Phoenix Rising (Dragon Legacy)

by Previn Hudetz

  “Yeah. He's weird,” Mtumba continued, walking beside her.

  “Weird how?” she asked, standing there with a basketful of colorful eggs.

  “What, it's not enough for you that he came out of a crystal?” Mtumba laughed, shifting his weight and crossing his arms. He waved the trowel. “That kid's just strange. There's something about him that seems really familiar, you know?”

  “No. No, I don't. Familiar how?” Stella asked, stopping what she was doing and cocking her head to the side.

  “I can't-”

  “-Talk about it. Figures,” she replied, returning to her task. “Well, how about we talk about something else then? Like what you're gonna do with all that egg on your face?”

  “The wha-” Mtumba stumbled backwards once he realized what she meant, but she nailed him in the chin before he could get away, and he landed on his rump. Stella heard a voice from behind her.

  “That's one less for us to eat later, Stella.”

  She turned and saw old John standing there. He didn't look mad, just a little disappointed. She looked down, embarrassed

  “Sorry,” she muttered.

  “You can tell that to Mtumba,” he said as he tossed her a clean red cloth. She got the hint and walked over to Mtumba, who scooted away from her, hurt.

  “I'm sorry, Mtumba.”

  “I bet.” He crossed his arms and looked away, egg dripping off his chin. She offered the cloth to him, but he didn't take it. She sighed, standing up, and he grabbed it and wiped off his chin, then handed it back to her. “Never mind,” he said, and then stalked off.

  Old John broke the silence after a few moments. “He cares about you.”

  “I care about him, too,” she said, confused.

  “Mm-hmm. Lunch is ready when you are.” He walked away, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She didn't know why Mtumba couldn't take a joke, but figured she wouldn't have been happy about it if it'd been her. Suddenly Stella was overcome with guilt, and sat down on the ground, remembering to be careful with the eggs. A shadow fell across her and she looked up. There was Rok.

  “Hi,” he said, golden hair seeming to glow in the sunlight. “You coming to lunch?”

  “In a bit,” she said. “You go. You're hungry.”

  “Yeah.” He looked at her, confused, and then sat down next to her. “I know you might not want to hear this right now...but your hand's covered in egg.”

  She looked down and saw he was right. She let out a growl, and Rok quickly got up and ran inside. Boys, she laughed, looking around at the animals. The ugly red hen looked at her angrily, clucked once, and then ran off to join the others.

  Those halcyon days blended into weeks, and the weeks almost into a full month before their world changed again. They were working in the field when it happened. Rok and Mtumba were getting stronger from the work they'd been doing day in and day out, and Stella for her part was now able to run from the cottage to the lake and swim for an entire afternoon when she had a mind to, which was often. Old John just laughed as he watched them act like kids again, and he'd teach them things as time permitted, like how to fish. By the time the visitor arrived, each of the youths felt confident about working on the farm, in the field, and in the garden, and of course, they had a family of sorts. Life was good.

  They didn't know what the sound was coming from at first. When they spotted the source, it just looked like a streak of light across the sky, but soon they saw it was a small ship. Rok was fascinated, of course, since everything seemed to elicit that reaction from him, but Stella and Mtumba were concerned about who might be showing up, and why. It could be pirates, they suggested.

  Old John told them they could relax. He'd been expecting company, but wasn't sure when they'd arrive, and hadn't wanted to spoil their time at the cottage by worrying them.

  “Does this mean we have to leave now?” Mtumba asked. He'd grown to love this place, where everything seemed so righteously vibrant, but Stella was eager to find her father, and didn't say anything.

  “I believe so,” said Old John, straightening up. He didn't have his staff with him today. Just a worn-down shovel. “It'll be all right, Mtumba.” That seemed to be enough to help Mtumba calm down, at least for now. Stella was still confused about why her friend wasn't as excited as she was, but then again maybe he was, and simply enjoyed this, too.

