. He turned his head to watch as the trucks parked side-by-side, their canvas covered rears flinging open, and a pair of armored creatures—more Denarian’s—exited from each. The guards were followed by what looked like a handful of workers, representing a half dozen species, which stood near the trucks and awaited their orders.

  “As you can see, Mister Kestrel,” the short man slithered. “We have the situation, and your cargo, well under control.”

  Shawn tuned his attention from his ship and stepped slowly towards the shorter of the two aliens. The tall scar faced Denarian quickly stepped between them, moving the barrel of his rifle down into Shawn’s collar before the captain got too close. As if it were only a minor inconvenience, the captain continued to step to within a breaths distance from the taller alien, allowing the rifle’s muzzle to slip up to his neck and press against the soft flesh under his chin.

  From the command deck, Melissa felt a knot form in the pit of her stomach. What the hell are you doing, you idiot? He’s going to kill you!

  Sh
awn looked squarely into the lidless yellow eyes of the alien. “If anything happens to my ship—”

  “Don’t concern yourself with it, friend,” the shorter being chuckled from his cohorts side. “You have more important things to think about at the moment.”

  Shawn shifted his eyes, glaring up to the unspeaking scar faced being a moment longer, not willing to back down from the dangerous looking creature. The contest lasted only a few seconds before the shorter creature laughed, pulling its other clawed hand out of his pocket and gesturing to a long, gleaming black limo that had appeared from nowhere. “If you, and Miss Graves, will come with us please.”

  Shawn tried to hide his surprise. How in the hell did they know she was on board? Regardless, Shawn was convinced: Melissa Graves was bad luck. In her defense, it probably came standard when you were born with a figure like hers. Turning away from the scar faced one, he asked innocently “I’m sorry. Whom did you say?”

  The shorter creature leaned its head back and laughed energetically, which sounded more like its mouth was full of spit. With lighting quick reflexes, it swept its leg down and took Shawn’s feet out from underneath him. At nearly the same moment the creature reached into hidden pockets inside its jacket and withdrew two highly lethal sonic disruptor pistols, then aimed them directly at Shawn’s head, which was now lying stunned on the hard sand.

  The alien leaned down, placing an heavily armored knee onto Shawn’s chest, and moved its face to within inches of the captain’s. “Don’t make me ask again, friend.”

  A dribble of the Denarian’s spit leaked onto Shawn’s cheek, and all at once the captain was nearly overcome with nausea at the smell of its breath. Before the captain could utter another word, the alien jerked its head towards Sylvia’s Delight. Shawn twisted his head to follow, and saw Melissa crouching near the port hatch, pistol in hand and pointing it directly at the Denarian. In her crouched position, her white dress fluttered aimlessly around her knees in the light wind. She was like an armed and dangerous angel, which to Shawn meant she must have been an archangel.

  The Denarian’s’ eyes were glued to Melissa as it put his blasters directly under Shawn’s chin. “Welcome to the party, Miss Graves. Now please, lower your weapon.”

  Chapter 6

  Shawn and Melissa sat in uncomfortable silence in the back of the hovering limo as it sped away from the loading docks, leaving Sylvia’s Delight sitting alone and unguarded on the landing pad. The shorter, talkative Denarian was piloting the craft while the scar faced one was in the passenger seat, its rifle muzzle leaning casually against its shoulder. Melissa cast her eyes from the passing buildings outside to the rear view mirror affixed to the windscreen, only to lock eyes with the scaly driver who was staring back at her. One eye squinted—probably the creature’s version of a wink—and she immediately felt a cold shiver run up her spine. Melissa decided then that looking out of her own window would be preferable to the alternative for the time being. As the car moved through the thoroughfares of downtown, Melissa watched children of various species playing on the sidewalks, their parents trying desperately to keep them from wandering into the streets. She glanced up to the building fronts and saw people bustling about on their balconies, trying to make the best use of the last hours of daylight.

  The car made an abrupt left turn, causing Shawn to slide across the slippery leather of his seat until his hip touched Melissa’s. She turned away from the window just in time to see him shuffle away uncomfortably, then craned her head over her shoulder to gaze out of the back window. Behind them were the trucks carrying the weapons the aliens had offloaded from the Mark-IV. Once free of the confines of downtown, the stone paved street made a twisting course up a vegetation encrusted mountainside, and Melissa had to face forward once more to quell a momentary onset of motion sickness.

  “How did you know that she was in the ship?” Shawn asked to both aliens at once.

  In response, the driver let out a soft chuckle. “I am instructed to tell you nothing, Mister Kestrel,” it slithered, not averting its gaze from the winding path in front of the vehicle.

  Melissa watched as the captain leaned comfortably back in his seat, as if his curiosity had been sufficiently quenched for the next few moments. Unfortunately, hers had not.

  “What about you,” she asked to the scar faced passenger. “Don’t you ever speak?”

