Gravity Storm: Age of Expansion - A Kurtherian Gambit Series (Shadow Vanguard Book 1)

by Tom Dublin

  "Looks like this session's over, guys," Jack said to his sparring partners. "Tell Nathan I'll be there shortly, Turing."

  "I will."

  Reaching up, Jack patted the werewolf on his shoulder. "I'll let you off this time, big fella," he grinned. "But only because I'm needed elsewhere. Count yourself lucky."

  Tossing the towel over his shoulder, he turned and limped away in the direction of the showers.

  "Take it easy, hopalong!" the now-human second ranger called after him.

  Alma Nine, Taron City, Channel Three News, Dressing Room 1

  Cal Car took a sip from his cup of mogneti and winced. The stuff from the first-floor vending machine again. How many times would he have to tell the studio assistant that he hated the stuff? It was the freshly brewed mogneti from the green room, or nothing.

  Pouring the stewed black liquid into the sink, he checked no-one was lurking outside the partially open door then produced a slim metal flask from his jacket pocket and took a long pull.

  The liquor burned as it made its way down his throat, causing him to cough before quickly slipping the bottle away. His producer didn't like him drinking before a news broadcast, but if the channel's lesser employees couldn't follow a simple request about where to get his mogneti, he wasn't going to stick to the rules either.

  "Fifteen minutes," announced a female voice from the doorway.

  "Thank you," said Cal Car, glancing over to see which of the three production assistants had been sent to tell him how long he had until the broadcast would begin. Bah! It was the one who always wore long, shapeless sweaters. He couldn't remember her actual name, so he referred to her as The Frump.

  Not to her face, of course. At least, not since the old breakfast presenter had been fired for taking bets on the breast size of the busty, new fashion reporter. She'd found out about it, and complained directly to the channel's owner - threatening to go to the press if he didn't act to reprimand the culprit.

  So, the early morning anchor had been swiftly dismissed. And he'd left without giving Cal Car his well-deserved winnings.

  Almost certainly 36DD.

  As for The Frump, he'd likely never know thanks to her baggy wardrobe. The statistics of the two remaining production assistants, Grin-On-Legs and Wiggles, were still a work in progress.

  Flicking a switch, the bare bulbs surrounding his mirror lit up instantly revealing the imperfections in Cal Car's skin. Scowling, he grabbed a compact from his make-up kit and began to smear the teal-colored powder evenly over his face.

  After almost a decade in front of the camera, he prided himself on still looking as fresh as the day he'd first arrived at Channel Three. All those years of hard work as a print journalist had paid off.

  And yet, ten years and a handful of industry awards later, he still wasn't reporting on the big stuff, despite repeated requests. He wanted to expose juicy political scandals, beam live from war zones, or go live from the stock market as financial crashes doomed the lower classes to years of poverty and despair.

  But, what did he get? Updates on farming news, rumors of affairs between beautiful yet vacuous movie stars, and the latest success stories from Taron City's weather control center.

  Stuff anybody with a pulse and a decent set of straight teeth could do.

  "Ten minutes, Cal Car."

  It was the Frump again. It was obviously her turn to shepherd him around the building tonight. With any luck, the task would fall to Wiggles tomorrow, so he could find an excuse to lag behind and watch that amazing ass of hers as she led him to the studio floor.

  His make-up complete, Cal Car snapped the compact closed and set it aside. Standing, he pulled the tissues from inside his shirt collar and threw them into the trash as he made his way to the dressing room door.

  Here we go again!

  Then he set off to broadcast what he believed would be yet another uneventful program of unexciting news.

  He didn't know just how wrong he was.

  Federation Base Station 11, Dry Dock F7

  Tc'aarlat, Adina and Nathan looked up as Jack hobbled along the side of the dry dock towards them, running his fingers through his damp hair.

  "Combat training?"

  Jack nodded. "Word of advice - never let one of the Federation’s Rangers distract you when there’s a werewolf in the vicinty."

  Tc'aarlat shuddered. "I'm down for a session with one of the Rangers tomorrow," he croaked. "And I doubt I'll be able to get that image out of my head now."

