Starship Desolation

by Tripp Ellis

  “I will have my revenge,” the boy yelled, his face red with rage.

  “That you shall. But we must be prudent. You are about to become the youngest king in our history. But your ascension will not go unchallenged by the Senate. You must display wisdom beyond your years. You must be strong and aggressive, but not impulsive. It is far better to rule with the support of the Senate and the people.”

  “I know nothing of politics, Rylon. My mother had a distaste for it.”

  “That is why she relied on me. As you too can rely on me. I am ever your humble servant.” Rylon bowed in an effort to appear humble.

  “Find a way to destroy the humans, and you shall have anything you desire.”

  “I serve my King not for want of material possessions, but for the good of all Saarkturians.” It was a lie, and Rylon was playing up to the child’s growing ego. “But I can assure you, the humans will be destroyed.”

  “How?”

  “Now may be the time for a strategic alliance.”

  “With who?”

  “The Decluvians.”

  Valinok’s face twisted up. “Never. I will not conspire with our enemy. An inferior one at that.”

  “Don’t underestimate their potential. They have proved a worthy adversary. Their continued existence is proof that we have failed to eradicate them. My sources tell me their capacity for war has grown.”

  “Their technology is inferior.”

  “But adequate. It is only a matter of time before they challenge us again. And we are no longer prepared to address the threat.”

  Valinok scowled.

  “An alliance could be made. Though, it would require concessions.”

  “What kind of concessions?”

  “Relinquish the Thelovian sector.”

  “No.”

  “It is of little strategic or economic value. The Decluvians have laid claim to it for centuries. It would be a gesture of good faith.”

  Valinok pondered this. “No.”

  “I would urge you to reconsider. Have you ever been to the Thelovian sector?”

  Valinok shook his head.

  “Perhaps we should arrange a visit. You could see for yourself how insignificant the region is.”

  The boy was quiet for a moment. “If I do choose to relinquish the sector, how can you be so sure that would be enough to convince the Decluvians to become our allies?”

  “Oh, that won’t be enough to convince them. That is just what it will take to get them to the bargaining table. For the Decluvians to fight and die on our behalf, it will take a far greater gesture.”

  The boy’s curious eyes stared at Rylon. “Like what?”

  Rylon pondered how best to present his plan. “A union between the two species.”

  Valinok was a smart boy. It didn’t take him long to see where Rylon was going. “Absolutely not.”

  “Sometimes, rulers must make personal sacrifices,” said Rylon.

  “It’s a little more than a sacrifice. It’s a nightmare. The Decluvian’s have tentacles. I will not marry the princess.”

  “Merely a symbolic gesture. And the ceremony will not take place until you come of age.”

  “The Saarkturian people do not want a Decluvian queen.”

  “It will be years before the actual marriage takes place. There are many things that can happen in the mean time.” Rylon’s tone was devious.

  “Tentacles, Rylon. Tentacles!”

  Rylon shrugged. “Such are the sacrifices one must make in order to rule the galaxy. You do want to rule the galaxy, don’t you?”

  Prince Valinok sighed. “I want my mother back.”

  Rylon looked at him with sympathy.

  “I want to be a child and play games and be irresponsible. When I grow up, I want to rule the galaxy.”

  “My dear boy, none of us want to grow up. But one day we wakeup to discover that we have. Today was that day for you. You can never go back to being as you were. Remember your childhood fondly, for today, you must become a man and lead your people.”

  The Prince eyed Rylon for a moment. “You have always been a friend to my mother. I trust you, Rylon. I will defer to your judgement.” Valinok grimaced. “Contact the ambassador. Offer the Thelovian sector in exchange for a meeting.”

  “As you wish, my Lord.” A slight grin curled on his treacherous lips. The boy was going to be easier to control than he thought.

  10

  SLADE

  The shuttle was filled with a dozen killers. Hardened criminals with soulless eyes. Slade was shackled at the wrists and legs. The prisoners were sizing each other up. All eyes were on Slade—she was the fairest of the bunch.

