Death Drop (The D-Evolution)

by Sean Allen

  “Will do, Sy. How’s the cargo coming?”

  “Libby’s almost finished with the crates an’ I’m busy hackin’ away at the encryption for the gate, but I’m”

  “I’ll have to call you back, Sy,” Dezmara said abruptly before he could finish, “I’ve been spotted…”

  The brutish doorman pivoted on his stumpy legs and turned to face her. He moved aggressively in her direction, leaning forward on his big arms as he planted the thick, callused knuckles of his left hand into the stone floor, followed quickly by the other, and then repeated the motion twice more with increasing speed. Even with his little legs and his knuckles dragging on the ground, the creature stood a head and a half taller than Dezmara and it was easily three times wider than she was at the shoulders. He sniffed the air heavily and leered at Dezmara with threatening eyes.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” the doorman snapped in the deepest voice she had ever heard.

  “I’m a traveler and I’m thirsty,” she quipped. She was a natural smart-ass and she found it hard to make herself behave despite the voice of reason that pleaded with her to do it anyway for survival’s sake. “I hear Buego’s is the place to go if you want to part with your money.” She quickly slipped out a stack of shiny tolocs and dropped them into the doorman’s hand to quell any animosity her reply might have sparked in the creature. The stack of coins barely filled a fraction of his giant palm, and she was glad the kranos shielded her genuine concern for the brute’s size and power.

  The bouncer let out a snorting laugh. “Go on,” he said as he cupped his fingers around the money and shuffled to one side.

  She walked calmly past the doorman and through the stone archway that led to Buego’s. She waded past several patrons crowded near the entrance trying to escape the deafening noise inside and shouting to each other in strange tongues. The display on the kranos blinked four times and outlined as many cameras in the dimly lit ingress as she descended down the walk. The entrance ran straight for several paces and then opened into a large, semi-circular foyer that overlooked the pub. The railing of the balcony was lined with more statues groping for the high, flat ceiling above. Dezmara leaned on the rail and scanned the area.

  The room was a large rectangle. Not much in the way of obstacles or surprises, except for the several hundred people packed into the place and the multiple passageways branching off of the main chamber. The walls were lined with carved niches that encased even more statues and, Dezmara noted, could possibly serve as hiding places. She was also keenly aware of several cameras strategically placed around the cavern. At the back of the room, a platform of rock floated on the upstretched hands of hundreds of half-sized Triniton statuettes. On this stage, a band of unruly creatures vigorously banged, strummed, and slapped their strange instruments, driving the writhing bodies on the crowded floor in front of them into a rhythm-induced frenzy. Dezmara couldn’t help but smile a little before turning to walk down the path to her left: the band was pretty good.

  The trail leading from the mezzanine curved along the back of the chamber and descended to the main level below. The drop-off to the right of the walkway was blocked by a wall that was several feet taller than Dezmara but did not reach all the way to the ceiling and was lined with a number of posters. The signs were crowded onto the partition in haphazard fashion, the crisp edges and bright colors of more recent announcements overshadowing the curled corners and faded claims of events past. Most of the advertisements were for musical acts that had come and gone. Dezmara chuckled to herself as she read the names of different bands and looked at their pictures, both of which, she guessed, were meant to be as cool as possible. Some got it right; some didn’t. She read the first few out loud. “The D-Liners, last show EVER! The North Star Drifters. The 1:10 Trio—Canceled Due to Band Mutiny, No Refunds!” She ran a gloved hand down the wall and over the banners, glancing less at each passing one as she descended. Then she stopped dead in her tracks. Her fingers caught the stiff edge of new parchment, and her peripheral vision shocked something in her subconscious that her rational mind didn’t comprehend.

  She took a small step backwards and turned to face the sign. Her heart jumped into her throat as the kranos disseminated the information and neatly organized it into sections on the right side of her view. She selected the first heading and read the posting twice to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. It read:

  ~ DANGER ~

  It has been reported to the port authority that a Human has been traveling this region of the galaxy and may try to resupply at Luxon. It is unknown what powers Humans possess, but they must be treated as hostile as their presence here could bring the wrath of the Durax upon this great port. Capture or kill is permitted.

