2
Mathios
I’ve loved flying from the moment I first stepped onto a ship and felt it take it off. It was something I learned as a child, long ago, and mastered over time. This one is perhaps the nicest I’ve owned; it was the first ship I bought new—state of the art and still shiny with fresh paint and new seats. It is, by contrast, a little on the small side, with just the basics as far as appliances and amenities are concerned. There is room for a crew of four, but just barely.
For just myself though, it is perfection. I’ve always liked my privacy, and I perform far better on jobs with no one to look out for aside from myself. Starting out on a new mission is always equal parts exciting and frustrating, but I am feeling far more of the former at the moment, as I take the ship through a few intricate rolls and dives, enjoying the lack of complaints coming from the co-pilot’s seat or the back of the ship. As a member of Velorian law enforcement, it was difficult to prove that I was experienced enough to go solo, and in the earlier years of my career, I had spent far too much time crammed onto ships smaller than this one with others.
I ease out of the dive and let the ship stabilize, entering the coordinates for my updated destination and allowing the ship’s autopilot to take over the mechanics of steering and speed. As much as I enjoy flying myself, it was impractical to do so all the time. Time spent with my hands at the controls can easily be spent doing something else, like researching the group I’m currently tracking.
I have just pulled up their files to review them once more when there is a ‘ping’ from my holographic display. Deeply immersed in the dossiers of various Red Nova gang members, I consider simply ignoring the call, but a quick glance at the name of the contact nixes that idea. With a slight irritated sigh, I answer the call, watching as the image of my prince regent, Takkan, appears on the small pedestal that projects all holographic calls. The annoyance isn’t with Takkan in particular. The Prince is more than tolerable as far royalty goes; I would be similarly displeased with any call I received while immersed in work.
The prince knows me well enough not to take the look on my face personally, and opens the dialogue the same polite way he always does.
“Mathios,” he says cheerfully (as cheerful as a stoic Velorian can get outside of speaking to their mate anyway). “You’re looking well.” He gives a slight smile then, glancing around as though he is capable of seeing the rest of the ship and not just the projection of myself. “I’ve interrupted you, haven’t I?”
“As always,” I answer, letting my voice slip into a long-suffering tone that Takkan knows better than to be offended by.
“Excellent,” the prince says, equally as sarcastic and yet oozing the same confidence he always does. Takkan is large, even for a Velorian. I’m fairly tall myself, coming in a little above the usual seven foot for our species, but Takkan is larger still. The sight of him, even through hologram, never fails to make me feel small in comparison. It is disconcerting for most other Velorians as well, I imagine, as none of us are used to the sense of another being looming over us, or having to tilt our heads back to meet their eyes. I suppose it does offer an interesting perspective as far as how other species feel when they meet me. Height offers another level of intimidation not covered by my law enforcement badge.
“How is the chase going?” Takkan asks.
I lift one shoulder in a careless shrug. “As expected. Such a small gang is difficult to track, but I’m making do. I just spoke to the denizens of a district they visited. No one killed—this time—but plenty of theft and assault to deal with. A large parcel of drugs was intercepted at the landing zone with ties to their leader, Lukas. They bolted after the police started asking around.”
Takkan nods encouragingly. “So you’re hoping to catch up before they hit their next planet.”
“With a little luck,” I say. “There are several possible routes they could have chosen. It’s guesswork more than anything, but I’m hoping to get lucky.”
“Well,” Takkan says, “perhaps if you choose the wrong route, some more information about them will be posted on the network. We have all of their identities. A face-scan might alert you to their whereabouts.”
Facial recognition software in every camera on every half-civilized planet takes away from some of the magic of the chase. Fortunately for my required level of excitement, most planets in this sector can’t afford such fancy security measures.
“With a little luck,” I say again. This time it wins a laugh.