  They were heading toward the USS Gibraltar, a prison transport ship that would ferry them to Alpha Ceti 7.

  Prisoner 3603762 was twice as large as anyone else. Six foot five, 350 pounds—a thick hulk of a man. Underneath his number was a name—F. Giles. He looked like the kind of guy who could snap through his restraints, if he really tried. Definitely not the kind of guy you’d want to meet in a dark alley. He wasn’t going to have any problems in prison. He certainly wasn’t going to be anyone’s bitch.

  He kept staring at Slade with lustful eyes. She just stared back at him. She wasn’t one to back down from a fight. Even one she knew she’d lose.

  “I bet you don’t last a day in the big house, Sugar Puff,” Giles said.

  “I bet I last longer than you.”

  Giles chuckled. “Maybe I ought to come to you for protection.”

  “Maybe you should. You look kind of frail. And you’ve got dick sucking lips.”

  The rest of the inmates burst out in laughter.

  Giles scowled.

  Slade was making enemies quick.

  The shuttle landed on the flight deck of the Gibraltar. A moment later and the hatch opened. An armed cadre of guards escorted them off the shuttle and into the Gibraltar’s holding area. They unshackled the inmates and shoved them in the cell.

  It was a common area of about 50 inmates. Like a drunk tank of a county lockup, there was one latrine, and a sink. No privacy whatsoever. If you were going to take care of business, you had to do it in front of everyone. And these weren’t the kind of people you wanted to pull your pants down in front of.

  All of the inmates were dressed in orange jumpsuits, with digital readouts of their prison number embedded within the fabric.

  The guards weren’t in the UP Navy. They were privately contracted corrections officers. From here on out, the inmates would be in the care of the private correctional system.

  Slade’s eyes surveyed the holding cell as she entered. As always, she tried to identify potential threats. She knew Giles was one. And there were plenty more like him in this cell.

  She strolled over to a corner and sat down. The kid next to her couldn’t have been more than 16. Skinny, pasty faced, thick glasses.

  “What are you in for?” Slade asked.

  He looked at her for a moment before he spoke. And when he did, the words came low and slow, like he was doing an impression of his favorite movie star. “I killed 9 guys in a bar fight.”

  Slade narrowed her skeptical eyes. “You’re not old enough to drink.”

  “I’m old enough to kick ass.” He tilted his head back, like a boss.

  “You don’t look like the ass kicking type.”

  “I can hold my own.” She could tell he was scared shitless, but trying to put on a good front.

  “I can see you’re a killer, no doubt.” Slade knew this kid wasn’t a violent offender. He didn’t have the look in his eyes. That cold, emotionless stare that all killers have. Even the serial killers that masquerade as friendly neighbors have the stare. They hide it well, but if you look deep enough, you can see a cold detachment. A separation from themselves and the rest of humanity.

  “Damn right. Nobody better mess with me.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Prisoner 2936783. But my friends call me Kirby.”
>
  “How long they give you?”

  “I’m a lifer,” he said, trying to sound tough. But then his eyes went slick. He covered his face with his hands to hide his tears.

  “Looks like we got a little crybaby,” one of the inmates teased. “You can’t run to your momma here, boy.” He chuckled. “That’s alright. I’ll be your momma and your daddy.”

  Slade glared at him.

  “What you looking at? First time you seen a real man, honey?”

  “I’m sorry, I thought you were a woman.”

  There were laughs all around.

  The inmate scowled at Slade. She was making friends quickly.

  He stood up and ambled toward her. He was a short stocky guy. And like so many guys coming into the joint, he had something to prove. They were all angling to establish their dominance. Alpha males, each and every one of them. All looking to be at the top of the pecking order.

  Slade stood up and got ready for a fight.

  She studied the inmate. Watched his eyes. His hands. His posture as he approached.

  “That’s some mouth you’ve got on you,” the inmate said. “You better believe I’m gonna put it to good use—“

  BAM!