  100,000 tolocs

  DEAD OR ALIVE

  ~

  The rest of the posting detailed what a Human might look like, including the position of their eyes, ears, and noses on their heads; the different colors and placement of hair on their bodies; and the number and shapes of their limbs and extremities. Dezmara had heard rumors of old warnings posted by the Durax ages ago, but this was new and posted not by the Durax, but by free people, people whose worlds and families were destroyed just like hers. She was an outcast among outcasts. Loneliness punched a hole right through her, and she felt the sickening feeling of emptiness begin to numb her senses. She might not have been so concerned if the sign had just listed a description of a male Human—something she couldn’t even vouch for—but it also included a description of a female and it was frighteningly accurate.

  “How in the hell? Nobody’s seen a Human for millennia. How’d they get a description of…” She reached up and killed the connection with the Ghost, and she had a creeping feeling that she should have done it sooner. She fought her suspicions back behind their irrational cage, but it was a delicate barrier. Her paranoia could riot at any moment and send her running for the exit, ready to slice to ribbons anything that stood between her and her ship, anything that came between her and freedom. Dezmara was a skilled fighter and pilot. She made split second decisions in the heat of battle and during dangerous maneuvers in a run without hesitation, with infallible judgment and almost supernatural precision. But when it came to her Humanity, she was at a loss.

  She talked it out, a habit when she needed to think about the topic at hand. She found a carved indentation in the left wall just a few paces down the trail, and she slipped past the Triniton statue standing guard over the darkness behind him, vanishing from the view of the other patrons who were too busy laughing and drinking to notice her anyway. “Now, if we assume the Human they’re talking about is you, who could’ve possibly told them? Fellini’s never seen you outside of the Ghost, and besides, he doesn’t get paid as much if his number one runner goes down.

  “You just told Simon you were Human, and he stands to make way more than a hundred grand on the next run alone. Besides, if it were him, he could’ve just given a photo or video from the Ghost’s security cameras and there wouldn’t be a need for male and female descriptions…unless…”

  The lonely feeling was gone, and elation washed through her body in warm, tingling waves. Her logic led her to the only reasonable explanation for the wanted poster: there were other Humans and they had been spotted in this galaxy—maybe coming to this station! Her happiness rose up from deep inside her and moisture blurred her vision. “Stop it, dammit! You can’t wipe tears away under this stupid helmet. Pull yourself together, girl!” She sniffed heavily and took a deep breath to calm her nerves. Even though her eight-year search could come to an end very soon, she had to be at the top of her game if she expected to locate the Humans without exposing them or herself to the portmaster, his goons, or anyone else who bothered to take the posting seriously. She needed to focus.

  The ship needed supplies, as it always did when she and Simon came into a dockyard. But Dezmara’s search for others like her always topped her list of priorities, and coming into a port gave her a unique opportu
nity to help find Humans. The supplies would have to wait; right now Dezmara was on a mission—reconnaissance. She always headed to a port’s pub because it was here that pilots and sailors flocked like thirsty animals around a watering hole to tell stories about where they’d been and what they’d seen during their travels through the stars. Dezmara knew that these types were prone to exaggeration—even she tended to stretch the truth for dramatic effect when regaling Simon with her own tales; but, since he was either aboard the ship during one of her spectacular runs or able to rewind the view on her helmet when she was out and about, she rarely got away with much. Although, to Dezmara’s credit, her un-exaggerated feats were more spectacular than most pilots’ flights of fancy; she truly was the best pilot in the known universe. But story telling was in most adventurers’ blood and liberties were almost always taken to ensure an entertaining and dazzling tale—especially in the company of fellow pilots—and Dezmara took everything with a grain of salt. Fueled by this new information—that other Humans could be close by, possibly even here on Luxon at this very moment—she was even more focused on her mission.

