“You dare attempt to hurt my children. My children!” screamed the Emperor, the hot end of his stick in Jamis’s face, the light reflecting his large, wet eyes.
“If you want them to live, then do not touch either of us again,” said Jamis.
Merthon sat up. Don’t push the metal beast any further, he thought. He’ll kill both of us out of anger. He knows the children still need us, but not for much longer.
But the Emperor’s logic prevailed. “Do not threaten me again, or I’ll roast your skinny, frog body and feed it to the mizuma.” The mizuma were the young BG worms not yet fitted with a black mech body. They lived on the worm worlds and were soft dirt divers, but had sharp teeth and ate meat on occasion. “Now back to work.” And then he ordered a med bot to tend to Merthon.
Things were tense after that, but no more mishaps occurred and soon after Merthon discovered the dying offspring were due to a few contaminated tanks. And Jamis did not cross the Emperor again. He did his work and Merthon decided he’d given up hope. But now Merthon knew he’d been plotting something all along, even when Merthon was sending the hero out in the escape pod and taking chances Jamis did not agree with. Jamis had gotten quiet, he’d told Merthon to stop acting reckless, he’d begun to grow thin and wiry, and sometimes he didn’t even look like Jamis: the way he walked, almost limping, licking his lips.
But these days Merthon woke up alone, ate alone, worked the tanks alone. He knew that Jamis was toiling away in the B-wing, doing the same things that he was doing. They’d split the tanks into two halves. Each Vellosian would work their half and if any of the children died, then they would both be put to death. Or so they were told.
To pass the time Merthon would hum songs his mother had taught him years ago. Songs he’d thought he forgot. He’d also have imaginary conversations with Jamis.
Merthon: No. Don’t ask. The human side of him is obviously immune to the imprint.
Jamis: Perhaps the human side has lost the battle?
Merthon: No. The desire within him is strong. No human can defeat it.
Jamis: You are overconfident in your abilities.
Merthon: I am Merthon!
Jamis: My point exactly.
Merthon: Do you remember the song Three-Catch-Fiddler-Fly?
Jamis: Now you are changing the subject.
And Merthon did not care his overseers could hear his conversation with himself. He sang the song and was pleased.
One morning Merthon awoke and instantly felt something was wrong. He was cold, even in his tank. His morning meal, a mix of biomass and plant-based nutrients: wormfood, tasted even worse than usual, and his overseer, an older warrior whose black metal parts were dented and chipped, never came. Merthon put on his robe and waited, but the overseer did not show, so he sat, alone and cold.
Suddenly, two of the newer, younger warriors burst into the room, one grabbed him by the arm and dragged him down the corridor, in the opposite direction of the tanks. The old warrior would wait patiently for Merthon to come and did not touch him, but these two dragged him down the hall, then down several flights of stairs, another long walk, then down again until the air got moist and earthy. Wormlike.
The guards threw him down into a dimly lit room in the bowels of the facility—a place he decided must have been made by the BG. The Vellosians would never go this deep into the soil. He lay there on the dirt floor breathing short, fast breaths, wondering why he was afraid. Suddenly his legs didn’t work so well and when his eyes adjusted he could see chains on the walls and hooks hanging from the ceiling. And the smell: earth and mold, but something else, something rotten. It was the smell of death. And for the first time ever, he longed for his monotonous job tending the tanks. Frog, worm or human, it didn’t matter, he decided, once brought down to this dark place you’d never see the light again.
He lay there for some time, alone, long enough for his eyes to completely adjust. There was a pile of rags in the corner, but when he sat up he noticed a bit of bone poking through. After that horrible discovery every undulation, every bit of loose dirt he imagined was the remains of some poor creature. So he did the best he could. Jamis said the Vellosians were tougher than they appeared, but Merthon thought he was just talking. Though his mother had said the same. But Merthon, until recently, had never truly been tested. I guess I am now, he thought. I am still here.
