“Could he be the one?”
“I would not put it past him.”
Tikrow growled softly and shook his head. “Neither would I.”
444
The briefing room aboard the Harper’s Ferry was comfortable, if utilitarian in its furnishings. Swivel chairs sat around a circular table, with display monitors built into the tabletop for the benefit of those taking part in the briefings. Two-D maps of old Earth hung in silver frames from bulkhead walls paneled in real knotty pine, and a tall shelf made of oak held models of various sailing ships from Earth’s past. The room was well lit by fluorotubes built into the overhead. A rectangular portal showed the vast, utter blackness of hyperspace.
Cortez sat in his seat, hands firmly clasped on the mahogany tablet. Though he may have appeared calm and carefree, he was really as anxious as a cornered Antarian rat. He had never before experienced any anxiety prior to going out on a secret mission. But he had a feeling about this one, a foreshadowing of bigger things to come. Fear was a thing he refused to acknowledge, refused to accept, and he did his best to hide his apprehensiveness from the others. But he couldn’t stop his left leg from shaking and bouncing up and down beneath the table.
“Is something wrong, Sergeant Cortez?” Lieutenant Hooks asked.
“No, I am fine, Lieutenant,” Cortez told him. “I think it may have been the chow that is served in the galley.”
“I can believe that,” Hooks said with a knowing smile.
The lieutenant wasn’t fooled at all, Cortez realized.
Lieutenant Sam Hooks was in his late thirties, and had the looks of movie star from the classic era of Hollywood’s Golden Age of the early 20th century. Perfect teeth, a smile that could shame a supernova and a willingness to put his own life in harm’s way had won him the admiration, respect and loyalty of those under his command.
“Based on earlier intelligence, we already know that the Drakonians have been smuggling weapons to planets that are not on friendly terms with the Alliance,” he said. “Now we think they’re up to something new. Something big.”
“You think there is information being leaked to the Drakonians, sir?” Cortez asked.
“That is exactly what I think,” Hooks replied. “The evacuation of the Drakonian outpost on Cindar proves it. But the Hegemony denies any knowledge of its existence, claiming it must have been set up by renegades and outlaws.”
“That’s a cargo of blarney,” O’Hara said.
“I agree,” said Hooks. “Furthermore, I’ve just received a communiqué informing me that the Drakonian Embassy on Earth has been closed due to a virus unique to their species. The ambassador and his staff are on their way back to Drakona for special medical care. But that fish is five days old. Ain’t no way I’m buying it.”
“What about this cloaking system the Draks are working on?” Akira asked.
“That is a fact, Sergeant,” Hooks replied. “Though how much progress they’ve made in that direction has yet to be determined. Right now, that doesn’t concern me. What chafes my hide is that somehow the Draks were tipped off to your little raid on Cindar, and one of my agents has suddenly gone off the grid. I presume he is dead.”
“But our orders came straight from the top, sir,” O’Hara said.
“Exactly, Sergeant,” Hooks said. “General Ford and Admiral Curtiz, working with Admiral Ravetiel, the Omegan Fleet commander, set it all up. They conferred with Colonel Dakota, who passed the orders to Major Helm and Captain Branch, and then down to me.”
“The eternal chain of command,” Cortez said. So far, everything the lieutenant had told them added weight to the Spaniard’s misgivings.
“And that is the fly in the buttermilk, Sergeant,” Hooks said. “The problem is—there were just too many people involved in the planning of that raid, and too many communiqués that might have been intercepted. But this time, we’re taking no chances. The raid I’ve been authorized to plan is going to be strictly hush-hush.”
“Who’s in on it, sir?” asked Akira.
“The Devil Dogs of Company E,” Hooks replied.
O’Hara grinned. “So what’s the scoop?”
“Here it is,” Hooks said. “The four of us are the only ones who know where we’re heading. Two Comanche AEVs will take us in, but not even the pilots will know our destination until the last minute. The Devil Dogs won’t be told until they have a need to know.”