  Slade landed a right cross square on his jaw before he could finish. The blow snapped his head back. With lightning speed, she mashed her heel into his knee. Ligaments and tendons crackled as the knee bent sideways. The inmate dropped to the ground. Slade put a hard elbow in the back of his neck.

  He flattened against the ground, blood oozing from his lips and nose. He whaled in pain, but he wasn’t getting back up. He wasn’t ever going to walk without a limp, if he was ever going to walk at all.

  She scanned the crowd of onlookers with cold eyes. Her little demonstration was enough to make anybody else think twice about messing with her. Right now, Slade was atop the pecking order. And that was just how she liked it.

  “Hey! Try not to kill each other before we get to the prison,” one of the guards yelled. “We only get paid for live inmates.”

  The fallen inmate writhed in agony on the floor, screaming and whaling. He begged the guards to help him.

  “Shut up, maggot,” a guard yelled. The acetate nameplate above his badge read: O’Connor.

  But the inmate didn’t stop.

  “She broke my fucking knee, man. I need medical assistance.”

  “Don’t make me come in there and shut you up,” O’Connor said. But he was just looking for an excuse to use excessive force. He loved his job.

  “You can’t leave me like this. I got a right to medical care.”

  “You ain’t got a right to shit.”

  “This is bullshit, man. I want to file a complaint. I know my rights.”

  “Oh, you want to file a complaint?” O’Connor sneered at him. “Let me get you the forms.” He motioned for two other guards to assist him and drew his baton stunner—an 800,000 volt taser. Lightning on a stick.

  The guards gathered around the entrance. O’Connor unlocked the hatch to the holding cell and they stormed in, batons ready.

  O’Connor hovered over the inmate and jammed the baton into his belly. He zapped him with a charge. The end of the baton crackled and arced. This baton was more than an ordinary taser. It created a powerful electrical field that enveloped the subject in a brilliant, arcing aura. The inmate convulsed and vibrated uncontrollably. After a minute, O’Connor stopped zapping him. “Got any more complaints?”

  The inmate said nothing.

  “I can’t hear you.” O’Connor cupped his hand to his ear, as if straining to hear. “Oh, you’re not done yet?”

  O’Connor beat him mercilessly with the baton. The metal slapped against the inmate’s thick frame. Ribs cracked with each blow, as did the bones in the inmate’s forearms as he tried to shield himself.

  The two other guards kept the rest of the inmates at bay as the beating continued.

  “What’s that you say?” O’Connor asked. “Still haven’t had enough?”

  The other officers couldn’t resist getting in a few hits. Inmate 1109283 was a bruised and bloody pulp.

  Giles, and several other inmates, saw this as an opportunity. They tackled the two guards. Others rushed O’Connor.

  With fists like sledgehammers, Giles pummeled one of the guards and stripped away his baton. He jabbed the rod into the guards back and let the electricity fly. His body contorted and vibrated.

  Giles took the guard’s keys and his gun. Then he glared at Slade and marched toward her.

  The holding cell was pure mayhem. Screaming and yelling, hooting and hollering. Inmates were kicking and punching O’Connor, beating him beyond recognition. Everything he had doled out was coming back to him, three fold.

  It was a full on prison riot.

  11

  WALKER

  “What is it, boy?” Walker asked. He finally turned around to see the sharp prongs of the claws strike at him. He dove to the dirt and tumbled away. The pincers narrowly missed and stabbed into the crusty ground. They recoiled for another strike.

  Just great, Walker thought. A big bug.

  His eyes grew wide as the creature fully emerged from the sand. The monster was massive. Its giant pincers hovered 10 feet in the air. The thing was a cross between a scorpion and a crab. Some type of arthropod. The pincers stemmed from its forked tail. It had a hard shell on its back and six powerful legs that terminated in sharp talons. Its mouth was full of serrated fangs. Its eyes were extended and could track prey independently. It was one ugly bug. And it was in between Walker and his rifle.

  The pincers grasped at Walker. He dodged and weaved. His hand gripped the hilt of his tactical sword and pulled it from its scabbard. The blade rung as he pulled it free. He twirled it around like a rotor blade. Another pincer stabbed at him.