So he closed his eyes and imagined the bright Vellosian sun shining down on his homeworld: green grass and blue pools. And slowly, his breathing grew steady and his mind cleared. The Emperor would be a fool to kill us, he thought. Right now. Before they’ve awoken. It’s still too early. And then a tiny thread of hope filled his heart: He’s coming. But he quickly put that thought out of his mind.
Soon he heard the distinctive metallic CHUNK, CHUNK of a BG warrior heading his way. A large, robed BG entered through a corridor on the other side of the room. His staff was lit, the only bit of light in the dank hole. He was dragging a wire-thin humanoid, but Merthon could not see clearly. The BG held its staff up and Merthon could see that it was the Emperor himself. He let go the pitiful creature he’d dragged in and it fell like a pile of rags onto the floor and did not move.
“Where is Jamis?” Merthon asked.
“Your only concern is the children,” said the Emperor. He stepped closer and Merthon could see his alacyte toes sinking into the dirt under his massive weight. And here, the Emperor paused as if considering something. Merthon started to speak again but the staff came down on the side of his head and he sprawled backwards near the bone that was sticking up. He was stunned and rolled with both hands on his head. He opened his eyes and could see he’d been struck with the unlit end of the staff. Several moments passed and Merthon remained quiet.
Finally, the Emperor spoke. “Now, I am going to give you something you haven’t had for quite some time. A gift.” Merthon sat up, noticed the pile of bones that the Emperor had dropped suddenly move, then go quiet again.
“What could you possibly give me? You’ve taken everything. There’s nothing I want from you,” said Merthon.
“Ah, dear Frog, that is where you are wrong.” And then he pointed his staff to the wall. “Screen on,” he said.
Merthon turned, and there on the screen was a video of a small group of Vellosians. He instinctively moved towards the wall to get a better look. These were his people. They did not have their usual Vellosian style mud huts, instead were in wooden structures, but they were near a pool and they looked healthy. Where do they come from? thought Merthon. And then he decided it was a trick. “This was some video taken before the war. Before Vellos was destroyed,” he said.
“No. There were survivors, and we have taken very good care of them. In fact, they think they have escaped, that they have evaded us.” He laughed and snorted. “But here is the reality.” The video pulled back to encompass the stars nearby. Two cruisers were in orbit above the Vellosian settlement.
Both cruisers were the newer model, with multiple ion turrets on top. Both made after the war to protect merchant ships from pirates in Federation space, or so they said.
"So now do you believe?" said the Emperor.
Merthon shook his head. And his heart was filled with longing for these people. Maybe he and Jamis were not the last, as they had feared. And suddenly a new desire welled up within him. Desire to live. The Emperor had given him something that he hadn't felt in a long time: hope.
"I see that you believe. Good," said the Emperor. "And now for a difficult matter.”
Merthon had forgotten about the thin creature the Emperor had drug in. But now the large, black mech reached down, grabbed the thin humanoid by the arm and tossed him into the center of the room right next to Merthon.
For the first time Merthon got a good look at the thin, sickly being. And he was shocked. Staring up at him was the pale, gaunt face of a Vellosian. Jamis.
Merthon reached down to touch him. "Oh my dear friend what have they done to you?" he said.
&n
bsp; "Do not speak to him!" said the Emperor. "Do not even look at him. I know of your sneaky communications." Jamis reached up and held Merthon’s hand. Merthon knew that he was close to death. But why?
Merthon stood up to face the Emperor. "What have you done to him?"
"Sit down," said the Emperor. "If you wish to live simply answer my questions." Merthon sat down. "I know about the stolen fuel cells from the storage bay on sub-level three. I know that one of you had something to do with it."
Merthon's heart sank. The Emperor knew about his plan. And now with Jamis nearly gone, all hope was lost.
"Which of you stole the fuel cells? Where do they go?"
Merthon decided that he was going to tell the Emperor everything. What would it hurt? The hero had not come. Merthon would confess his failure and maybe Jamis at least could be spared. But he never got the chance.
"I did it!" said Jamis, with a raspy paperthin voice. Merthon looked at him with wide eyes. Jamis was using every bit of energy he had left.
"No!" screamed Merthon.