“You said we, sir?” Cortez asked. “You mean to say—”
“Exactly, Sergeant,” Hooks replied. “But I’ll be going on ahead, alone, though I’ll remain in constant contact with Captain Branch. I don’t want any snafus or muck-ups. This time I want to catch the Draks red-handed, take some prisoners and convince them to play nice with me.”
“Are we going to Grant’s Planet?” Cortez wanted to know.
“We are,” Hooks told him. “We’re going on holiday to Island 881.”
“I knew it!” O’Hara said. “I bloody well told you so!” He folded his hands across his chest and smirked with satisfaction.
In spite of the dread burrowing into the pit of his stomach, Cortez forced himself to smile.
Chapter Four
The Slaves of Zatura
Lord Vash wasn’t feeling particularly lordly as he and scores of slaves from all over the known universe cracked open the shells of firerocks. Under the light of a crimson sun he sweated and watched the bestial Zaturans whip and beat their slaves into submission, forcing them to work harder at digging the precious stones from the quarry at the base of the Brimstone Mountains. Though the primitive inhabitants of that miserable planet had already discovered fire, they relied on the firerocks as an alternative source of light and heat, especially with winter closing in.
No one knew these slaves were here. No one knew if they were alive or dead. No one would ever come looking for them.
Zatura was a black hole at the edge of reality. There was no escape.
But two humans and an Omegan made a break for it when they suddenly attacked their Zaturan guard. In spite of the fact that their wrists and ankles were cuffed and hobbled by crude, metal shackles, the three slaves made a mad and desperate attempt to climb out of the quarry and flee into the surrounding foothills. Unfortunately, they didn’t get very far.
The long, heron-like legs of the Zaturans gave them incredible speed, and they closed in on the escapees in a matter of heartbeats. A dozen guards using crude metal swords cut down and crippled the would-be runaways. Then the Zaturans went berserk.
Flesh was torn to bloody pieces. Bones were snapped and heads cracked open like firerocks. A feast immediately ensued as the guards gobbled up the spilt brains and then ripped open chests and rib cages to get at the still-warm hearts.
“What fools!” hissed the skinny human working next to Vash. “Where did they think they would go? How were they planning to get off this miserable planet?”
“Cowards!” Vash growled in the Standard English he had learned from the human. “Rather than take their own lives and die with honor, they let the Zaturans kill them.”
“You think they wanted to die like that?”
Vash spat on the ground and glared at the human through fierce, golden eyes. “They could have fought to the death like true warriors,” he said.
In silence, Vash and the human—Douglas, he called himself—returned to their labors.
Zatura was a planet so far beyond the rim of the known universe, with an indigenous species so bestial, that the Omegan Federation had decided to forego any attempts at establishing first contact. It was a planet where the good and the bad were often secretly exiled by their foes and rivals, if they weren’t killed first. For the past three years Vash’s life had been one continuous nightmare on Zatura. For the past three years all he dreamt of was rescue, of going home and trying to find his father and younger brother.
As twilight approached, the Zaturans gathered their slaves and ordered them to haul the wagons filled with firerocks back to their
main village. Whips and clubs persuaded the helpless slaves to hasten their speed. The village lay to the east, near the edge of a vast, arid desert. It was a crude, primitive place of stone huts, shacks made of mud and log and thatched roofs, and rusted metal cages that housed the slaves.
Vash was the only Rhajni among the many Earthers, Omegans, Arcturans and other humanoids that had been exiled or sold into slavery by their enemies. He was a Grimalkin, a high-born Rhajni of Pure Blood. In his mid-40s, he was tall and muscular—an imposing individual with the scarred face and pelt of a white tiger. He wore no clothing, and had no possessions other than a filthy loincloth and a starfire ring in his left ear, which the Zaturans did not know the value of or else they would have torn it away from him.
Keeping his thoughts to himself, Vash walked along, pulling a wagon weighed down with firerocks; a long rope had been tied around his massive chest. All the while the idiot Earther named Douglas babbled on and on, talking nonsense or telling jokes and stories that made no sense to Vash. The Zaturans paid the human no mind. They knew he was as mad as one of their laughing birds. But he was a good worker and a well-behaved slave who received only occasional beatings from the guards, mostly for their own enjoyment.