  "Lady, gentlemen," said Nathan in an effort to attract the trio's attention. "Allow me to introduce you to the ICS Fortitude, Mark Two."

  He opened the door and stepped aside, allowing Jack, Tc'aarlat and Adina to step through and get their first look at their newly upgraded ship.

  They stood in stunned silence for a few moments, staring up at the vast freighter. Eventually, Adina found the words to describe what was going through everyone's mind.

  "What a pile of shit!"

  12

  Alma Nine, Taron City, Channel Three News, Studio 4a

  "...which resulted in yet another bumper crop of parsel fruit this year, and record exports of the sumptuous snack to several other planets in the Ordanian Hub."

  Cal Car flashed his trademark smile as the teleprompter script only he could see on the transparent screen covering the lens of the TV camera flickered for a few seconds, then vanished.

  If those idiots in the control room made him ad-lib one more time, he would grab them by the-

  The teleprompter returned and began to scroll once more, revealing the next block of text in the evening news bulletin.

  "I'll be back with your daily sports update here on Alma Nine's premier news service, Channel Three News, but now it's over to Sim Ket for tomorrow's weather promise."

  Cal Car held his smile in place until the red light on top of the camera switched off. Across the studio, Sim Ket began to detail what the following day's weather would be like all across the planet, down to the exact minute.

  When Cal Car had started out in TV news, weather presenters were forced to study spreadsheets of air pressure readings and closely examine grainy satellite images in order to guess what might happen on the weather front in the coming days.

  The results were on par with those of gaudily dressed fairground mystics who claimed to be able to put grieving relatives in touch with their recently deceased loved ones.

  But, now the colony's groundbreaking weather control system was up and running, all TV meteorologists had to do was read from a script received directly from the control center, and they could promise what a certain day's weather would be like weeks in advance.

  It made the job so simple even a child could do it and, judging by the barely-old-enough-to-vote weather presenter the channel had recently hired, it seemed the industry was already heading in that direction.

  "What's the deal with the teleprompter," Cal Car asked into his lapel microphone as the make-up girl dashed over to refresh the soft mat powder coating his famous face.

  While she worked, he grabbed a hand mirror from the shelf beneath his desk and used it to check his reflection, pulling back his lips and studying the shine on his extremely costly teeth.

  Pleased with what he saw, Cal Car ran his fingers through his thick mane of expensively styled shaggy silver hair. There was just no way that new babe on the studio reception desk would be able to resist his charms, or the king-sized vibrating water bed he recently had delivered for his penthouse apartment.

  But, first, he had yet another glitch to get to the bottom of. "I asked about the teleprompter, Jun Ret!"

  "Yeah, sorry about that," the news producer's voice replied via his earpiece. "We're still ironing out the glitches in this new system. Bear with us while we-"

  "Bear with you?!" Cal Car interrupted, sending the make-up artist scurrying away with a wave of his hand. "I've been bearing with you for weeks. If this crap doesn't get sorted soon, I'll have my agent contact-"

&n
bsp; "And you're back in five, four, three..."

  Cal Car slid the mirror back under the desk, fixed his smile in place, raised an eyebrow and waited until the light on top of the camera lit up once more.

  "Thank you, Sim Ket! Now sports, and in battleball, the Malatian Princes beat the Ch'arrack Destroyers fifty-two to forty-eight in a close-run game last night at the-"

  Cal Car paused as the screen in front of him suddenly went dark.

  "I'm sorry, we seem to be having some technical difficulties this evening. We'll get those sports results to you just as soon as we can. In the meantime..."

  He rested a finger on his earpiece, listening hard for whatever pathetic excuse the production team was going to make this time.

  But, nobody spoke to him. Instead, everyone in the gallery seemed to be holding an urgent discussion in hushed tones.

  And some of them were crying.

  What the fuck?

  Cal Car's trademark smile faltered slightly as the one-way screen covering the camera lens remained devoid of well, anything at all.

