Death Drop (The D-Evolution)

by Sean Allen

  The second attacker caught the full force of the battering ram container on the belly. The nose of the little vessel was wrenched skyward and it drifted horizontally. For a brief moment, it looked like an odd bird flaring its wings and readying itself to perch on the nearest ledge or outcropping, but then the craft’s engines coughed and sputtered as it stalled; then it fell like a stone. “Three down…” Dezmara thought optimistically, but there was no time for celebrating. Fire from the two remaining bandits still hugging the mountain clapped at the rear of the ship. The portmaster and his goons didn’t have to destroy the Ghost to win the game—a breached hull would make it almost impossible to escape into space, even if Simon opened the gate. Dezmara had to destroy the last two fighters or they were doomed. There wasn’t enough room to maneuver, but she had no choice.

  “Hang on, Sy!” she shouted as she swerved the ship dangerously close to the mountainside.

  “’Oly shite, luv! What in the bloody blazes do you think you’re doin’?! We were too close as it was!”

  “Shut up and let me fly!” she yelled over the echo of the engines now bouncing off of the rocks and careening through the hold around her. She was the best pilot in the universe, but she was starting to have doubts. Simon’s warning burned in her ears and her heart leapt into her throat as she watched the cargo float past and drift toward the mountain. A spray of rock and dust exploded into the air with a crunch as the edge of the metal box barreled into a buttress flanking one of the dockyard doors. The container was now a giant anchor and the back end of the Ghost fishtailed wildly, sliding toward the unmovable rock just inches away.

  “Shit!” screamed Dezmara as she pounded the kranos and pushed the throttles to their stops. The tail of the ship whipped in the opposite direction, and Dezmara was already overcorrecting to straighten their flight path as the load swung past again and smashed into one of the dock towers that were still standing. The corroded metal of the tower crumpled from the impact and the twisted dock below, pulled by the tremendous force of the speeding Zebulon, snapped free from the mountain like a decayed, gnarled branch. The ship was still swaying and shaking as Dezmara edged it closer to the mountain again and opened fire on the two fighters still chasing them. They shot back, but Dezmara’s daredevil tactics were paying off—she was matching their position closely enough to make the Ghost’s guns effective again—and the warplane in the lead was shredded.

  “Four down!” Dezmara cheered through the com. “Now, if this last jerk-off knows what’s best for him, he’ll pack it up and” Black smoke curled in the wake of his fighter as the remaining pilot barrel-rolled away from the mountain through the dark smoke billowing up from the remains of the fallen ship. He was running the same game from the outside and Dezmara had only a fraction of a second to counter his move before he opened fire. She swung the ship wide to mirror his position and fired a salvo, but the nimble craft dodged the bullets easily, avoiding the barrage with a taunting display of acrobatic spins.

  “Why, you little sandbaggin’ sonofa…” Dezmara cursed. The pilot was good and he had waited to see what the bigger, less maneuverable space-hauler could do inside the dockyard. Now that he had seen the extent of Dezmara’s tactics, he moved in for the death stroke. A nauseated feeling sickened her stomach as the fighter pilot positioned himself on the back side of the container gently bobbing through the air behind the open cargo door. If the portmaster hadn’t already told him, the enemy pilot had certainly seen enough to know how important the freight must be to Dezmara, and he was using it to his full advantage—firing machine gun bursts over the top of the floating box and then dropping behind it for cover. He had a shield now too, and although it wasn’t entirely impenetrable, it didn’t need to stop bullets. The pilot knew Dezmara wouldn’t fire at him for the very same reason she couldn’t risk any more shots making it into the hold—damaged cargo was just as bad as missing cargo.

  “Hahaha!” the portmaster laughed maniacally. “It looks like my pilot friend has you in quite the dilemma, Ghost—destroy his ship and you destroy the cargo; don’t destroy his ship and he’ll destroy your cargo! There’s nothing left for you to do, Ghost, I’ve beaten you! You can give up and die like a coward—tortured and begging for my mercy—or you can try to be a hero and watch your livelihood get torn to shreds. Either way, I win and you die. And I have to say, now that it’s all over, I expected more from the mighty Ghost!

