Boomer (Star Watch Book 3)

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  Rom Dasticon’s sudden presence crept up on Zintar. He felt foolish, caught off guard, by the disembodied voice, coming from so close behind him. Zintar did not turn, or even make a move. For several moments, he simply stared off into the mist. He would not tremble, or cower down, like he’d seen so many others do in the past—even his own brother.

  Rom Dasticon moved—more like floated—into Zintar’s line of sight. There—in the moist silence—his hooded form wore a different kind of darkness. He was like an anomaly—a black hole—stealing what little light there was in the huge space; greedily sucking it all into himself.

  “And again … you do not lower down to a knee. Your pride will be your undoing, Lord Zintar Shakrim.”

  Zintar waited for Dasticon’s hooded features to become more visible in the haze. For the virtual eyes to be revealed. Ah … there they were. Cold, calculating, and utterly ruthless.

  “I am at your mercy, My Lord Rom Dasticon.”

  “I know you are. We have accomplished great things together, you and I. For that reason, I have forgiven your minor transgressions.”

  Zintar watched the form turn away, as if surveying the surroundings. “And what is the progress of the terraforming, those preparations underway for my home here, within the Dacci System?”

  Zintar knew that would be his first question. Dasticon’s physical presence required a planet environment similar to this hellish improvised sanctum: dark, cold and wet. The planet, a world dwarfing all others within the planetary system, was located at the farthest reaches of Dacci space. As far as anyone was concerned, it was a dead planet. No one decided to go there purposely, but it was perfect for Dasticon’s needs. It only required a few terraforming alterations to match his native environment.

  “Moisture levels are nearly sufficient. Temperatures are still too low—very little sunlight reaches all the way down to Caspian.”

  “Better too cold than too warm,” he said. “Now talk to me of the four won effigies. Everything we’ve done comes back to acquiring all four.”

  “I have one and the human … the girl … holds another. As we speak, the last two are being recovered.”

  “By the human,” Dasticon spat back with contempt.

  Zintar was uneasy with the present line of questioning. “Whether it is she or my own agent who recovers the final two effigies matters not. Either way, they are as good as in my possession already.” For the first time Zintar saw the outline of a smile form beneath the hood’s dark shadow.

  “And you savor the moment she no longer serves a purpose—the moment when you can avenge your brother’s humiliating defeat. Tell me, how old was the human then? Ten, or eleven, years of life?” Dasticon asked.

  Zintar was well aware he was being taunted. “Yes. She will not be underestimated this time.”

  “Let’s hope not, for your sake. Isn’t it true your own ancient writings speak of an alien child who joins with the God-force? That does not bode well for you, Lord Zintar Shakrim.”

  Zintar did not answer.

  “Assure me that it will be done. That the four won effigies are brought together, just as I have instructed, and placed upon a Glist pedestal at the planet’s polar axis, on my new world Caspian. And this will happen within five cycles of your sun.”

  “Five days?” Zintar scoffed. “That was never our agreement. I have no control over when—”

  Dasticon interrupted—moving in closer: “Five cycles, or I will make this endeavor of ours far more personal than simply about revenge for your murdered brother. You have a son … Jarial. Yes?”

  “Do not go there, Dasticon. You threaten my son, you threaten me.”

  “Yes—that is exactly my intent.”

  In that moment, Zintar’s hatred for the dark demi-god elevated to a new level. His fingers balled into tight fists, his teeth were clenched, and his eyes narrowed down to slits. He willed himself not to do something the Sahhrain people would have to pay for—for an eternity. And what could Dasticon do now—this virtual representation, anyway? Albeit, even his image seemed powerful—standing there before him—taunting him.

  “My new fleet of warships … I trust they stand at the ready?”

  Zintar had been waiting for this question, as well. He inwardly bristled at Dasticon’s possessive reference to what was, in reality, the fruits of his own labor—not Dasticon’s.