Before his coronation, the prince and I were members of the same squad in the Xzerg war, fighting side by side like brothers. Normally such a thing wouldn’t have been allowed of someone in line to become royalty, but Takkan had plenty of brothers just as capable of ruling should he fall, and it is difficult to keep any Velorian from fighting for his people. After the war, I worked for him for several years, acting as a guard in his household. I was more ... decorative than anything else, as an attempt on the prince’s life would have been more of a threat to the assassin than the prince himself. But there had been a few occasions where I was able to show off my fighting prowess. I spent nearly ten years there after the war, trying my hardest to remember how life worked off the battlefield.
“I know this seems like an easy one,” Takkan said. “It should be easy, small as the group is. But make sure you don’t underestimate them.”
I know already where this is going. It is not by any means a new argument between us. Still, part of me hopes he’ll stick with implying the sentiment without actually saying the words.
“Even a small gang can be dangerous for one man. It’s foolish to go without a crew.”
From anyone else, the reprimand would be an insult, particularly when combined with the word ‘foolish,’ but this is Takkan—one of the only people left who has seen past the wall I keep up. Even if the words make my jaw clench, I know the other Velorian means them kindly, as an expression of advice and concern from a old comrade.
“You are the only person who I will tolerate speaking to me this way,” I say, voice flat and without the good humor that Takkan still shows. “I want—I need to be alone. You know that.” The insistence in my voice is automatic and, with most people, would leave no room for argument.
It is best for me to work without the assistance of others. It allows me to focus on the job at hand—nothing more. To have a crew was to have a ship full of distractions, each with different weaknesses that would need to be factored into my strategy. It is safer for everyone involved if I continue to work alone; adding people to mess up my life will only complicate things, bring about danger where there need be none.
Takkan holds his hands up as if in surrender. “I’m merely offering advice, as is my prerogative as your friend. It’s up to you if you follow it.”
I feel the urge to apologize, or at least say something that is a small step in that direction, but my mouth stays stubbornly closed. I know that Takkan won’t take the slight personally. We have known each other so long that each of our strengths and failings are familiar to the other. This won’t stop Takkan from checking in with me every few jobs under the guise of keeping tabs on the law enforcement of Veloria, and it won’t stop me from refusing to take on a partner or a crew.
“You’re incredibly stubborn,” Takkan says at last.
“As are you,” I answer.
His lips twitch as his hand hovers near the button that will end the conversation. “I’ll contact you if I receive any helpful leads. Stay safe, my friend.”
The hologram is snuffed out then, like thumbs closing over a candle flame. I give myself a moment to reorient my thoughts, banishing the notion of needing a partner, of needing a team. For a usually composed, stoic Ice Velorian, my control is more fragile than most. The more sensitive topics of our conversation have made it slip a bit, and I note the ice growing on my hands, the freezing steam of my breath, with disappointment. If I can become this unhinged through a few annoying points of a conversation,
then how can I ever trust myself to keep another person from harm? I shake my head, forcing the small changes toward a full shift back into hibernation. I am better as a weapon than a shield.
My mission is to put a stop to the Red Nova gang, a group who had recently arrived in this sector and were terrorizing the smaller communities on sparsely populated planets. The cowards have, thus far, given Veloria a wide berth, obviously having sense enough to know that they would be quickly eradicated if they touched down on Veloria’s surface and attempted to antagonize the towns and villages. I will capture the gang members and bring them to justice. If they will not be brought to justice, I will do whatever is necessary to keep them from doing further harm.
It’s a small gang, as Takkan said, and with my combat and tracking skills, it should be easy almost to the point of being boring. Finding them should be the hardest part. Nothing truly exciting has happened to me since the Xzerg wars, horrible as they were. The thought is in poor taste, and I am glad I didn’t speak of something so thoughtless to Takkan. I tell myself to shake off the nagging guilt that comes with the thought—it isn’t shameful to wish for a situation in which my extensive skills can be properly utilized. All warriors itch for a fight during lulls, however much they regret the wish once they are reminded of the carnage of battle.