  “Dimitri,” he ordered his pilot, “destroy the cargo inside the ship first, and if you kill The Ghost, you’ll get triple what I promised!”

  Rational Dezmara had taken a back seat again and her battle instincts were in high gear as the kranos calculated distance, air speed, turbulence, and a myriad other variables. She pressed a button on the helmet and sprinted at full bore down the extended cargo ramp. The winch attached to her harness buzzed as the portmaster issued his final kill order. His smug taunts enraged her and she was going to give him what he expected—something more.

  Powerful eddies lashed at Dezmara’s body, and the folds of her flight jacket flowed behind her as she launched herself out of the cargo hold and into the air. The gunship’s cockpit bubble floated over the top edge of the container; but, instead of an easy target, the fighter pilot saw something he didn’t expect. A masked figure was flying through the air toward him, and even though the peculiar vision broke his concentration for only the merest second, it would prove to be a fatal mistake. Before he could tighten his finger around the trigger and reduce the body into slivers of pulverized meat, the glass around him shattered into millions of razor sharp crystals that slashed at the bare skin on his face. His body shook uncontrollably from the bullets that ripped through his chest and embedded themselves somewhere in the bowels of his ship behind him.

  Dezmara stood on top of the cargo container with her autos still fully extended in each hand as wisps of smoke curled briefly from both barrels before they were licked away by the strong currents. The taut cable pulled slightly at her harness, and Dezmara breathed a sigh of thanks that the kranos and the mainframe had calculated the correct distance to the cargo box, stopping the winch at the right moment. She holstered her pistols and steadied herself as she turned back toward the ship and gripped the cable in front of her with one hand. She reached around and unclipped the cable from the back side of her harness and reattached it to a clip in the front.

  Dezmara punched the controls to retract her cable at full speed and then slowly stop just short of the loading ramp’s lip so she could climb safely aboard. She engaged the device and jumped forward to minimize the whiplash effect. The top-mounted winch worked perfectly, stopping within arms’ length of the door, and she hoisted herself back into the hold. Dezmara rose to her feet and reached for her helmet so she could engage the floor winches and reel in the cargo, when three things happened almost simultaneously: the portmaster screamed in her ear, Dezmara crashed into one of the secured cargo containers, and the rear attack warning from the oculo sounded in the kranos.

  “DIE, YOU BASTARD!” the portmaster’s voice erupted over the com. Dezmara desperately wanted to talk shit, to tell that smug asshole that it wasn’t over because his little pilots were all dead and she had her cargo, but she didn’t have any time to respond—she didn’t have time to do anything except gasp for precious air as her broken ribs exploded in burning pain from the impact.

  “What the hell was that?” asked a distant voice inside her head.

  “GET YOUR ASS UP AND MOVE!” another voice screamed from her primal, war-machine mind, the part of her that knew exactly what had happened. The portmaster, consumed by rage and hatred for Dezmara at killing the last fighter pilot, had unleashed a diabolical attack on the Ghost’s computer system and broken through its defenses again. He had engaged the air brake and the shipment that Dezmara had hoped to hoist smoothly aboard was now streaking toward the back of the Zebulon. The good news was that it was going to crash into the cargo bay without battering the outside of her ship. The bad news was
that she was about to be flattened.

  As Dezmara gripped the cable in front of her and engaged the winch, she knew something was wrong: the torque on her body was pulling her down. The cable was still looped under a D-ring on the floor, and she was about to be pinned and then crushed by a five wilek cargo crate speeding through the atmosphere. Dezmara could feel the rush of air pushed forward by the container fill the hold as the kranos sounded the final alarm. Her right hand dove to her hip and jerked the auto from its holster so fast that she would have given any pistolier in the universe a run for his money. The flat black barrel barked and the D-ring disintegrated as Dezmara, hoisted by the winch, lifted from the ground, legs kicking wildly through the air just centimeters above the top of the container racing beneath the tips of her boots. It landed on the deck first, tearing a huge gash through the floor. The metal buckled from the blunt impact and jagged edges of alloy curled up on both sides of the hole like the serrated lips of a disfigured mouth. The box slammed into the stacks of cargo already lashed to the deck with a heart-stopping boom. The force bent several of the reinforced collars and floor locks, shaking the ship from nose to tail.