  “It is a fleet like none other. More warships than the Allied and the Earth’s U.S. fleets combined. Over one million souls—Sahhrain, Blues, and slaves from neighboring systems, not to mention countless numbers of drones—all have contributed to the construction of the many thousands of warships.”

  Like a deathly reaper, Rom Dasticon pointed a sleeved hand into Zintar’s face: “What you do not know is that the fleet has already been detected. That element of surprise you so counted on is gone.”

  Zintar, of course, did know that, already having gone up against the small, private, vessel from the Sol System. But he’d hoped the ship had since been destroyed or, at the very least, had crashed onto a nearby planet.

  “You should attack now, before the Alliance fleets have time to coordinate an attack. It is not, as you must know, a forgone conclusion that even thousands of warships will be able to best the Caldurian technology.”

  “Caldurian ships are just a fraction of their assets. Most are older Craing vessels, far inferior to what we have constructed. When we attack, it will be a massacre of epic proportions, Rom Dasticon.”

  “Then you should make your move now.”

  “We agree that … your presence here, your influence, will all but guarantee success. Three cycles … that is all I require to reunite the remaining won effigies; to invoke the bridge between our distant realms.” Zintar surprised even himself to be making this argument. He watched as Dasticon’s chin rose; a condescending smile appeared on his face, expressing his pleasure at hearing Zintar’s near-desperate plea. Zintar had been manipulated and they both knew it.

  Without another word Rom Dasticon nodded, silently moving off until his form was lost in the heavy pervading mist.

  Zintar abruptly turned and hurried away, needing to put some distance between himself and Rom Dasticon, and this dark place.

  * * *

  He entered the gargantuan warship’s bridge, striding over to an elevated section of the compartment, toward an area encircled on three sides by a waist-high railing. From this higher vantage point he was able to look down on the deck officers, all busy at work. Zintar saw the empty command chair below. Brakken was up ahead, at the railing. His thick, muscular arms crossed over his chest—a stern presence, overseeing the bridge crew below. As Zintar joined him at the railing, his loyal second waited for him to speak first.

  “We have three days.”

  His second took that in, then slowly shook his head. “Perhaps Jarial should make another attempt himself?”

  “No … he nearly got himself killed. Twice, actually. He’ll carry those scars, along with the enduring pain, for the rest of his life. I do not believe he would survive another attempt … one that will undoubtedly fail, again,” Zintar said.

  “Of course. You are probably right, my Lord. Better let the girl risk her life,” Brakken said.

  They both looked over to the forward display where a strangely distorted, oblong planet filled the screen. Brakken chuckled. “The human, along with her three Blues accomplices, has reached the surface.”

  Zintar watched his second-in-command give a mock shudder. “I hate fucking bugs. As much as I detest humans, and the Blues, I do not envy them—what they are about to endure.”

  Lord Zintar Shakrim’s reaction was far different. Although he smiled, along with Brakken, Zintar relished the suffering the young human would soon be enduring. He said, “This is only the beginning of her suffering. The insects first—later, something far worse.”

  “Lord Shakrim,” came a voice from below.

  “Yes, go ahead, Deck Officer Tamma.” Brakken had answered for
Zintar.

  “Commander Jarial is now in position on the surface and has installed the various view pods. Do you wish to observe—”

  “Yes … just do it!” Zintar commanded. He quickly moved to the lower section, joined the bridge crew and assumed the command chair. This should be quite entertaining, he thought.

  Chapter 35

  Boomer counted six or so small hovering pods, placed around the perimeter of the obstacle course. There are probably more, she surmised. But looking down from their current vantage point, after viewing three distinct—impossible—stages of the course to come, being observed was probably the least of their problems.

  They looked over the obstacle course and prepared to begin.

  Earlier, when they first reached Draggim, an odd-shaped world, and settled into a high orbit above it, Captain Brith provided them with a far more detailed accounting of what was on the surface. There were trillions upon trillions of life forms, even excluding things smaller than the average earth-sized cat. Draggim was teeming with life: thousands of insectile species, and, he further clarified, abundant cross-over species, too.