Part of the display monitor nearby the control panel lights up, catching me off guard. It is an alert regarding another ship in the vicinity. My eyes dart upward to better see through the ship’s large frontmost window. The ship is easy to see against the blackness of space, and it only takes my eyes a second to snap to where it drifts. I recognize it as a slaver ship of the Kandalun race. The spikes affixed to their hull, jutting out in all directions, are the calling card of their species—easy to recognize and difficult to fight in a battle in open space. I feel a small spark of excitement. It would be an engaging, somewhat difficult fight, but I tramp the emotion down and force myself to view the issue with as much detachment as I can muster. It isn’t worth engaging, and will likely only slow down my search for the Red Novas. More innocents could be terrorized if I decide to take on the vessel, just because I’m looking for a fight. I’ll send a message to the law enforcement center of this sector and alert them to possible slaver activity; they’ll send someone to investigate. Accusations of slavery are taken seriously, whatever sector they fall in.
Just as I am about to turn the ship away, to carefully steer around without calling any attention to my own vessel, there is a burst of static from the speakers. I reach for the controls, adjusting the frequency so that I can make out the signal. Abruptly, I find the right spot, fingers freezing on the knob, ship slowing to a halt so that I don’t lose the signal. There is a human woman projected on my hologram pedestal, the set time at the bottom corner telling me that this is not a live broadcast, but rather a clip, quickly recorded and then set to loop so that any passing vessel will stumble across it. The female is blurred and a bit pixelated, but I can make out dark hair and wide eyes, the top of a white, delicate outfit of some sort, perhaps a dress, as impractical as such a thing seems out here.
“Shit, I hope someone gets this. I think I’m in trouble. These creepy, dead-eyed aliens are after me. They, uh, reeled in my escape pod. I think I’m on their loading dock and they’re … trying to get in. I think it was a slaver ship, and I—”
Here, she freezes, looks toward what he assumes is the door or window of the pod. There is a loud, clanging sound, likely the pod being slowly pried open. “Listen. Whoever gets this, send help, okay?”
There is another quiet curse, the woman’s face slipping into something like a wince, before the video cuts out and fades to black.
I play it again, the slaver ship still drifting in front of him, almost out of view. The woman looks familiar. I noticed the oddity the first time, but couldn’t place where I might have seen her face. I frequent planets all over this galaxy, and occasionally in others; I might have glimpsed her anywhere. There is the slightest inkling in my head that compels me to pull up the files I had been perusing as I built my case against the Red Nova’s. A sense of satisfaction rushes through me when I see the woman’s face once again. Her name is Anna Bennett, Earth-born, a suspected member of the Red Novas. Though there are few specific assault cases against her, she always pops up on the same vids as the others, and there is plenty of compelling evidence involving theft of various sorts. I allow myself a short bark of a laugh. I had hit a wall in tracking the Red Novas, and then proceeded to trip over one of their members in distress. From what I can tell, she is a fairly prominent member, with close ties to the leader. She is a criminal that needs to be captured, just as surely as the others are, and perhaps she will tell me the whereabouts of the rest of the gang in exchange for more lenient charges.
Their ship departs the area, and I set my own navigation devices to follow at a distance, tracking the signature of the ship rather than the sight so that they are not aware of the threat following them. I turn on the ship’s cloaking device as well, just in case. In a fight between the two ships, I am bound to lose. My small ship is made for pursuit rather than combat. As I do this, the frozen hologram still flickers in place, the beauty of the woman’s face inescapable. There is a slight, strange feeling rising within me, a warm tug that seems to pull me in the direction of the ship. I tell myself it is simply the thrill of heading toward the most dangerous mission I’ve faced in a long while, but part of me doesn’t quite believe it.