And then Jamis pushed Merthon down, "Be quiet!" he yelled. "I sent Jolo Vargas back to the Federation in a Racellian escape pod. He knows the coordinates of the worm worlds. He's going to destroy them.”
Merthon did not see when the Emperor had turned on his staff. All he saw was the glowing red move through his friend Jamis like a stick through a wet leaf. And what remained of his frail body fell onto the dirt floor. Jamis’s words had enraged the Emperor. And he cursed in his own, rotten Bakanhe Grana tongue. He’d stopped running audio through the translator and Merthon could hear the worm inside screaming and it was horrible.
Jamis lay there with a burning hole in his chest and he just looked at Merthon with a calm, placid face. He nodded to Merthon as if they’d just agreed on something. Like they’d just made some arrangement, only Merthon didn’t know what the deal was. Didn’t know anything except his friend was going to die. And Jamis’s death would be his fault. He’d stolen the fuel cells. One life in exchange for some fuel cells out of a BG transport that propelled a half-human back to civilization.
And nothing to show for it. Soon, when the children were grown, he too, would feel the end of the red stick. Curse the hero, he thought. I would trade a thousand Fed captains for one Jamis.
Merthon ran towards the Emperor, and struck him with his bare hands. But his soft flesh was no match for alacyte. He bounced off the Emperor, landing near his dead friend and burst into tears.
“He was dead anyway, you fool, I simply prevented any further suffering. Could you not see that?” said the Emperor. Merthon looked up at him wishing with all of his being that he could kill the mechanical beast.
“Yes, good. I see the fire in your eyes again,” said the Emperor. “Now. Your work is almost finished, but you are not done. Wake the children. Assist with the transition from the tanks to fully-grown air-breathing fighters, and I will let you go to your people.” He pointed his still-glowing staff at the video which was playing again. Merthon could see a tall Vellosian with a spear dive into the blue water. They had taken to the old ways, thought Merthon. We are survivors.
“If the children die, then they will die,” the Emperor said, pointing at the video screen on the wall. “But do not fear for your own skin, I will keep you as my pet. The last of the Vellosians.” And he started to laugh.
Soon, the Emperor left and another warrior came and dragged Jamis off, his feet making two lines in the dirt behind him. Merthon sat alone in the dark for awhile and then slowly made his way back to the tanks.
Trash Run
Iris, in Federation Space
Jolo sat in the captain’s chair of his new, old ship, given to him by his father, waiting on the Federation Refuse Hauler C43. No one had commented during the planning phase exactly how they were to actually get out to Malifa 4, the last stop before the trash boat they intended to steal headed to Iris. But after they had worked out the plan to steal the Corsair’s jump drive, Marco had taken Jolo to a hangar under the Jessica’s former bay. “Come, come,” he’d said, excitedly. “Don’t say anything to the others.” He brought Jolo into the dark bay, then hit the lights.
What awaited him was an ancient, bulbous, relic that had seen too many jumps into the unknown. Jolo thought it was a joke at first, tried to look around it as if surely there was another boat in the hangar and this old eyesore was just in the way. But no such luck. His father put his hand on the fuselage and beamed. Though he backtracked a little when he saw Jolo scratching his head.
“I know. I know, it is a bit old,” he said.
“Will it make a jump without flying apart?” said Jolo, putting his hand on one of the lower stabilizers, there mainly for atmospheric flight, he supposed, then brushed his dust covered hand on his pants.
“Jolo. Look at her. Do you not remember?” pleaded his father, eyes now serious and sad.
Jolo wanted to remember. He reached back into the void that was his distant past and tried to pull up any shred of memory. But nothing. He shook his head.
“What is it?” he said.
“It’s a Gunship class boat called the Argossy made a long time ago by Helley Lohas Shipbuilders,” said his father. And before he could continue, Jolo had already pulled up the specs on his internal computer. First created on the second worlds after the Final War. Carbonite outer shell, resistant to both energy and projectile weapons. Projectile weapons? thought Jolo, no one’s going to be throwing rocks at us.