  Using the scroll as a reference, along with Brith’s excellent ancient Dacci translation skills—not to mention the ship’s somewhat limited sensor array—they were able to pinpoint the next won effigy’s hiding place in less than three hours. The Sahhrain crewmen again secured into the gunship’s hold while the ship’s course held steady in a medium-level orbit around Draggim.

  The team joined hands and phase-shifted together down to the surface. But the sensor arrays hadn’t prepared them for what waited there. They’d phase-shifted atop the carcass of something really big and very recently dead. It was slippery and mushy beneath their feet, and covered, head to toe, in creepy-crawly bugs. Within seconds their exposed legs, beneath their Tammy Wrap garments, were tickled by scores of minute legs. Only Boomer, who hadn’t disengaged her battle suit yet, was spared.

  As the bug-biting started, Rogna was the first to scream bloody murder. Soon, Gain and Drom began screaming too, just as loudly. All three frantically danced about, and slapped futilely at their legs.

  Boomer needed to get them away from there, and fast. “Grab hands!” she yelled. But no one listened to her, totally preoccupied in their own misery. Boomer grabbed ahold of Gain, the closest one. Spotting a ledge, some thirty or forty feet above them, she phase-shifted him away. She repeated the same action twice, until they were all out of reach of the tiny, biting bugs. They continued to slap themselves silly, until they finally realized that employing teamwork instead might be the best antidote. They began picking the bugs off each other’s body, one by one. Hysterical, Rogna pulled her Tammy Wrap over her head and stood naked to let the others rid her body of the parasitic little monsters. Within a moment, Gain and Drom stripped too.

  “Don’t just stand there gawking! Get them off of me!” Drom pleaded, totally devoid of all self-consciousness about his nakedness. Boomer’s face flushed and she quickly averted her eyes from both Gain’s and Drom’s now exposed privates. She let them deal with each other’s insects and turned toward Rogna, who continued to wail and looked ready to hurl herself off the ledge to escape from the pain. Boomer continued to pluck the tiny beetle-like bugs from legs and arms and back and neck. She stopped and held one of them between thumb and forefinger and inspected it. It was definitely a beetle but also looked centipede-like.

  “This isn’t working,” Boomer said. “There’s way too many of them!”

  “You got any better ideas?” Drom asked, plucking bugs, one after another, off Rogna’s small breasts. She screamed and slapped at his hands. “Get away from me!” Streams of blood trickled down her skin from the many bites, her body quickly becoming a bloody mess. Boomer knew the stricken three were in serious trouble.

  “Stand away from each other!” Boomer ordered. “Do it … now!”

  They did as she asked, continuing to pluck and slap and swear and scream. Boomer started with Rogna, the loudest, most upset, of the threesome. She raised her enhancement shield and, doing her utmost to produce the absolute minimal emanation of distortion waves, began to direct the rays over Rogna’s exposed skin. Immediately, the beetles—hundreds of them—snapped and splattered. To Boomer it sounded like popcorn popping. Rogna’s skin began to turn from first blue to a reddish color. Where she’d concentrated the distortion waves for too long, small heat blisters appeared on her flesh. A small price to pay, Boomer thought, as she steadily moved the face of her shield up and down Rogna’s flesh.

  “Okay … okay … they’re dead! Get away from me with that thing!” Rogna cried out angrily, suddenly conscious of her nakedness. She looked around for her Tammy Wrap. Finding it at her feet, she snapped it energetically into the air, ridding it of the pesky insects, before covering herself.

  Boomer was already repeating the same eradication procedure with Gain, who, standing relatively still, was far easier to assist than Rogna. Lastly came Drom, who stoically looked into the distance, his arms raised over his head. Boomer moved her shield over his body in a now-familiar rhythm. Pop pop pop, the tiny beetles exploded, one by one, off his muscular V-shaped back. It was only when he turned around to face her that she hesitated. Boomer inhaled, recognizing that his penis, hanging thick and long, had four little beasties on it. Their eyes met and Boomer gave him a pained smile. “This might hurt … a tad.”