The Zaturans were a primitive species. They had no technology, no other weapons but whips and clubs, spears and swords, claws and teeth. Only in the last century or so had they begun to fashion tools and weapons out of coarse metal. But they were fierce and deadly warriors, with few morals and no conscience. They looked like the cross-breeding result of a Terran crocodile and baboon. Douglas called them reptidrills. Vash called them filthy beasts.
Vash had been an officer in the Khandra Regime during the Great War, a young warrior on the rise. His father had served as a general assigned to the staff of Lord Jhaza, their leader. But in order to save his family, as well as his own fur, Jhaza had betrayed the Regime to the Felisians, the vermin of Rhajnara who had initiated the uprising against the Khandra.
Shortly thereafter, Jhaza fled Rhajnara, leaving his family behind. Vash was later abducted by another traitor and left stranded on Zatura. As for his father and brother . . . the last Vash had heard was that they had been forced to change their names and identities in order to elude capture and imprisonment. But were they still alive?
For three years all that had kept Vash sane was the hope of returning home and finding the traitor who had sent him into exile on this savage, primitive world at the edge of a galactic rim the Omegans called Tu’cha Deroo—The Soul of Darkness.
444
Tikrow stood on the bridge of the Dark Star, watching the stars through the triangular viewport pop into existence again as the vessel returned to normal space. The starship’s personnel were kept busy monitoring three-dimensional charts and simulations of the planets circling the crimson sun of this solar system. Digital readouts spread across the top of the instrument panel flashed their information in Drakonian letters and numbers. Tikrow studied the Drakonians and other Rhajni tending to their duties, taking pride in his heritage as a Pure Blood. He would never have to perform such menial tasks.
The Warclaw believed, as did his entire breed, that his was the superior race on Rhajnara, that the Grimalkin were destined to conquer and enslave the Felisians. Had it not been for the Felisian Uprising and a handful of Grimalkin traitors, with the aid of the Omegan-Terran Alliance, the Khandra Regime would still be in power. Tikrow looked forward to the day when the Khandra again seized the reins of government, reclaimed their planet, and assumed their rightful place as the rulers of Rhajnara.
“Warclaw, we are near our destination,” said Captain Skreel. He was an ugly Drakonian with the face of a cobra and the snout of an alligator. A silent and surly mercenary commander, he nevertheless knew his place and obeyed his orders from Snark and Tikrow without complaint.
Tikrow scratched one ear. “Are my warriors standing by?”
“Yes, Warclaw. They but await your orders.”
“Very good.” Tikrow turned to Snark, who was leaning against an instrument panel, cleaning his claws. “Well, Mister Snark, it seems that our mission will soon be accomplished.”
The Drakonian licked his lips with his forked tongue. His smile was neither friendly nor attractive. “We can only hope so,” he said.
The triangular hatch to the bridge parted in the center with a whoosh of air. Captain Kriff marched in as if he were on parade.
Tikrow and Snark turned to greet him.
“What news from our hunters?” Tikrow asked him.
Captain Kriff showed his sharp teeth in a fierce grin. “They have found the village and are now riding to the attack,” he said.
Tikrow nodded. “Three fighter craft will give them air support. I’ll accompany them.”
“I wish you a successful mission and look forward to your return,” said Kriff. His emerald eyes narrowed, and his furry brow wrinkled in a slight frown.
“I can only imagine how your heart must burn with joy at this long overdue reunion with your brother,” Tikrow said, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice.
Kriff eyed him with contempt. “I’ll go prepare quarters for his return,” he said.
Then he turned and left the bridge.
Snark and Tikrow exchanged glances but said not a word to each other.
444
The jungle was lush, hot and stifling—a prehistoric wildlife park, Douglas called it. It was inhabited by creatures the likes of which Vash had thought he would never see in his forty-odd years. Many of them reminded him of the flying serpents, fire-spitting dragons and other creatures from Rhajnara’s primordial past.