  The man who stomped down the ship's ramp wore the distinctive black and silver armor of a Brigadier Knight. Stella and Mtumba blinked, not believing what they were seeing, but Rok clearly didn't understand the significance. The tower of a man made a crisp beeline toward Old John and stopped at a respectful distance, bowing with his hand over his heart.

  “Your Highness,” the Knight began in a voice that sounded well-suited for yelling orders across a battlefield, “King Harris begs an audience to discuss matters of the greatest importance to the kingdom. Normally we wouldn't disturb you, but it's in regard to certain actions by your Regent that may spark a new dragon war.”

  Old John paused before calmly responding. “Tell Harris that I'll come when I'm truly needed.”

  The Knight nodded smartly, and continued. “He wishes me to assure you that it will be soon. His agents in the Prime Citadel inform him that there is concern in several of the kingdoms that you have been too long absent from your throne. King Harris believes a show of power may be required to set things right.”

  Old John sighed, and held up his hand before turning to Stella and the boys. “Can you go and prepare supper? I need to speak with Commander Tobias for a while, and it pertains to things I'd rather you not have to hear.” Stella looked into his eyes, and saw sadness, but shepherded the boys inside while old John spoke with the visitor.

  By the time all the places were set, John and Commander Tobias entered through the front door. The mood was somber as they sat at the table, crowded with the extra guest. Commander Tobias looked both incredibly uncomfortable and honored to be eating with them, though somewhat confused about who the teenagers were. He didn't ask, and old John didn't bring it up. They ate mostly in silence, and John seemed deep in thought during most of the meal. Not like his usual cheerful self. At the end, he stood up with a sigh and walked back outside without even thanking them for preparing the food.

  Stella was worried about him, and orchestrated the cleanup. Rok and Mtumba didn't complain as they cleaned the dishes and the table, but the silence was thick with speculation. What was going to happen? Who was old John, really?

  She had a feeling that things were about to go crazy again, and she didn't like it one bit. Then, for the first time, she saw an old portrait of a beautiful dark-haired woman and girl hanging on the wall of the cupboard to her right. At the bottom was written only one word. Marialis. A name, perhaps? Why only one, though? Moreover, why had Stella never noticed it before? Who were they?

  Rok looked up from cleaning and nodded at the picture.

  “That girl looks like you.”

  8

  Son of a Gun

  Quinn woke up in the dark. He felt his own breath reflected hot and foul off the hard surface in front of him. It made him feel claustrophobic, almost like he was in a cargo crate. Maybe that's where he was...He didn't feel restrained other than that, though. He could work his way out of this with enough time, then. He started contemplating his options.

  Quinn decided to take stock of where he was. Seemed like a crate of some sort, solid to the touch. Chrystum, then, perhaps. Or maybe a Quadrium alloy. He didn't want to bang on it, since that would almost definitely alert anyone who was keeping tabs on him, but just lying around wasn't an option, either.

  His mech limbs felt like they'd recovered. His digital immune system must have fixed him up while he was unconscious. He flexed his fist, testing its functional viability. It worked. Okay.

  It infuriated him when they'd gone on the fritz earlier. He sighed, and had to admit that sometimes things just caught you off-guard, no matter how much experience you had. Well, he'd be ready ne
xt time

  "The rings," he muttered. They must have had a special virus on them. "Clever." That meant the woman in the bar had set him up. He'd follow up on that later.

  Since his mech-limbs were working again, he decided to use some of the special features he'd had embedded by a discreet private contractor a while back. Releasing a catch in his left bicep, he opened a compartment that held a small attachment. He latched it onto the outside of his left fist and squeezed. He was rewarded with the distinctive red light and sizzle of a small but powerful laser. He experimented turning it on and off, hearing the metal around him being damaged by the heat. Good, at least it wasn't Chrystum. Fortunately, his legs were mech, too, so they could handle the temperature if it got too hot.

