Starting at the back end—the anus—called the vent, and working fast and sure, a proficient hunter rarely needed to touch the slain game’s hide at this point. Following the crease between the legs—then up through the abdomen—careful not to cut so deep you slice through the internal organs, you cut right up to the breastbone. Thereafter, your hands will certainly get bloodied. With the abdominal cavity spread wide, you reach in and find the last rib on both sides and slice away the thin wall of muscle that separates the abdominal organs from the chest cavity—the diaphragm. Once that’s severed, you reach inside the chest cavity and grip the heart and lungs.
Orloff felt himself stir—felt the hardening of his manhood within his jeans. He thought about the intricacies involved in field dressing elk, then of working on full-grown peovils. He thought of the molt weevils—those spidery alien creatures that devastated the land and the life they had always known. They were faster, far more cunning, than the typical Appalachian game. There was real sport at bringing down a five-hundred-pound alien. And those sons of bitches could still spray you—even after they’d been killed. Wrap you up in a cocoon before you had time to flinch. Fucking things. Orloff chuckled to himself, recalling the time his oldest brother, Brent, was wound up so tightly he nearly suffocated up there in the trees. Uh huh, molt weevils were good hunting—real good sport—but there was no sense field dressing the damn things. Insectile—not much left to work with once they were dead—their paper-thin skin practically turning to dust in no time at all. But peovils … oh boy … that was a different story. They’d lost their father to peovils. Too sick to run, a band of those zombies had overtaken him, eviscerated him in seconds. Orloff didn’t feel emotions like most others did, but he’d appreciated his father, perhaps even missed him. Perhaps not. Orloff’s mind turned back to the peovils. Yeah … sure … they looked like people. Had once been people, but they weren’t human anymore. Field dressing a peovil, the brothers discovered, was an acquired talent. He felt his erection returning as he reassessed the work he’d accomplished thus far. His need for perfection was conflicting with his need to hurry and add to his collection.
Orloff’s father once said there was no sensible use to cape an elk. The term referred to saving the horns and/or hide—for mounting trophy heads on a wall. Notwithstanding ridicule from his siblings, along with that of Mamma Picket after his father’s demise, Orloff had taken a keen interest in the ancient art—the art of taxidermy. Again, his eyes lifted to the top of the adjacent bulkhead and its row of mounted heads and shoulders. He admired his perfection. No one captured the realism, the life—dare he say the spirit—as he had done. Glistening eyes stared down at him from above. He often wondered if they were judging him—condemning him to eternal hell—for what he’d done to them. It wouldn’t matter if they did. Orloff Picket did not have the emotional bandwidth for such sensitivity.
He had to lean forward and crane his neck to see the first of the ten mounted heads and torsos—some forty feet down the row—a male peovil with a long face, hollow-looking cheeks, and alabaster-white flesh. Even now its eyes seemed cold and calculating. Orloff smiled at the mounted trophy—inhaling deeply, he let air escape from his lips with a sigh.
Making eye contact with the rest of the trophies—one after another—he started with the seven-point elk, an old bull hunter, called an Imperial. Then came the great rhino-warrior—this one was a Black with two fully intact horns. An impressive beast of almost unimaginable strength, Orloff had nearly lost his right leg in bringing the beast down. His collection of trophy mounts was a mismatch of Earth and alien beings. He had his favorites, like the peovil and the rhino-warrior. But the Craing twins, females mounted together on one platform—their small heads and torsos so identically alike that even Orloff had a hard time telling them apart—held a special place in his dark and demented psyche.
Orloff dipped his fingers in a small water bowl, rubbing and swooshing away the congealed, jelly-like globules of blood, tissue, and fat, then continued with the intricate work of sewing on a human ear. The stitching—called a blind stitch—would never be seen; he took far too much pride in his work for that.