  He became very aware that millions of viewers were waiting for him to say something, if they weren't already flipping over to the second-rate outfit that was Alpha News in their thousands, that was.

  "Once again, ladies and gentlemen, please bear with us while we deal with this unexpected technical issue. We promise to get the sports... update... to you..."

  His voice trailed away as two words began to flash on the teleprompter screen...

  BREAKING NEWS

  Then...

  REMAINDER OF SCRIPT ABANDONED

  And, finally...

  URGENT!

  Cal Car gasped. This was it. He was finally getting his wish. He was about to report to the world on a live story.

  "If you're just tuning in," he announced, as more information began to scroll up into his line of sight, "this is Cal Car and the Channel Three News team, bringing you a breaking story tonight."

  Whoever was in control of the teleprompter was clearly typing out his script in real time, judging by the poor grammar and numerous typos now filling the screen.

  Once again, he would have to dig deep into his plentiful stores of professionalism in order to save the day. Only this time, the channel's owner was bound to see the benefit of transferring him over to the galaxy-wide network.

  Goodbye, parsel fruit and battleball!

  Working to keep his excitement under control, Cal Car quickly switched from his trademark smile to his well-practiced deadly serious expression.

  "Reports are coming in from the Sipar region of Taron City that Alma Nine's President, Tor Val has been-"

  The rest of the sentence stuck in his throat.

  Cal Car's hands began to tremble.

  "No!" he said, suddenly hoarse. "It's not true." He pressed his fingers hard against his earpiece. "This can't... Tell me it's not true!"

  His producer came back on the line. "It's true, Cal Car," he croaked. "The Vice President's office has just confirmed it."

  Stunned, Cal Car lowered his hand and stared blankly into the camera lens.

  "Th-There has been an accident," he said quietly. "A terrible, terrible accident."

  He remained speechless for a second or two, then...

  "The President, Tor Val, is dead."

  Federation Base Station 11, Dry Dock F7

  Tc'aarlat ran the thick skin of his fingers over the chipped yellow paint covering the hull as he waited for the starboard side access door to hiss open.

  "So much for being upgraded," he commented. "It hasn't had so much as a paint job."

  Nathan turned to him. "This isn't 'Pimp My Space Ride'", he pointed out. "The improvements we've made for you are on the inside of the ship."

  "But-"

  "And, we left the exterior looking like a battered old freighter because we want everyone to believe it's a battered old freighter."

  He lowered his voice and spoke conspiratorially. "Spies tend to work best when undercover!"

  Tc'aarlat scowled, his mandibles clicking together as the others laughed. "In that case," he grumbled, "maybe it would be best not to continually refer to us as spies. Don't we get code names or something?"

  "I was thinking the same thing," said Nathan. "All you have to do is come up with something.

  "How about Titanic Tc'aarlat and his two plucky yet also completely subservient sidekicks," suggested the Yollin.

  Nathan scowled. "All you have to do is come up with something... else."

  "That's right," Tc'aarlat growled. "You humans carry on ignoring anything the weird alien guy says."

  Jack shrugged as Tc'aarlat began to sulk. "If you insist..."

  Adina turned to Jack. "Is he always this full of joy?"

  "Not always," smirked Jack in reply. "Sometimes he has a grumpy day."

  Mist gave a shriek that may have been agreement, and nibbled at a lump of hardened skin at the top of Tc'aarlat's right ear.

  The side door finally locked into its open position with a clunk, and Nathan led the group inside.

  Jack and his team wandered through the upper cargo bays, examining the fresh dull-metal pillars which were reinforcing all of the cargo bays.

  "These look pretty sturdy," he commented, slapping his palm against one of them.

  Nathan nodded. "It's a new alloy we've developed. The stuff is reasonably lightweight but it's incredibly strong and stands up to a hell of a pounding. We've also lined the interior of the entire hull with it."

  "We'll be able to haul much heavier cargo now," said Jack. "Although we're likely to see a substantial loss of speed and maneuverability as a result."

  "Not any longer," Nathan relied. "We've replaced both main engines with gravitic drives. Trust me - no matter what you're carrying from now on, this thing will go like a rocket on speed."