  Walker slashed the stainless steel anodized blade, severing the end of the pincer.

  The claw flopped to the ground, and continued to clasp at nothing—an involuntary movement that persisted for several moments.

  Green blood spewed from the flailing tail. The creature screeched in pain. The sound was like nails on a chalkboard. It immediately struck back with another attack from its remaining pincer. The claw clasped onto Walker shoulder, piercing his armor. The sharp prongs stabbed into his skin. Pain rocketed through his body. His arm went numb as the creature’s venom entered his veins. The tactical sword dropped from his hand as his grip grew weak.

  The dog was barking like crazy.

  Walker crumpled to his knees, the venom taking hold. He grabbed the sword with his left hand and spun it around. With his last bit of strength, he hacked the pincer off. It was still gripping into his shoulder.

  Walker’s vision was starting to blur. He was only going to have one chance. In a matter of moments, he would likely pass out from the venom. He charged the menacing creature and jammed the blade into its hideous skull. It shrieked and flailed about. Then collapsed. Walker pulled the blade out and stepped back from the carcass. He dropped the blade then ripped the claw out of his shoulder.

  His knees went weak and he collapsed to the ground. The temperature was almost unbearable. The ground was searing. If he passed out like this in the noonday sun, he might not survive until the evening.

  The dog was barking at him. It latched onto his collar and tried to pull him with his teeth. But the tiny animal didn’t have the strength to pull Walker across the ground.

  The dog barked at him some more, then ran into the underground burrow of the arthropod. A few moments later he ran back out and barked at Walker again. His small jaws clasped Walker’s collar, and the dog pulled with all its might. It was like a Chihuahua trying to tow a Mack truck. The dog let go and took a few steps toward the burrow. He looked back at Walker, trying to lead him on.

  Walker mustered his last bit of strength and crawled across the gritty sand. His vision was fading. He climbed down into the arthropod’s hole. It was significantly cooler in the underground trench. He could see
why the creature had spent most of its day buried in the burrow. Once he was well inside and protected from the harsh sun, Walker passed out.

  When he awoke, he was dizzy and nauseous. He dry heaved for a few minutes before his stomach settled down. His body ached like he had the flu, and his head felt like he had downed a bottle of tequila the night before. At least he had survived the poison.

  The dog was waiting patiently by his side. He had stayed there the entire time, protecting Walker as he slept. He let out a little bark of joy when Walker moved. He rushed up and licked Walker’s cheek.

  “All right, all right.” Walker couldn’t help but grin a little at the dog’s enthusiasm. He pet the dog’s head and scratched his chin. Then the little guy flopped onto his back and exposed his belly, almost demanding he be scratched.

  Walker scratched the dog’s tummy and sighed. “I guess I have to give you a name, don’t I?”

  The dog barked in affirmation.

  “Well, you’re loyal.”

  Ruff.

  “You’re tenacious.”

  Ruff.

  “You’re fearless.”

  Ruff. Ruff.

  “You kind of sound like a Marine. I’m going to call you Gunnery Sergeant Bailey. How does that sound?”

  Ruff.

  “Bailey it is.”

  Bailey licked Walker’s face again.

  “Okay, okay. Settle down, Bailey.” Walker grinned. “This was a good idea you had coming down here. Sure saved my ass.”

  Walker peeled off his armor and took the first aid kit from his pack. He cleaned and disinfected his puncture wounds. His clavicle was unharmed, but the stingers had punctured his infraspinatus and subscapularis muscles. His arm was still a little numb from the venom, but when that wore off, he’d be in a world of hurt. He found a regenerative gel compound within the first aid kit and applied it liberally to the area. The compound would speed healing. Then he applied a long acting pain relieving gel that blocked nerve impulses.

  His odds of survival dramatically decreased with a gimp arm. He needed to get back in tip top shape as soon as possible. He’d seen how efficient Saarkturian medical technology was, so he was optimistic he’d return to full performance in days rather than weeks.