  Slowly, patiently, he burned into what felt like a joint in the crate until he heard something rattle and fall with a heavy clunk. He cursed his luck and sped up. If there was a joint there, then there should be one...there. Good. Another rattle and clunk. He felt sweat on his forehead and his back. If he could get through the last one, he could make it out. He sped up his efforts, but slipped just enough to make things miserable.

  The laser was dislodged, and he had to fish around for it and reattach it before he could continue. Precious time lost. By rushing. Rookie mistake. He was sweating heavy now. It was getting hot inside the crate, and Quinn needed to break through soon if he didn't want to pass out from heat stroke.

  He heard voices and footsteps outside, and forced himself to keep going at a steady pace. He could tell the owners of the voices were in the room now. One of them spoke.

  “Hey, what's that there? That wasn't-”

  Before the guard could finish, the final joint was severed and fell to the floor. Quinn used his impressive strength to push the top of the metal crate open and jump up, grabbing the two men by their jackets and slamming their helmets together hard. He used enough force to knock them out, and then let them fall onto the metal floor-grate.

  He knelt down and picked up their pulse-guns, one for each hand. Once he confirmed they were both at full charge, he stood up and felt his mouth curl into a cold grin. Time to take the fight to them. He flipped the guns on to high stun. “Game on.”

  Quinn walked out of the room in time to see two more crewmembers rounding a corner down the narrow mechanical hallway, and tagged them both without breaking stride. They were knocked back into the walls before crumpling to the floor. Electricity sparked from the now-busted wiring they’d exposed on impact.

  The old Knight stepped over them and continued toward where he knew the bridge must be. They couldn't keep him from getting answers now. Not this time. He walked past an open door to what must be the crew quarters, and heard a scuffle behind him. When he heard steps onto the floor-grate from the rear, he fired shots over his shoulders and heard two men drop before he rounded the next corner.

  The door to the bridge was closed, of course. How could they not have heard him coming? Didn't matter. He looked to the right and saw a standard keypad with a hand-scan. He put his mechanical left hand on it and used another of the features he didn't get to try out very often...the keygen program. It sent out a flurry of signals until one locked in, and the door opened.

  Inside the small command room were two clean-cut men, both armed with pulse-pistols, the older one with a trim salt and pepper goatee. Quinn leveled a gun at each of them as he stepped inside and slammed the panel to close the door with his elbow. It crunched, sending off sparks, and the younger man visibly blanched. After a silent signal from the older man, they both dropped their weapons to the floor and raised their arms in surrender. Quinn stretched his bull-thick neck, eliciting a loud series of cracks, and then smiled at them.

  “You can either be helpful or dead. Your choice. I'd suggest you start talking.”

  “We don't know-”

  “Quiet. Let me handle this,” the older man said, stepping slightly in front of his flustered counterpart. Quinn looked over at him. He was just after intel, not some crazy bloodbath. A closer inspection revealed they were probably related. So let him protect the boy. Fine.

  “You can start by telling me who hired you,” Quinn prompted.

  The man bit his lip and shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. We can't. We responded to a ghosted listing. Simple transport of potentially dangerous cargo. Looks like that was true, at least.” He regarded Quinn warily.

  “Then who carried me to the ship on that stretcher?”

  The man shrugged. “Another company. I didn't ask for names. They were just where the listing said they'd be, and at the right time.”

  Quinn let out a sigh of frustration. “This ghosted listing. Show me your copy,” Quinn pointed his gun at the console, and the older man nodded, moving over and starting to type. “That's an old system,” Quinn noticed. “You still use keys?”

  “Hard copy serves us well,” the man replied, then sighed. “Or at least it has until now. Here we are.” He turned the display to show Quinn the file.

  No name, just a coded credit account sequence. Strange, but not unheard of. He was usually on the other end of these things, and didn't like being in the hot seat, here. Felt backwards to him, but he shrugged it off as he continued to read. The older man coughed, and Quinn looked over at him. “What?”

  The man took a breath, and spoke. “While I can't claim that I'm completely innocent in this, I would like to offer my apologies about the situation. We really didn't know we were transporting a person. I hope you understand that.”