A display screen came alive off to his left. Mamma Picket’s face impatiently glared back at him. She couldn’t see him. Leaving him a vid-message—was it the seventh or the eighth? He didn’t want to talk to her … or anyone else, right then, only trying to enjoy a moment to himself. He would call her back when he was good and ready.
He concentrated on the intricate folds along the inside earlobe. Here the stitches needed to be ever so small. Mamma Picket’s voice had risen an octave or two and he looked back up at the display.
“Damn it, Orloff, answer my hail, you hear me? Answer it right now! You been taken your meds, boy? What’s going on with you? You had one simple job to do. You take care of that … take care of that business?” Mamma went quiet and the display went black.
Orloff already had tuned her out—his attention fully back on his work. He began humming along with the music, recognizing the tune. What was it called? Oh yeah … Dueling Banjos.
An alarm tone rang out—disrupting the music.
Feeling his irritation grow, he said, “What the hell is it now, AI?”
“As directed, this is notification that we are nearly upon the Consignment Freight delivery van.”
He felt the tanker dramatically slowing down. “How close?”
“One point eight miles.”
He completed the final set of stitches on the ear, then sat back, appraising his handiwork. Just as he’d done with all his trophies, he would need to place a brass placard beneath this latest mounting. It was important, in addition to the name of the species, to use the subject’s real name. His quandary was whether to use the name Don—Donald—or use his nickname … Two-ton?
Orloff felt depressed. His personal hobby time was just about over. Rousting himself off his stool, he knew there would be others. Some worthwhile hunting was coming up—adding more wall trophies. Taking care of business didn’t have to be all work, did it? He thought of the small delivery van and almost smiled.
CHAPTER 12
Three days later …
As the ATV approached the Goliath, Jason hailed Stone.
“Go for Stone.”
“Extend the gangway, Sergeant Major … we’re almost there.”
“You got it, Cap.”
Up ahead, the Goliath’s rear hatch began to open and the gangway extended. Jason watched as Colonel Pope did a double take seeing the odd-looking craft.
From the back seat, Jason asked, “You ever been in a spacecraft, Pope?”
He shook his head—almost imperceptibly.
Nan said, “Not everyone’s life revolves around space travel, Jason.”
Now she was defending him. It must be serious. “You’re right about that,” he replied.
Nan said, “Once we’re situated, I want to talk to the group. What we’ll be walking into will take a lot more diplomacy than you’re accustomed to. This won’t be about brute force, Jason. Got that?”
Jason raised his palms in mock surrender. “Hey … this is your show, Nan. Star Watch is here to support you—your needs.”
Jason, seeing Pope glance back at him in his peripheral vision, turned and gave him a quick wink. Looking irritated, Pope turned back to what was now looming above them—the Goliath.
* * *
They assembled in the rear cabin of the Goliath, some taking seats while others, like Jason and Billy, remained standing.
Nan stood in the hatchway to the cockpit and waited for everyone to quiet down. “So I wanted to say a few words before we get going.”
Bristol dramatically huffed and made a pained expression.
“You have a problem, Bristol?” Nan asked.
“I don’t know why I’m here. It’s not like I don’t have a shitload of stuff to do back on the Jumelle. I’m Chief Engineer … how does this fit into my job description?”
Nan didn’t
answer, looking blank-faced toward Jason instead.
Jason said, “You’ve become what is commonly referred to as a space worm.”
“I know what a space worm is,” Bristol said, looking annoyed.
“Then you know that space worms have a tendency to lose perspective … to forget that life is more than what’s inside the hull of the ship that’s up there in orbit. Plus, since Ricket wasn’t a good fit for this operation, you’re our de-facto science officer. So why don’t you just try to enjoy the experience.”
“I don’t get it. Since when does Star Watch handle missing person issues?” Bristol asked.
“Since the issue is my nephew,” Nan replied. “This is personal. Look, I haven’t asked a lot from any of you over the years. But I can remember a few times when I pulled strings for most of you sitting here, including you, Bristol. Anyway … things are relatively quiet in your district right now … yes?”