  Jack nodded his approval. "Nice!"

  "The auxiliary engines, bow thrusters and so on have all been upgraded to gravitic thrusters. Non-reactive fuel, magnetic currents and electrical potentials provide enough acceleration to get you out of trouble and can, at a push, be used for main thrust in the unlikely event of a problem with your main engines."

  "Sounds like you've thought of everything," said Tc'aarlat with a grudging smile. "A bitch in time saves nine!"

  Jack opened his mouth to correct the Yollin, then closed it again. "You know what? Forget it."

  Nathan grinned. "I think you're gonna like this next bit..."

  The tour continued swiftly through the cargo bays until they reached the wall at the rear of a hangar in the lower deck.

  Jack took a step back to admire the new metallic lining of the loading doors. "They look pretty sturdy now," he commented.

  "They do," agreed Nathan. "But they're not the rear doors."

  Jack's brow knitted. "What?"

  "Put your hand against the metal," he suggested. "Anywhere will work."

  Cautiously, Jack stepped up to the door and pressed his palm against the door at shoulder height. The area around his palm glowed a brilliant blue and then, with a loud hiss, the rear doors began to slide down, disappearing into some hidden compartment below them."

  "False doors," explained Nathan. "Touch sensitive to each of your palm prints, no matter where you put your hand, or which one you use. And beyond..."

  Jack's eyes grew wide as rows of ceiling lights sprang into life, illuminating the silver-walled room beyond. The space was clean, bright and fresh - a world away from the scuffed flooring and dented panels of the main cargo area.

  And, sitting in the middle of this sterile space...

  "Holy mother of God!" Jack breathed.

  Tc'aarlat rested a trembling hand on his shoulder. "You said it brother!"

  There, in front of them, was a sleek, black spacecraft. It was about the size of a large Earth automobile and had dark, tinted windows.

  Nathan took a step across into the ship's docking area, gesturing for the others to follow. Two strips of landing lights flashed in lin
es from the real back doors of the hangar.

  "Meet The Pegasus," he announced. "A short-hop shuttle for use in, well... any situation you deem necessary. It won't take you between planets, but I'm sure you'll find a use for it."

  Just then, a voice spoke out. "Nathan, I have an urgent message for you from Ecaterina."

  "Thank you, Turing," Nathan replied.

  He turned to the others. "I'll be back with you in a moment," he promised. "I'll meet you up at the bridge. Still got one or two new toys to show off to you."

  As Nathan hurried away to take his call, Tc'aarlat reached out to run his hand over the gleaming black paint covering the hull of The Pegasus, but hesitated.

  "I don't even want to get fingerprints on this thing!"

  Adina grinned. "It is a little flashy!"

  "Flashy?!" spat Tc'aarlat, unable to tear his admiring gaze away from the cruiser. "I'd have sold two of my kidneys to own something like this when I was younger."

  "Hopefully, that won't be necessary," said Jack. "Come on, let's get up to the bridge and see what they've done up there."

  Tc'aarlat's mandibles drooped in disappointment. "Really?"

  Rolling his eyes towards Adina, Jack reached out and grabbed the Yollin's arm. "The pretty spaceship will still be here when we get back," he promised.

  The trio stepped out of the hangar, the bright lighting fading quickly as the false loading doors slid smoothly back into place.

  In less than a minute, The Pegasus and its home had vanished, and looked as if it had never been there at all.

  Adina studied Tc'aarlat, surprised. "Are... are you crying?"

  "Of course not!" Tc'aarlat insisted, wiping his eyes. "It's probably allergies. Or something."

  "Sure!" Adina replied with a smile. She hooked her arm through his and urged him on. "Let's catch up with Jack."

  Jack paused just outside the bridge to examine the wall beside the door. "They've left the bullet holes following our recent get-together with those Skaine pirates," he pointed out.

  "And the smears of blood on the floor," Tc'aarlat added. "Maybe they haven't done as much up here."

  He stepped up to the automatic door, waiting for it to slide open, before adding. "Although I may have spoken too soon..."