by Sean Allen
The blue burn of the Ghost’s only engine winked in front of her and curved back toward the canyon before it disappeared behind the hulking shape of the Triton. The pirate ship had flashed out from behind the rocks and right into Dezmara’s sights.
“BASTARDS!” she bellowed as the center cannon punctuated her hatred with several sky-rattling blasts. The back end of the Triton sagged and fish-tailed as flames roared from its hull, and billows of black smoke rolled and swirled upward like dark wraiths dancing in celebration of the carnage. For the second time since springing its trap on the Ghost, the Triton had an engine shot to pieces: now only two remained.
Dezmara raced ahead as smoke trailed out over the canyon. She pulled parallel with the pirate ship and smiled as the flames—fed by the unlimited oxygen of Clara’s atmosphere—continued to leap from the back side of the vessel, flashing through the columns that passed between them like desperate signals for help. But there were no saviors here—only killers. She dove until she reached the myriad passages between the columns and then cut hard toward the canyon. The Triton rolled on its side and its cannons sent a volley of missiles crashing into the arches. The rock crumbled into huge chunks and boulders that cascaded down to crush her, but The Firebug zipped through the blue dust, slowing its advance as it slipped sideways and up. Dezmara was behind them again and she wasted no time. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Another spiraled fairing lay twisted, burnt and smoldering on the once immaculate hull of the Triton as Dezmara flicked back between the columns and dove for the archways again. It was almost too easy. The Firebug was smaller and more agile, and the pirate ship was no match for Dezmara’s hit and run tactics under cover of the rock formations. But the Triton had one advantage left, and its captain intended to use it.
As she darted into the next passage, the marauding ship skidded south over the canyon. The jet of flame from its engine pounded the air with a furious roar that battered The Firebug. Dezmara pulled up quickly to rise above the blast before banking onto the Triton’s tail and dogging its escape.
“Come in, Sy!” she said over the howl of the wind and the rumble of her motor.
“You did it, luv!” Simon said. “Now let’s find a place to land, fix the ol’ girl here, an’ get the hell out of Dodge, eh?”
“I’m with you, Sy, but we have to stick to the plan. Gotta make sure these bastards can’t track us down while we make repairs. Keep headin’ east and set your beacon when you land. I’ll be there!”
“Right, luv,” Simon said with some hesitation. “Track down those cheeky thievers an’ retire ‘em an’… I’ll be seein’ ya…”
The com fuzzed and crackled and then went dead. “Sy?! Come in! Dammit!” she shouted. “I’ll be seein’ ya? That’s kind of a strange thing to say, don’t you think?” Dezmara often thought about Simon’s odd behavior, and although she’d been quite preoccupied with the events of the last twenty-four hours, she hadn’t forgotten about their agreement for full disclosure in the armory before arriving in Luxon. She spilled her story about being Human, but Simon managed to get off without revealing a single thing about his past. “I’ll press him when I get back to the Ghost—use the ‘I just saved your life’ angle if I have to.” She switched off her inner monologue and focused her eyes ahead.
The Triton was still faster than she was—even with one engine—and it was barreling south, with The Firebug struggling to keep up. The arid badlands of the canyon quickly retreated and were replaced by an immense field of green. The landscape seemed to writhe as the wind scoured its surface, crumbling the fragile ridges of dunes and melting the small shadows that cowered beneath them from the scorching sun. There was no vegetation or wildlife that Dezmara could see. It was a green desert that stretched for miles below them as they sped on and on.
She fired her horizontal cannon a few times to range the target and immediately wished she hadn’t, as stars of smoke exploded around her in response. The Triton was out of her reach, but she was easily within range of its rear guns. Dezmara swung her ship from side to side. Avoiding the attacks wasn’t difficult, but the entire situation was starting to piss her off. She couldn’t do any damage at this range, but The Firebug just didn’t have anything left to give. At this rate, she would most likely run out of fuel before the bigger ship, and they would just head back to the canyon and track Simon down from there. The situation frustrated her and on top of it all, swaying from side to side was beginning to make her nauseous.