Nan’s reference to their district referred to that sector of space in which the Jumelle was assigned. Star Watch no longer moved through space as a combined fleet—answering calls for assistance on a first request, to a first to respond, type basis. At present, there were ten separate districts within Allied space—each assigned one of the Caldurian technology Star Watch vessels. Jason got first dibs, grabbing the district containing the Sol System along with other nearby star systems. There had been more than a few cries of nepotism directed toward Omni Reynolds, Jason’s father.
Nan continued, “When we arrive, we’ll be out of place; we’ll stick out like sore thumbs. There’ll be mistrust and a good amount of animosity toward us. Roll with it. We’re coming onto their turf.”
“I can do that,” Billy said.
“Yeah … with a name like Hernandez you’ll fit right in to their hillbilly culture,” Bristol added.
Even Nan had to smile at that. “The people we’re meeting with are indeed locals and somewhat backward. But don’t forget, they are wealthy and have their own space mining operations going on. Don’t underestimate anyone.”
Jason asked, “Couldn’t a phone call have sufficed? You don’t think this is a bit over-kill?” He gestured around to the others and at the ship.
“We tried that … numerous times. These people don’t respond well to anyone associated with the government. You need to remember how things were right after the invasion. There was no more America, per se. Hell, most government officials were wrapped in cocoons. It’s why I was brought in as the interim president from a lowly Secretary of Interstellar Relations. As far as the Pickets are concerned, the part of the country we’re headed for is a nation unto itself. No, if we’re going to get answers … it’ll be on a one-to-one basis.”
“How did they ever get up in space in the first place?” Jason asked. “Going from backwoods coal miners to spacefaring entrepreneurs seems a bit of a leap.”
Colonel Pope stood and said, “In the foothills of Tennessee at the end of the Craing war, a parked alien craft … I think a heavy cruiser … was preparing to leave. I guess to head back into space. The whole story’s secondhand, incomplete, but word is the Picket brothers … armed for bear with automatic weapons … entered the nearly deserted ship and captured the bridge crew. Apparently, the Craing had left the gangway extended and the boys took the opportunity to inflict some good ol’ boy whoop-ass retribution.”
“So what? They commandeered the ship?” Rizzo asked.
“That’s right. Thirteen Craing crewmembers were, and still are as far as I know, their hostages. They’ve increased their holdings by pirating three more Craing warships over the last five years. Since mining is all they really knew, it was a natural turn of events to continue with that same vocation up in space. Their operations are mostly somewhere within that asteroid belt around the solar system.”
“The mineral-rich Kuiper Belt,” Jason added.
“So what’s our cover story? Why are we dropping in on them?” Billy asked.
“We need to have something they want and I’m guessing the doubling or tripling of their operations would be a good enticement,” Nan said.
Jason exchanged a glance with Billy.
“We’re going to proposition them. I’m Tanya Pope—the Pennsylvania-version of Mamma Picket—and the Colonel here will play my husband. He keeps his name, Stephen Pope. His family, on his father’s side, were miners from way back, so he knows the lingo.”
“So what are you offering them?”
“Like the Pickets, we’ve also made the transition into space. Our mining operations are far smaller but we have an opportunity. Clients of ours, the Mau, are hard up for Tanzamine. I know the Pickets are currently one of the few mining operations that excavate that rare mineral. The Mau have given us a first order for a billion tons of the stuff.”
“And you’ve already set this conspiracy up with them … the Mau?” Jason asked.
Nan smiled. “Thanks to what the infamous Captain Jason Reynolds did for the Mau during the war, you’re a hero in their star system. They were glad to help. Any inquiries by the Pickets to double-check our story will be verified by them.”
“You think they’ll go for it? From what you’ve said … they seem pretty reclusive,” Jason countered.
“I’ll sweeten the deal. Tell them the Mau will pay in gold bullion. The Pickets’ preferred method of payment.”
“So who are we?” Rizzo asked. “We don’t all look like family members.” His eyes settled on Billy.