  “Then why guard the crate?” Quinn asked, looking back at the file and starting a download of the ship's registry code and manifest, just in case he needed to follow up with them later.

  “We were told there was something dangerous inside. What would you have done?” the man implored him. “Look, we can set down at a station nearby. We aren't far from Kirlian's Rest, and it'd be easy enough for you to lose whoever's on your tail while you're there. I can give you some credit if you need it. It's the least I can do.”

  Quinn considered, shaking his head. Another dead end. Yes, he could torture them to see if they knew anything else, but the ghosted listing looked legitimate. He'd verified it through his earbud while he'd been reviewing it on their system, and there'd been no mention of the specifics of the cargo, only the payment that no self-respecting smuggler or merchant could pass up without losing a significant amount of sleep over it. Besides, he had their registry code and manifest on his earbud now. He grunted and looked over at them.

  “Just don't make me regret not killing you,” Quinn said as he leaned against the wall. “Because if I do, I won't regret it for long.” The younger man coughed and swallowed nervously.

  “I promise we'll do right by you,” the older man said, signaling his son to transfer the credit to Quinn. He also got on the intercom and told his men to stand down, and for them to check in with the medic before getting some rest. Once that was done, Quinn spoke.

  “Alright, let's move.”

  The captain sighed, but nodded in consent. He clearly didn't enjoy taking orders on his own ship, but he and his son got into in their flight chairs and went about the business of mapping their warp vector. Quinn had to admit he was impressed with their skill. They had old gear, almost obsolete, and did much of the work manually. Small operation, apparently. Still, it spoke volumes to their competence. At least as pilots, if not as smugglers.

  They snapped into the warp and the spectral storm surrounded their ship. Quinn was used to it from doing so many jumps, but it still set his teeth on edge knowing that if the ship's warp-signal-cancellation probe didn't work perfectly, they'd all end up stuck in this limbo forever. Few things made him nervous, but this was one of them. Give him a dragon fight instead of this eternal lightning storm any day, he thought.

  The flight was short. It only lasted a few minutes, and then the probe was out. An instant later, they were in solid space again. Quinn could see the station looming ahead of them as they began coming in to dock. He sm
iled, remembering his last time at Kirlian's Rest. Right before a dragon campaign that took him all the way out to the icy heights of Cristos. That'd been the most epic battle of his life, even received news coverage on the intelliNet.

  There'd been a beautiful woman he'd met here at one of the station pubs. The Wasted Wagoneer, if he remembered correctly. They'd been stationed at Kirlian's Rest for the month prior to the engagement, and he thought that sounded about right. At any rate, that girl had done a phenomenal job of sending him off in style; the best inspiration to fight for king and country Quinn had ever received. Maybe he could check in on her if she was still here. It'd been a long time, but he hoped he'd see her.

  “We'll be docking soon,” the captain said, interrupting Quinn's thoughts. “I can't stay long, but I've arranged for you to enter the station with my men when they go on liberty. They'll pretend you're with them, and they understand the situation well enough not to do anything stupid.”

  “Here's hoping,” Quinn said and blinked at the door panel he'd busted earlier. “Hey, you got a mechanic?” The captain looked over, confused. Then he saw the problem.

  “Oh, that,” he groaned. He looked at his son. “And this, Risar...this...this is why we never work blind.” The younger man's cheeks flushed, apparently embarrassed about having the situation rubbed in his face, and muttered something about risks being necessary before burying himself in the console.

  Quinn just laughed and waited for the mechanic to fix the door. Didn't take long, and soon he was walking into port, well hidden among a sea of people.

  The lights and sounds assaulted his ears from every direction, Quinn noticed with satisfaction. This atmosphere reminded him of the rough streets he grew up on, and he let his feet carry him through the noisy vendors down the main boulevard. He looked up through the transparent skydome at the stars, the corner of the orange gas planet just barely visible.