The Triton slowly pulled away and Dezmara saw the horizon change from a sea of green to a sea of blue—literally. The pirate ship had left the desert air and now floated above the curling swells of an ocean. The waves surged and grew bigger until they matured and curled over themselves. At once, their blue faces vanished as they arched over, revealing the power of their green-white backs and roaring majestically in the final steps of their journey. They pounded against the shore in salutation to the passing ships and died, only to slip quietly back into the sea and be born again.
“Goddam you, bastard-ass-sons-of-bitches!” Dezmara screamed as the Triton grew smaller in the distance. She lined the cannon sight on their last engine and sent six shells streaming through the air. It was a move born of frustration and the knowledge that they would soon be back to assail her and her crew. Pirates didn’t give up that easily, especially when they knew the whereabouts of a wounded prize. She exhaled heavily and shook her head as she tugged on the stick to turn around. She took a long last scathing look at the pirate ship, and as she bored into it with her eyes, something happened.
The Triton was looming there in the distance—its only engine flickering, faltering, failing! “Did you hit it? There’s no way. It was too far out! So what, then? Mechanical failure? Out of fuel? DAMMIT, GIRL, WHO GIVES A SHIT—OPEN FIRE!”
Its only advantage stolen by fate, the Triton skidded broadside. The three rows of nautilus doors opened and hesitated for a moment as they took aim at the speeding attacker. One by one, the guns inside the swirled chambers flashed and belched smoke, instantly surrounding Dezmara with the peal of exploding shells. She pulled up and rolled, wing over wing, through the blanket of artillery.
With a haywire engine, the pirate ship was struggling to maneuver, and it turned sluggishly as she passed over. “Why the hell would you turn? You’ve got cannons on the other side…” Dezmara didn’t need to ponder the question any further; she was almost certain she knew the answer. She smoothly entered into a downward loop from the top of a barrel roll and raced back toward the Triton before it could complete its turn.
She tapped the kranos and zoomed in on the retreating starboard side of her target. Her display outlined the specs of several cannons—bore, range, approximate firing angles—and one more thing before her line of sight disappeared. “Bingo!” she said as she checked the ammunition for her own cannons. One shell left. “Well, that’s lucky, since you’re only gonna get one shot at this thing.” She had found the reason for the Triton’s peculiar battle tactics. The pirates had cleared their ship for battle, jettisoning the shredded sheaths and decimated chains of the snatcher rounds back in the canyon. Now all of the doors were tightly wrapped around a protruding gun barrel, like fleshy membranes surrounding tuberous eyes—all except one.
The fourth portal from the stern in the center row of the Triton’s doors had a small, gnarled length of chain hanging from its center. Tatters of black membrane lay over the twisted shards of metal like a death shroud that flapped in the breeze as air rushed past the remnants of the snatcher and entered the ship through the small hole around it. Dezmara flipped a switch on her instrument panel, and the small motors in the cannon turret hummed in a high-pitched whine. As she pulled alongside the silver vessel, the two flanking barrels flexed out until they were vertical. She rolled on her side, and as the target aligned with the digital gunsight in the kranos, the helmet beeped her cue to send the pirates to hell. KABOOM!
The sound of air rushing into her cockpit was like a rive
r surging over a high cliff, and she could feel the stinging cold bite at her flight suit. A piece of shrapnel had punched a six-inch hole by her left foot. She rolled away instantly and pulled beneath the Triton. Her heart was pounding, but she wasn’t injured, and The Firebug was still flying. Dezmara pulled from beneath the Triton and rolled over so her pilot bubble was facing her attackers. She flew around the ship like a rogue moon in a kamikaze orbit of a doomed planet. Cannon shells chased her, but she was clear and barreling over the top of the ship before the first wisps of smoke were swept away from the portside barrels by the slipstream. If the Triton’s captain anticipated her move, it didn’t show. Dezmara arched around to the jammed door and pulled back on her trigger.