“We’re not all in the same area of operation. Billy and Rizzo, you are our security chiefs. Bristol, you’re our mineralogist, so you may want to bone up on the subject matter over the next hour.”
“Seriously? I have an hour to sound intelligent about fucking space mining?”
“Probably less,” Nan replied, giving an indifferent shrug.
“And me?” Jason queried. “Like you … I’m fairly recognizable.”
“That’s why you’ll need to shave your head. I think Ricket once told me our nano-devices will allow us to change our eye color.”
“Yeah … we can do that,” Bristol commented unenthusiastically.
Nan said, “Jason, you’re our broker … the deal-maker. You’re the one bringing the parties together to make this deal happen.”
Bristol said, “And you’ll be the first one they’ll skin alive if they smell a rat. Screw this up and we’ll all end up lynched or something.”
Jason gave Bristol a weary look, though he knew he was speaking the truth. He too needed to bone up on both space mining and deal-making over the next hour.
Sergeant Stone stuck her head out the forward hatch. “We ready to head out yet?”
“Give it an hour, Sergeant Major,” Jason said, as he activated his virtual notebook.
CHAPTER 13
Jason, seated to the right of Stone at the Goliath’s controls, scanned the lush green horizon. An endless blanket of trees and rolling hills. This was beautiful country. Pigeon Forge was situated between the Smokey Mountains National Park to the East and South, with Jefferson City to the North and Knoxville, Tennessee to the west.
Jason had needed an hour and a half to bone up on various subject matter, then another half hour to speak quietly with Nan and Bristol. In the end, he instructed Stone to phase-shift the craft directly to the Virginia-Tennessee border.
It took them less than a minute to reach Sevier County, and then Pigeon Forge. As Stone banked the shuttlecraft in a tight circle, Jason took in the landscape below. The word that came to his mind was overgrown. He’d heard of Dollywood—the famous country singer’s theme park and resort—a tribute to Dolly Parton’s humble beginnings in the Smokey Mountains many years before. Seeing it now, he was certain the buxom singer would be horrified. He wondered if old Dolly was still alive or, like so many millions, had succumbed to the molt weevils. Perhaps she was a nearby peovil, moving about outside the miles and miles of twenty-foot-tall fencing topped with concertina wire. He whipped the ugly vision from his mind and looked straig
ht down.
“There … right on that main street below should work,” Jason said.
Stone leveled out the Goliath, engaging the landing thrusters. Only then, off in the distance on a hillside, did Jason see the distinctive bug-like outline of a Craing Heavy Cruiser.
The shuttlecraft settled onto the pavement and Stone cut the propulsion system. Nan, seated directly behind Jason, leaned forward so he could see her. “This is one scary-looking place.”
Jason had to agree. Looking merely overgrown from above, it was downright jungle-like up close. “You said you let them know we were coming?”
“Talked to the oldest brother … Brent. He wasn’t exactly accommodating, but he agreed once Mamma Picket gave him the OK.”
Nan was laughing.
“What is it?” Jason asked.
“I’m sorry, you look so … different.”
Right before leaving Franktown, Colorado, Nan foraged through her bag and came up with a battery-powered electric razor. Jason, surprised how reluctant he’d been to have his somewhat longish hair reduced to a quarter-inch stubble, grimaced.
“It’ll grow back … I hope,” he said defensively.
“It’s your eyes … too. Blue. It suits you. And you do look a whole lot different.”
Bristol had instructed Jason how to navigate the multitude of nano-device menus and sub-menus until he’d landed on the one that allowed for optics and pigment color options for irises. The others in the group found the process so interesting that most experimented with their own eye colors. Jason had to admit—the process was fun, and a welcome break.
Nan also chose to become blue-eyed, and with her long black hair—a wig—she looked like a different person. There was something exotic about her appearance now. He had to admit—the new look was enticing.
Space Chase (Star Watch Book 5) Page 6