  The driver let out a sickly chuckle as the car approached a large iron gate at the top of the hill, then slowed. The driver turned in its seat to face Melissa. “Even if he still had his tongue in his mouth, Miss Graves, he would tell you nothing.” Its long, forked tongue slithered out form between his lips as if to make the point.

  As soon as the vehicle came to a complete halt, the driver hastily exited, leaving scarface to guard the passengers in disturbing silence. An armed human appeared from behind the barred entrance, dressed in the same apparel as the workers that had loaded the weapons at the docks. “Mercenaries,” Shawn whispered just loud enough for Melissa to hear. After a brief exchange of words with the Denarian, the gate guard opened the entrance and the car was allowed to pass. A few more minutes into their journey a large, gleaming white structure appeared in a small clearing.

  The building looked more like an elaborate mansion than the fortress of stone Melissa envisioned it would appear like. By all accounts, it would have fit well in any of the upscale neighborhoods on Thress, and could easily have been mistaken for a southern mansion plucked right out of First Earth’s nineteenth century. The sprawling courtyard, complete with alabaster pillars and an expansive garden, was immaculately manicured. The house itself was three stories tall, with an overall rectangular construction. There were windows every few feet, and on every floor. The entrance to the house, which had a large porch extending from the bottom of the second floor, had two large French doors inlayed with frosted glass.

  “Tell me again how you and this Toyotomi are acquainted?” Melissa asked as she gazed at the structure.

  “He was an intelligence officer during the war. We… crossed paths a few times.”

  The hover car pulled under the overhang and stopped, then the Denarian’s exited the vehicle and moved to open the doors for their respective passengers. When Shawn and Melissa had stepped clear of the vehicle the shorter alien addressed them.

  “Please, follow me.” As it stepped toward the opulent doors, the scar faced alien, its rifle pointing loosely at them, fell in step behind.

  The brightly lit interior of the mansion was ornately decorated in fine art from across the sector. Melissa could see statues having both First and Second Earth origins, pottery from ancient Calmondi, and what appeared to be the delicately woven tapestries from the long extinct Refarian’s. The art was tastefully arranged so that it flanked a wide staircase in the center of the room. Half way to the second floor, the stairs split in half, with each heading off towards the east and west wings of the house. The floors themselves were covered in a rose colored hardwood that produced a clicking echo through the immense, museum like space as Melissa’s chunky healed Mary Jane’s connected with its surface.

  “Wait here,” the shorter alien told them, then disappeared through a door in the right side of the foyer.

  Shawn turned his head over his shoulder and noticed the taller alien was still behind them, its rifle resting at its shoulder. A moment later, through the same door the shorter creature had exited, a middle aged human male of Asian descent appeared in a finely tailored black tuxedo, followed closely by their shorter Denarian escort. The human held out his arms as he approached them.

  “Captain Kestrel, it is delightful to see you once more, my old friend,” he said as he stepped up and embraced Shawn in a firm handshake. The captain hesitantly returned the gesture and then stepped back slightly.

  “You too, Toyo.” Shawn turned toward his companion. “And this is—”

  “Melissa Graves,” Toyo said as he extended his hand slowly. She reached out and the Japanese man took her hand,
then bowed slightly and kissed it. “I am Toyotomi Katashi, but you may call me Toyo. It is a great honor to finally meet you.”

  Melissa found his voice both smooth and strangely hypnotic, but not unfriendly. He released his gentle grip on her hand and stood tall once again. Melissa’s mind flashed back to Jacques De Lorme, and she silently hoped this meeting would be far less demanding. “But, how do you know—?”

  “Like Captain Kestrel, I too know of your father. His name is spoken with great honor in my family’s house.”

  “My father?” Melissa asked in surprise, almost in a whisper. “But, how—”

  Toyo quickly raised his hand and smiled, silencing Melissa before she could continue. “Please, I’m sure you have many questions, and undoubtedly will have many more before our business is concluded. All I can offer you is that they will be addressed in their proper time. And, speaking of business, I’m having a party this evening to celebrate the closing of a rather large financial merger. I would be honored if you would join me,” he smiled as he turned his attention from Melissa to Shawn. “Both of you.”

  Shawn eyed the two armed Denarian’s in the room with them. “Are we all invited, Toyo?”

  Toyo smiled and then chuckled. “They’re precautionary only. These are… dangerous times, my old friend.” Toyo then looked to the shorter Denarian and nodded abruptly, silently dismissing the two aliens from the room. As soon as they’d departed, a young Asian woman appeared at the top of the stairs and glided down to meet them. She was wearing a luxurious red silk kimono, with a large golden fish embroidered down its left side. Her impossibly long, glossy black hair fell in waves down her slender frame.

  “This is Keiko,” Toyo said as he extended a hand and escorted the woman down the last two steps. When she reached the bottom, she folded her arms out from her, inserting her hands into the large cuffs at the ends of her sleeves, then bowed gracefully at the introduction.