  Dezmara landed face down on top of the container, and the Ghost was still shaking from the collision as she rolled over and engaged the closest overhead winch with a collar. The wayward load had ripped one of the floor winches from its mount and sandwiched several crumpled plates of decking between itself and the secured cargo that had stopped its momentum. Three quarters of its body was sitting on heavily scratched but otherwise structurally intact flooring. In fact, considering its rather fantastic journey from dock six to its current position aboard the star freighter, the crate’s crooked alignment and the gaping tear in the deck leading up to its outer edge were manageable.

  Dezmara lowered the collar and guided it over the box as quickly as she could. Luckily, the grid pattern of the floor locks that made it possible to anchor containers of various shapes and sizes made it easy to batten down a cargo collar at an angle. The locks clicked loudly as the ratcheting mechanisms tightened the beam around the crate and secured it to the deck. She slid down one of the uprights on the collar and landed on the floor as gently as she could. She tapped the kranos and then clutched her aching side and stared numbly out onto the dockyard as the cargo ramp crept upward. Dezmara watched the streams of pale yellow light from outside the ship slowly fade as the bay door inched closer to its frame. She stood completely motionless and waited for the next surprise from the portmaster—the next attack in retaliation for dodging his murderous implements—but none came. And then she realized that he didn’t know that she was still alive.

  Dezmara wanted very badly to announce her status as ‘still breathing’ and taunt the portmaster some more, but she didn’t. If he thought she was dead, it might buy Dezmara some time to figure out if they had the slightest chance of getting out of Luxon. She worked her way past the rows of containers and across the main deck. Dezmara was panting and wincing in pain as she stepped inside the cockpit door and put both hands on her knees. Simon was still slapping furiously at the keyboards, and curses were flowing freely from his mouth. Things didn’t look promising.

  “How we doin’, Sy?” Dezmara could tell he was more than a little frazzled, and she made an effort to soften her tone. The clicks and taps that had pelted the space like a torrent just moments before faded to a trickle and then stopped completely as Simon slowly spun his chair around to face her. An audible gasp escaped her lips beneath the kranos as she looked as his face. She was wrong: Simon wasn’t frazzled, stressed out, annoyed, or irritated—he was terrified.

  “Got ‘im off the brakes an’ out of the flight controls. You prob’ly noticed that since we’re not smashin’ to the bottom of this pit…” Simon said as he looked at Dezmara through forlorn eyes. His shoulders sagged and his arms hung at his sides and he looked like he could break down at any moment. “Sorry, luv, I don’t want to die, but I can’t crack the gate…too bloody encrypted. I tried ev’rything.” Simon lifted his hands in a hopeless gesture and then they fell back to the sides of his chair with a hollow clap that matched the breaking sound in Dezmara’s heart. He had given up.

  Dezmara studied him for a moment. There was no sign of his spry wit, and the determined glimmer that once burned in his big, yellow eyes had gone out, replaced by the lifeless haze of fear. He really was defeated.

  “If we’re going to die,” she said calmly, “then we’re going to die fighting. Do you understand?”

  Simon’s face soured and his hands lifted from his sides again with palms turned out. “I tol’ ya, tried everything I know. I can’t hack”

  “I’m not talkin’ about the gate,” Dezmara said firmly. “I’m talkin’ you and me behind the guns and every round we got until it’s over. You up for that?”

  “R-r-right, luv,” Simon said as a measure of courage rekindled in his eyes. “I’ll be in the turret ‘bove engineerin’.” He got to his feet and slid past Dezmara as she peeled the kranos off of her head and tossed it into the empty copilot’s chair. She thought she saw him hesitate at the door for an instant, but when she turned to see if he was all right, he was gone. She dismissed it as a figment of her imagination or perhaps the ‘I know we’re going to die soon’ jitters and left it at that. She gave Simon ample time to get into position and strapped in—or perhaps not buckled in, depending on how reckless and cavalier he wanted to be in the last moments of his life—before making sure the com was still tuned to Luxon’s frequency and the voice-veil was engaged for familiarity’s sake.