While most Zaturans preferred to dwell in forests and deserts, this particular tribe—the Bone Eaters—lived beyond the banks of a wide, deep river that stretched seemingly forever over the face of the planet. Across the river lay the nameless jungle. Many leagues to the south of the Zaturan village stretched a vast, nameless desert of blood-colored sand. The Brimstone Mountains—another name coined by Douglas—stood majestically in the west, with the firerock quarry lying at the base of its foothills like the entrance to the nether regions.
It was in the pre-dawn light when the Zaturans fed the slaves their only meal of the day before whipping them back to work in the quarry. A small ration of filthy water, moldy bread, and a disgusting gruel were all the slaves were given to eat.
“Vile and stinking Zaturans!” Douglas cursed as he shoveled the disgusting gruel into his mouth with his dirty bare hands.
Slave-talk said the gruel was made of the flesh and bones of unruly Zaturan children.
Vash snarled, “I would gladly rip the heads from our captors—if I but had the strength to break these shackles and win my freedom.”
“Do you have any weapons hidden inside your loincloth, my lord?” one old and decrepit Omegan with the face of a vulture asked him.
“And once you escaped, where would you flee? Where would you hide?” asked a Canisian dogman, who quickly buried his muzzle in his bowl of gruel.
Douglas smirked, but for once he had nothing to say.
Vash kept his tongue locked firmly behind his sharp teeth. He stroked his short whiskers and ate his food, imagining that he was eating the flesh of his fellow slaves.
After the morning meal, the Zaturans ordered the slaves out of the cages and into single file. The slaves were whipped and clubbed into line, and then forced into a quick march back to the quarry. Those slaves too sick or injured to work, those who took their time rising to their feet, were quickly beheaded. Their brains would be given to the Zaturan guards, while their bones would provide sustenance to the rest of the tribe.
But as the slaves neared the western-most outskirts of the primitive village, clouds of dust could be seen in the distance. The ground trembled under the pounding of what sounded to Vash like a herd of stampeding stalliphants. Then, from out of the far horizon, there appeared warriors clad in leather and riding huge, monstrous beasts. There were scores of them, and they were ri
ding straight for the village and the small army of slaves and Zaturans.
“By God—what sort of creatures are those?” Douglas asked.
“Are you not going to name them?” Vash asked.
“They are Drakonian duthoatans,” the Omegan told them.
As the creatures drew nearer, the slaves recoiled at the sight of them. The beasts were huge, almost twice the height of a man. Douglas mumbled something about their resemblance to a hybrid of polar bear and spider, with tusks a mastodon would envy. Vash had no interest in what the madman was saying; all he cared about was that Khandra warriors-- Rhajni tigermen like himself-- were mounted on the backs of the creatures.They wore uniforms of black leather jackets, knee-high boots, and tight gray pants. Their jackets were emblazoned with a black claw on a silver shield. Each of them was armed with a tazer rifle and a holstered zapgun.
Vash’s soul burned with passion. His prayers to the Maker had been answered.
The Khandra tigermen rode their Drakonian steeds into the guards, firing green tracers of blazing energy from their tazers that turned the Zaturans into charred ruin. The Zaturans fought bravely, but their primitive weapons were useless against the raiders. Douglas and the other slaves hit the dirt like cowardly scum, many of them falling to bolts of blue zapper fire.
But Vash stood there and squinted in the sun’s light as rescue drew closer and closer.
An ear-wracking drone of engines caused him to glance at the sky.
Three Drakonian jet fighters dropped down out of the clouds. These looked like black pterodactyls, their wing guns blazing with tazer fire as they attacked the Zaturan village. Flames erupted among the log and mud shacks. Thatched roofs began to belch fire and smoke. Explosions shattered the roofs and walls of the stone huts. Hundreds of Zaturans tried to flee as the jet fighters cut them down with a strafing of deadly energy beams.
Caught between the advancing horde of mounted Khandra and the three airborne vessels, the Zaturans surrendered and knelt with their faces in the dirt, only to be reduced to dust and ash.
Three Against the Stars Page 4