3
Anna
It’s hard to believe that it has scarcely been a handful of hours since I slipped into the escape pod and launched myself away from Lukas and the other Novas. The skirt of my dress is tattered in several places, littered with dirty footprints and small rips; one of the upper straps has been torn as well, hanging uselessly down my arm. Thankfully, the things are more for decoration than any sort of purpose, and the dress is at least in no danger of falling down. My hair is similarly disheveled, the careful braid I’d worked into it with nimble fingers no longer holding it aloft. It hangs down my back much like the useless sleeve, and a bit like my life: slowly unraveling.
I sit in a small holding pen at the back of the ship, which is rather unnecessary in my own opinion. There was a blaster in the escape pod, which I strapped to my leg before behind taken captive. But as far as they know, I have no gun, plus I have already proven how ineffective I am at fighting. They dragged me from the escape pod with humiliating ease, hands bruising on my arms, before I could even think to strike one of them. I managed to bite the one who shoved me inside, and received a sharp slap for my efforts. I was left with ringing ears and a swollen lip that tastes of blood, but all things considered, I am in fairly good shape for someone in my situation. I don’t know where we’re going, but I know it’s nowhere good.
My constant traveling has exposed me to a host of alien species, and I recognize these as Kandulans. I don’t like to point fingers based solely on species stereotypes, but everything I’ve seen so far points to this being a slaver ship. Slaver ships, for the uninitiated, usually contain slavers. I pick at the hard, mesh-like substance that makes up the door of the small space I’m contained in. I won’t make any progress this way, but my hands are nervous and need something to do. Their voices are hard to track, and nearly impossible to understand, even with my translation implant. Their speech is garbled and heavy as fists, but I can still easily tell that they are arguing.
One of them looks back at me, his eyes thin black slits, his teeth sharp and jutting out at odd angles. Perhaps this is what makes their speech sound so strange.
“Best price we’ve had in a while.”
It’s the longest string of speech I’ve understood since being forced aboard at blaster-point. Perhaps my translator is updating in real time, acclimating to the strange dialect.
“The market on Gorda-6 is the closest,” another voice says.
“X-24 is pretty close too,” suggests a third.
“Usually plenty o
f rich blood at the auctions there,” the first says again.
There are only four of them, unless I’ve missed one in some hidden nook of the ship, which is possible. Slavers usually double as smugglers, for obvious reasons, which means plenty of hidden compartments. This conversation has only confirmed my suspicions. The fear that courses through me is sudden and dizzying, but I do my best to push it down. It’s something to deal with later. Anger is helpful, so I try for that instead as I search the small room from top to bottom, fingers crossed for something useful. I am not the first person to be locked in this small space; fingers that came before me have loosened things in a few crucial places. The door is still useless to try, impossible to open, but I whisper a small thank you anyway, as I pry a thin piece of metal from the holding pen. It might be enough to negate the lock if I get a chance. I don’t dare reach for my blaster and start a firefight from my cage—I’m not stupid, nor do I have a deathwish.
There is nothing else I can do—not now and not from here—so I sit down on the cold floor and rest my head against the equally cold wall. As I slip into an exhausted, fitful sleep, I cross my fingers that my distress call finds someone; I’m not picky. Anyone with a working comm to call for real help will do.
I wake shivering what must be hours later, judging by the awful crick in my neck. It’s not wholly surprising that I was able to sleep in such a situation. I am used to upheaval, to tramping down on fear or unease to get through whatever job Lukas has set up. Granted, I’ve never fallen asleep in a veritable cage before this, but there is a first time for everything.
It doesn’t take me long to realize that what has woken me is the ship slamming to a halt. We’ve landed. There are overlapping voices and heavy boots shuffling around on the metal floor, each step creating an echo that threatens to give me a headache. My mouth is dry, but I’ve been given no water, and I won’t even consider lowering myself to ask. I can hear the chaos of a landing zone outside the ship; other things are being unloaded. I’m not the only loot they need to rid themselves of. It seems like no time passes before one of them is at the door of my cage. There is an electronic buzz as whatever bolt holding the door in place slides away, and then it opens.
Primal Planet Dragon_A Science Fiction Alien Romance Page 2