  Dezmara tapped the side of the kranos and programmed it to scan for the word Human in multiple languages. With the program running, she all but launched herself from the crevice where she was hiding, streaking onto the stone walkway in a blur of burgundy and black. Her sudden appearance startled a young couple holding tightly to one another and searching for a dark corner so they, too, could disappear. They recovered from their initial shock at the strange, masked figure darting out from the shadows and decided it was a good hiding place as they slipped into the now vacant cut-out. This day was the best Dezmara had known since her awakening, and the euphoria, coupled with excitement, made her feel as if she were floating down the passage toward the main level.

  She rounded the edge of the divider and turned to her right. A large U-shaped bar directly in front of her stuck out from the the wall into the open area, now occupied with more wild music fans than when she had first arrived. She looked over the jostling bodies and flailing limbs that reflected in the whirling stage lights and saw the band at the far end of the room. One of the musicians was balanced on his instrument, clutching it between long, dexterous fingers while plucking its strings with equally impressive toes as the band’s high-energy song shook the chamber. Dezmara was impressed with the creature’s display of balance and, evidently, so was the crowd. A loud surge of cheers, hoots, and raised fists jolted the air in response to the feat.

  Dezmara smiled again and considered what she would have chosen to do if being a runner hadn’t come so naturally. At first glance, being in a band seemed to suit her ulterior motives rather well. There was definitely plenty of travel involved, not to mention opportunities to sit and talk with fellow travelers before and after a show. It would be easy enough to do recon while talking to them about where they were from and where they had been. Acts were always trying to separate themselves from the crowd, and wearing a mask like the kranos would probably seem pretty cool these days. But the pay sucks unless you became a rock star, and that would bring the kind of attention Dezmara couldn’t afford. “Who are you kiddin’?” she thought to herself. “You have enough trouble staying under the radar as the Ghost; and besides, you couldn’t stand flyin’ around in the kind of hunk-a-junk a musician’s salary would afford.” She chuckled inwardly but the former sentiment had shaken her confidence.

  She had drawn a lot of attention to herself as it was. Being unbeaten in over twenty straight runs would be legendary in the black market, but two hundred and thirty consecutive victories was unreal. Dezmara originally had figured that by around one hundred wins, she would be treated like a deity: worshipped and respected or perhaps even feared. Either was fine with her because, in both cases, she would be left alone. But instead of being respected or feared, The Ghost had become a thorn in the side of any runner gunning to be the best—and that included every last one of them in the universe. They had all become increasingly aggressive toward her during runs and had performed questionable maneuvers in their frustration at being unable to unseat Dezmara from the highly coveted, and highly lucrative, number one slot.

  One rogue, enraged at being overtaken so easily, even opened fire on the Ghost with armor-piercing rounds. She would have returned fire with her aft guns and would have been completely justified in doing so per the code, if it weren’t for the risk of hitting the rest of the runners hurtling behind her target. Dezmara paid the captain of the attacking ship a personal visit following the run, and she never took attempts on her life lightly. She offered the captain a choice: give up his ship as payment for his mistake or give up his life. Most captains, as proud as they are, would have chosen death, or would like to think they would if they were put in a similar situation, but Dezmara could be very persuasive when she wanted to be, and the unruly captain chose to live in the end. Simon scavenged all the good parts from the acquired vessel, sold it, and split the proceeds between the two of them.

  All other runners were a threat. “Everyone except Rilek,” she said under the kranos. “The admiral and his fleet always fly with honor.” And Dezmara had plenty of experience with Rilek. She and the Lodestar were always battling it out for first as the rest of the pack appeared to float lazily along in their exhaust. Most of their races were extremely close, but Rilek never once made a move that was anywhere near debatable. Dezmara could tell he looked at each run as a chance to prove who the best pilot was that day—no weapons, no tricks, just pure flying skills pitted against each other—and she preferred it that way. So far, she had proven the better flyer, but Rilek was a hell of a pilot and Dezmara had the utmost respect for him.