  “This is The Ghost calling the shit-ass that tried to kill me with my cargo—nice try, dickface, but I’m still waitin’ for you to show me something. So far it looks like you’re just another guy who can’t finish the job!”

  The line buzzed and hummed in response and Dezmara opened her mouth to start into another, more insulting, taunt when the cameras on the Ghost picked up massive amounts of movement and she stopped to investigate. The holodex flashed and diagrammed more fighters of the same make and model as the five that Dezmara worked so hard, and had been so lucky, to destroy. The pale yellow light was blotted out and the dockyard darkened as squadrons of the little attack ships poured from every hangar door around the mountain.

  “That’s more like it,” Dezmara said stoically as she buckled her harness and tightened the belts around her. She tried to pretend that it didn’t bother her, that she was ready to die, but it wouldn’t take. Dezmara wanted nothing else but to uncover her past and remember who she was, where she came from and if there were other Humans in the universe somewhere. She couldn’t think of a worse fate than dying without knowing, dying without peace. “Goddamit!” she shouted in absolute frustration, then she realized that a related, but more recent mystery was eating away at her. “Who in the hell told these bastards I was Human?” The answer was somewhere back inside Luxon with the two sailors in Buego’s bar, and Dezmara had half a mind to storm back inside through the impenetrable, two meters thick doors and get her bloody satisfaction, when the ship’s screen displayed a new move by the portmaster at the end of the game. Dezmara raised an eyebrow as the data showed the tube of the great gate begin to rise in the bore ahead of them to the right.

  Dezmara wasted no time as she yanked the control stick toward the opening and gave more power to the engines.

  “Oi! You know it’s a bloody trap, don’cha?!” Simon’s frantic voice bellowed through the com and into the cockpit.

  “Yes, Simon, I know.”

  “Then why in the hell are we doin’ it, eh? I thought the ‘ole point of goin’ out with guns blazin’ was to die on your own terms.”

  “It is,” Dezmara said flatly.

  “And how is this your own terms if the portmaster is springin’ a trap an’ you’re goin’ along for the ride?”

  “Look, Simon, all I know is we’re going to die either way. He’s not going to open the gate, and we can’t fight through fifty ships in the dockyard; but I, for
one, would rather die within inches of freedom with my back against the wall than in the dockyard. I dunno, it’s hard to explain…” She broke off prematurely. She didn’t want Simon to know she still had a sliver of hope that the portmaster would screw up and underestimate them somehow. After what had happened in The Boneyard and with the cargo container, there was a chance, and she didn’t want Simon’s negative vibes screwing up the last good feeling she would ever have. She wanted it to last as long as it could. “Besides, we’ve seen what’s inside the bore, right?—a whole lotta nuthin’—and if we get to the end and the gate’s not open and you still miss your fifty buddies in the fighters, I promise we’ll turn around.”

  There was a pause and the static of the com gave Dezmara an aching, lonely feeling. Simon broke the sad reverie with an earnest chuckle, and her spirits lifted as high as they could under the circumstances. “That’s a deal, luv.”

  “Sy, do me a favor, will ya? Doj is back there in the pipes to the right of the bulkhead as you face the doorway. Will you turn up the volume on the com for a sec?”

  “Right, luv.” There was a moment of silence and then Simon’s voice came back. “It’s done.”

  “Doj, I don’t know how to say this, but if we don’t make it out of here—you were a good friend and I’ll miss you.” Dezmara took a deep breath and tried to fight off the emotion welling up inside her and the storms brewing in her green eyes. “Not yet, girl. Not yet.” She dabbed the beginnings of tears away from her face with the furry cuffs of her jacket and tried to distract herself by staring at the display in front of her.

  “Luv?”

  “Yeah, Sy?”

  “There’s somethin’ I been meanin’ to tell you,” Simon said nervously, “an’ I don’t…well…I don’t really know how. I mean, I figure if this is it, then you should know, right?”