  He looked away and shrugged, not saying anything.

  Boomer used her shield and eradicated the tiny creatures from Drom’s privates. Four more pops, and he flinched with each one. A minute later, after she’d finished him, she directed the shield over her entire combat suit—up and down her legs and torso.

  Only after that could Boomer assess their environment. What she’d first considered to be some form of outcropping, on the rock tower they were on, she realized wasn’t what she’d figured at all. They were standing atop a three-story, building-sized hive, though she didn’t sense it was an active one. Using the toe of her boot, she dug into the substance beneath her feet and saw it was the color of sand—dried and flaky—dead stuff.

  Then she noticed the first of the hovering pods. Lowering now from above, a little reflective lens spun around to face her. She reached out for it but it swooped away, keeping her in its sights from a distance. Over the next few minutes, she spotted five other little flying pods.

  “You sure you want to be the one to do this, Drom?” Gain asked, looking from him to Boomer. His meaning was clear: Boomer, wearing a combat suit, might be the wiser choice.

  Glancing at the three Blues—each with seeping, bloody, stains on their wraps, looking very speckled—Boomer said, “Gain may be right—”

  “No, we’ve already discussed this. I will be retrieving the statue here.”

  Boomer stood at the ledge and looked down at the area where the ancients had hidden the won effigy. It was impossible from here to know that this was, in fact, an obstacle course; the gunship’s sensors had provided an outline of what lay beneath the overgrowth of foliage.

  “Someone’s been here … and fairly recently,” Drom said, lowering down to one knee. He pointed off to the distance. “Look at the height of the jungle surrounding us, then look at the plant life below us. It’s as if someone mowed this area clear. It’s grown back some, but it definitely was cleared.”

  Boomer had to agree. After their recent experience, at the first obstacle course, she could see some similarities in that construction with this one.

  Joining Drom on one knee, she took in the landscape around them. Life was everywhere. It felt prehistoric and dangerous here. She had a bad feeling about this place. They needed to acquire the hidden won and get the hell away.

  Chapter 36

  Boomer phase-shifted Drom down to the beginning of the new obstacle course, some sixty feet from the hive, then rejoined the others, back on the higher perch above—the best vantage point to oversee Drom’s progression.

  She gazed out at the green and leafy t
errain. What surrounded them were tall trees with thick hickory colored trunks and the kind of black hanging vines you’d expect to see in a Tarzan movie. From this vantage point she could see numerous hive-like structures. They were probably all deserted … but there was something different about this place that made her uneasy—uncomfortable. Her eyes scanned the course itself and the ancient Dacci’s handiwork. Massive chiseled stone and more of their ornate ironwork. Obviously, someone had recently cleared the vegetation from the course. She briefly wondered if the hidden won prize … perhaps the Palwon, Nordwon, or Lortwon, had already been scavenged. Risking one’s life here was one thing … but risking it for no reward, well that was another.

  They had spent close to an hour discussing the course’s various obstacles as they went along. The closer they inspected the various challenges, the more convinced they were that it wasn’t similar to the Clorvious Noles course like they’d thought earlier.

  Boomer did her best to stay optimistic, supportive of Drom, but it was becoming more and more difficult. Maybe she should insist that it be her, not Drom, to tackle the course. She’d learned years earlier that being the person in charge was not a popularity contest. Tough decisions were part of being a leader. As she watched Drom standing alone in the distance—hands on hips—his concentration focused on the first obstacle, she resolved to let things play out as they were. The truth was, he was an amazing athlete. He also was, as he had pointed out to her, better suited to deal with what might be a big part of these challenges—insects.

  Drom shook his head, mentally discounting something, as he calculated his moves.

  “What’s he waiting for?” Rogna asked. “It’s getting hot and I think I heard something.”