  She composed herself as best she could and walked toward an empty seat where the bar met with the back wall. As she got closer, she noticed the place was decorated in a similar manner as the rest of the port. There was what Dezmara assumed to be a life-sized Triniton statue carved in the back wall. It was standing in a pool of blue, phosphorescent liquid with two arms outstretched. In its hands it grasped two pitchers that tilted toward the pool and replenished its contents with never-ending streams of glowing fluid. Bottles of liquor stretched out on shelves to both sides of the sculpture and shimmered in the blue light, luring the weary and lonely like twinkling lanterns. The bar itself was rather plain—consisting of nothing more than a large, flat expanse of carved stone—but the craftsmanship Dezmara had come to expect at Luxon revealed itself, once again, in the form of statues. Surrounding the bar was an arc of thick rectangular blocks that reached halfway to the counter top and were held up by a myriad of intricately carved statuettes. Dezmara swept back the sides of her flight jacket and sat down on one of the cold, stone bar stools.

  No sooner had her gloved hands touched down on the ledge than a stocky, round figure with a well-worn towel over his shoulder waddled up to the opposite side. “What’ll ya have?” he shouted gruffly over the noise as he stroked several days’ worth of black stubble on his chubby face. He eyed Dezmara suspiciously as he waited for a reply.

  “Talsey,” she said through the kranos.

  She caught the slightest upturn of the bartender’s mouth before he turned and disappeared to the other side of the fountain, only to return a few moments later with a decanter and a small cylindrical vessel clutched in his hands. He uncorked the bottle with a deep thoonk and carelessly tipped it onto the rim of the receptacle. The encounter gave out a sharp sound as the liquid glugged slowly from the bottle and inched its way up the sides of Dezmara’s glass. She made a sideways movement with her hand and the bartender yanked the neck of the container upright and then leaned over the bar so she could hear him. “Fifty tolocs,” he said as he flashed a crooked grin and ran a thickly fingered hand through the black, greasy hair on top of his head.

  “You must be Buego, right?”

  “If you gotta a problem with the prices, you can get the fuck outta my place,” he said with a scowl, “after you pay for that one.” He re
ached a hand behind him and pulled a small pistol from his waistband. He placed the gun on the counter facing Dezmara and stared blankly into the viewports of the kranos. “You got about three seconds to pay up, shitbird. You get my drift?”

  Dezmara chuckled loud enough so Buego couldn’t mistake the sound for anything but amusement.

  “What’s so goddam funny, asshole?”

  “I just figured a waistband like that could carry something a little bigger, but I’m sure you hear that a lot.”

  “What’d you say, you son of a…” Buego reached a pudgy hand for the little revolver lying on the bar, but before his fingertips could come close to the cold metal of the gun, Dezmara snatched his wrist and twisted it around until he yelped. His thick lips curled back in a grimace, revealing a large, sharp tooth on his lower jaw that was flanked by several rows of smaller, jagged teeth. His big cheeks puffed in and out as he tried to breathe through the building pain now shooting up his arm. “You’re dead, asshole! Nobody comes into my place an’—AAAARRRGGG!”

  “You still have something to say—that means I must not be twisting quite hard enough,” Dezmara said as she wrenched Buego’s arm a little more. She could feel the tissues straining under his skin, and he looked like he was about to pass out. “Now, if you’re finished, I would like to speak.” She paused for emphasis, and when he didn’t answer, Dezmara turned his wrist just a fraction more.

  “YEEEAAAH!” he screamed.

  “Good. Now, before you got all bent out of shape, I was gonna give you this,” she said and a gold coin flipped through the air, skipped across the bar, and rolled on its edge in a wide circle before spinning to a halt between them. Buego’s eyes widened when he realized that the shiny medallion was a large, one hundred toloc piece. “Not only that, but I was going to buy a barrel of talsey and a half-barrel of stout—at full asking price—to stock my ship. But now, I’m afraid, the only thing that’s going to rectify the situation is if I snap your arm in two.” Dezmara had just about reached her limit with the portmaster and his cronies. She seriously considered putting all of her weight into breaking Buego’s arm just because he deserved it.