“This ship will always bring you home, Jolo. It was made by some of the early boat builders, back when craftmanship mattered. Back when a ship had to withstand more than energy weapons. You’ve flown it before.”
The crew was equally skeptical, especially Katy and Greeley. Of course the oldest crew member, Hurley, loved it. He remembered the stories of Lohas Gunship captains tearing through waves of pirate Nevosi boats when he was a child. The old ship had been retrofitted with a pair of ion cannons which made her armaments nearly equal that of the Jessica. And Hurley joked that as a last resort you could just ram into an enemy boat and rip it in half because the Argossy was built in the old way. So it wasn't as nimble as some of the newer ships but strength and range more than made up for it.
Most Lohas Gunships did transport escort duty back in the days before the Federation. And the ship had an old-school transport ship look about it. So Jolo and the crew, waiting in orbit in Malifa 4, did not arouse suspicion from Federation or BG ships. The ion cannons were retractable, partially hidden in an alacyte cover which made the old Argossy appear even that much more innocuous. To most, it was just an old transport boat and no one paid her much mind. And sitting out in Malifa 4, deep in Fed space, this thought gave Jolo some comfort. They couldn’t have come in the Jessica, even if she were still in one piece.
Taking the trash hauler should be easy, thought Jolo. His only worry were the stream of luxury boats jumping through Malifa. It’d be one thing if they were heading to the Corsair in Iris, but these appeared to be leaving from Iris.
He adjusted in his chair, and even though the old leather squeaked under his weight, it held him comfortably, his hands on the cold stainless steel arm rests. And his mind went back to the task at hand. The Federation didn’t give much thought to protecting the dirty, slow refuse boats that were ungainly and unresponsive with even the lightest load. The only tricky part was pinpointing exactly where it would pop up once it broke orbit. But that, too, had proven a simple matter once Marco produced the Federation work orders.
And sure enough, the Federation refuse hauler C43 popped into Malifa 4 orbit precisely at 9:42 AM. And Jolo Vargas and the old Argossy were waiting.
Jolo had Katy position the Argossy directly in front of the huge hauler.
“I’m here for your ship,” said Jolo over the comm, leaning back in his new captain’s chair. He had to admit, the old seat was firmer, and softer in the right places, than the Jessica’s Fed issue vinylite chair that made his legs sore.
The
old trash boat captain laughed. “In that?” he said, and continued to wind up his engines for the jump to Iris.
“Koba, show him the guns,” said Jolo. The two ion cannons popped out and suddenly the Argossy wasn’t just a transport anymore. For good measure, Jolo fired a shot over the hauler’s right thruster, close enough for the old C43 to raise shields.
And now Jolo laughed into the comm. “Next time I won’t miss. If you attempt to reach Fed HQ in Sol you’ll be dead before they respond,” said Jolo.
The captain of the refuse ship was no hero, and who could blame him. He was on the low end of the Federation pay grade and he never actually had been trained on how to defend against a pirate attack. No pirate had ever thought to commandeer a trash boat. So soon, Jolo and Katy were in the tiny cockpit of the hauler, with Greeley and George in the empty, yet pungent, cargo hold. The captain of the smelly boat had gotten riled up when Jolo told him to climb into the tiny escape pod, but he sucked in his gut and latched himself in when he realized the other option was infiltrating the Corsair, an act of high treason.
……
"How do I look," said Katy, just before they jumped into Iris. All Federation work crew had to wear regulation coveralls. Again, Marco had proven most resourceful, outfitting Jolo and Katy with Federation trash hauler uniforms. Greeley and George were sporting dapper Federation service crew suits: black tails and white gloves. Jolo worried they might stand out a little bit too much. But then again, in the end, the job was to create some chaos in the upper levels. All they had to do was get there, to the ballroom or the art gallery.
"Yes, you look fine," said Jolo, as another shiny boat jumped out.
"Remember," Katy said. "Usually, trash haulers have one captain and no crew. So when they scan us I'm gonna say you're a ride along on a training run."
The Lost Gunboat Captain (The Jolo Vargas Space Opera Series Book 1) Page 15