Her eyes closed at the sudden bright light of the explosion, and she felt intense heat as a fountain of flame spewed from the gaping hole that had once been the nautilus door. She drifted away from the mortally wounded pirate ship but stayed parallel to its course and watched. A brume of inky smoke rolled from the wound, weaving its way into the salt air as the ship pitched nose down and plummeted. The shiny ram on the Triton’s prow sliced through the water in an explosive spray of brine that leapt up its flanks and ran slowly back to the sea like transparent fingers dragging it to a watery grave. The ship pitched upward as it sank into the ocean, balancing on end for a moment and refusing defeat. For an instant, the elaborate curl and jutting spike of its tail looked like the glimmering crown of an alien sculpture rising from the depths; then it slipped beneath the waves with a spiteful, flame-quenching hiss.
Dezmara peeled away and headed north. Her body tingled from head to toe with exhaustion, and she sagged in her seat. The stress of the battle was fading as her heart slowed to its usual pace and she let out a long sigh. “Not there yet,” she said and tapped the side of the kranos. Simon’s coded beacon was sounding loud and clear. He and Diodojo were about three hundred kilometers northeast of her position. She double-checked the fuel level and let out a low whistle. “Nothing like cutting things close to put excitement into an otherwise boring day,” she quipped. Her fuel was low, and getting back to the Ghost would use every drop.
The green desert she had flown over while chasing the Triton out to sea stretched under her again, and Dezmara decided to drop low and see what she could see. She looked down through the bubble as The Firebug buzzed the top of the dunes and its shadow glided silently across the sand in pursuit. The drone of the engine made her drowsy, and she shook her head to ward off the lulling effects of the warm air that seeped into the cockpit and sapped her strength like a drug. It had been twenty minutes and Dezmara hadn’t seen a single living thing. Nothing scurried across the glistening grains, and nothing sprouted from the shifting soil. “Doesn’t look like a place I need to see any closer,” she said and pulled up on the control stick.
AEEER-AEEER-AEEER-AEEER! Dezmara was hearing alarm bells coming from the little fighter, alarms she had had no idea existed. The kranos showed an outline of The Firebug from the top, and the left wing was pulsing an angry red followed by flashing words, Danger—left primary hydraulic pressure low.
“No, no, no—I didn’t mean it!” Dezmara could’ve kicked herself for opening her big mouth. She imagined the tongue-lashing she would be getting right now if Simon were there as she climbed as fast as possible. She needed to gain altitude before punching out, but if the wing folded during her ascent, The Firebug would spin out of control and crash. “Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” she chanted as The Firebug crept slowly into the sky, and she stared at the blinking display in the kranos. “Come on, dammit!” she shouted.
Suddenly, the ship lurched to one side. The pressure of the fluid locking the wing in place was approaching critical levels, and the airfoil itself had bent up a few degrees. Dezmara pulled hard on the stick to compensate for the change in aerodynamics. She wasn’t high enough, but she would have to risk it. “Simon, I’m punchin’ out!” she hollered into the kranos as she pulled a black lever next to her leg.
The Firebug’s left wingtip collapsed, flipping up on its hinges and crashing into the stationary part of the foil with a tremendous SMACK! The fighter spiraled left, and the right wing slammed into the ejected pilot-pod. Luckily, the protective shell surrounding Dezmara didn’t crack, but the impact rocked the pilot-pod so hard that it rattled her teeth. Then the shaking stopped, and the sound of cloth fluttering in the wind escaped from behind her. She was wrenched forward against her harness as the chute opened, filling with air and arching above the pod as she floated face down toward the glittering sand. The pod landed hard on its nose and then rolled backward on its bigger, heavier tail end.
Dezmara unbuckled her harness and cracked the lid. She brought both knees to her chest and kicked up hard. The top of the cockpit bubble lifted free, and a small flood of green sand poured from around the opening, hissing as it sifted over the edges and claimed the piece of downed fighter for the desert. She crawled through the deluge, plopped her back against the shaded side of the bubble, and tapped the side of the kranos. “Simon, come in. Do you copy, over?” The com crackled and whined, and Dezmara heard a response. It was Simon’s voice, but she couldn’t make it out over the interference. “I’m down approximately twenty-five kilometers southwest of your position. Need evac. Do you copy, over?” She repeated the message several times with no response; not even Simon’s garbled voice on the other end.
“Great!” she said as she stripped out of her heavy jacket and swung it down on the ground by the collar. She looked up at the sun, and by its position in the sky and the condition of the light, she guessed that it was relatively early in the day. She checked the temperature—it was hot but not unbearable—and then rechecked the distance to the Ghost to see if, by some chance, Simon had heard her last transmission and was on his way, but the beacon wasn’t moving. “Of course not,” she said as she ducked inside the cockpit and reemerged with a reinforced case.
Dezmara unclasped the hinges, flipped the top back, and removed several shiny cylinders and a long, wide pouch with a strap. She tucked the cylinders into the pockets of her flight jacket and shook the pouch. The fluid inside the bladder sloshed just enough to tell her it was full, and she smiled. “Thank goodness for small miracles,” she said as she slung the hydro-pouch around her shoulders with the strap across her back and the pouch over her chest. She slipped off the kranos and fastened it to a section of the hydro-pouch strap just off her right hip below the bladder, then pulled both her autos from their holsters and double-checked her ammunition. Both guns were full and she had extra clips on her belt. She wrapped the sleeves of her flight jacket around her waist, tied them in a knot and paused to make sure of her figures.
“Average foot speed of a biped over even ground is three miles per hour; we’ll call it two loaded with gear traveling over this,” she said as she swept her foot through the sand. “Twenty-five clicks to the Ghost makes it…seven and a half hours plus time for resting. We’ll call it eight.” She unzipped the front of her flight suit down to her waist, pulled the thin tank-top beneath back and forth several times to create some airflow, and let out an exhale. She held one hand over her eyes and looked at the sun uneasily before turning northeast and walking deeper into the desert.
Hour after hour she walked beneath the sun. She sank to her ankles as she trekked up dunes and plunged down into valleys. The sun chased her as she hiked, and by late afternoon it was searing overhead and off to her left. Dezmara was well provisioned and her body had a natural affinity for the heat. The exposed skin of her chest and face were already a golden brown, and she was making better time than she had expected. By the time the sun was streaking the sky purple and red over the northern horizon, Dezmara crested a high dune and was greeted by a small trail of smoke curling into the air not far in the distance.
She pulled one of her pistols and jogged along the ridge, her mind running wild. A low rumble surrounded her and she dropped to one knee, scanning the sky for a star freighter, h
er pistol leading the way. The sound faded and she got up, but as soon as she started to run, the sound echoed around her again. Dezmara stopped for a moment and scooped up a handful of sand. She watched as the wind swept over the top of the crumbling ridge. “Thundering sand? That’s a new one,” she said and then got to her feet and ran toward the thin haze still hanging on the other side of the next dune.
“Oh, no!” she said more loudly than she should have. She had no idea whether anyone was still there, but somebody had found the Ghost, and whoever it was wasn’t friendly. The landing skids weren’t down and the ship was listing badly to the right. The portside engine—the only one left working—was gone and its charred, smoldering cowl was the only sign of movement anywhere. Dezmara slipped the knot around her waist and let her flight jacket lay where it fell as she sprinted down the back side of the sandy crest. She skirted the open cargo bay door and pulled her other auto as she crouched at the rear of the fuselage and listened. Everything was quiet.
She whipped her head around the corner and scanned the room inside as quickly as possible before snapping her head back. The cargo was gone—that was certain—but the rest of the bay was dark. She holstered one pistol and unfastened the kranos from its tether, slipping it over her head and engaging the thermal optics. She scanned the cargo bay in the same quick fashion and found nothing—the room was empty. Dezmara hopped inside and cautiously sidestepped down the right side of the deck with both guns leveled in front of her.
A quick but thorough search of the remaining rooms showed that the ship had been ransacked. All of the gadgets in engineering, every weapon in the armory, even the supplies in the infirmary were gone; and worse, there was no sign of Simon or Diodojo. Dezmara descended the cargo ramp and jumped down, her eyes trained on the green sand. Her head panned left and right for signs of footprints, but there weren’t any—the wind had seen to that. She rounded the ramp to her right and stopped dead in her tracks. Her chest heaved as an uncontrollable sob leapt from her gut. She felt like her beating heart was being pulled through her ribcage. Dezmara wobbled down to her knees, putting one hand on the ground to keep from collapsing, and stretched out with the other. She reached down with trembling fingers and plucked the blood-spattered goggles of Simon Latranis from the slickened, red sand.