The Fleet

by John M. Davis

  “They have us in building 4-1-6-A.” one of his soldiers announced. Having stopped to deliver the news to Adam and the rest of his crew.

  Adam offered no reply, but had already noticed each building being tagged with a combination of numbers and letters. Red spray paint easily visible against the sandstone color of the buildings which stood across the city.

  He would have his son to their quarters soon enough. Even though Adam was exhausted, he'd spend a bit of time looking around their new home. Feeling guilty about his lack of knowledge when it came to the city's history, while feeling blessed enough to have made it here alive – his son in his arms.

  Several larger tower-shaped buildings cascaded up to the heavens. Nearly touching the low-laying clouds above. Meanwhile, hundreds of smaller, square-shaped buildings spread across the rocky terrain within the city. And they appeared to be built just as sturdy. The husk having taken their time building this jewel of a city many centuries before.

  Adam looked across the reaches of landscape. Vibrant green hills rolling in the backdrop of his sight, while large rocks lay in many of the open areas. Giving the area a mountainous feel.

  It looked almost like a medieval setting, if not for the piles of travel weary spaceships which had landed and were undergoing repairs.

  Adam still hadn't learned the city's name. He knew nothing of New Glimmeria's staying power, or even where his designated building was. But he knew one thing from beginning to end when it came to both him and his son.

  They were home.

  *

  As Dalton and his group of very-reserved soldiers eased their shuttle into the large warship of the Viscion, immediately they began to notice differences.

  Much of the ship's interior looked transparent. Made of crystal, almost, though it held together like steel. Complete with the rivet of bolts.

  Several computer screens were integrated within the ship's walls, each of them seeming a bit milky as bright led light flashed across in vivid coloring. A language written – though none of Dalton's crew understood a bit of it.

  Several of the Viscion stood tall, rifles of some sort resting in their arms as another similar to them awaited the shuttle's landing. This one appearing to be in charge – his outfit a little less combative and trimmed more properly.

  “Well boys,” Dalton said as he threw the smoldering cigar stump to the floor of their shuttle. Stomping it out with the thick of his boot bottom. “It's go time.”

  Though none of the crew understood his words, each syllable brought with it fame. A phrase uttered by Dalton James when the shit was about to hit the fan, so to speak. It was his admission that the cuffs were off, the whiskey had ran dry and hell was about to be raised. If need be.

  “Commander James,” the Viscion said. Lowering himself a bit. “My people are honored by your visit.”

  The snapping of tongue made Dalton and his men feel a bit awkward. The Viscion speaking a very slow and direct language. As the translation boxes mounted to their shoulders processed and cleaned up the language for human ears, however, Dalton seemed to ease up. Just a little.

  That ease quickly vanished as the Viscion soldiers aimed down on them. Rifles of a strange design sighting them up as a precautionary measure.

  Small red triangles flashed onto their chests. A warning by any language that one wrong move would be the last.

  “What the hell is this about?” Dalton angrily asked.

  “My apologies. It is standard procedure to disarm any boarding party that lands on this ship.”

  Dalton glanced hard at the beast, knowing nothing about their race or intentions. Fighting back the urge to slap teeth from its mouth with as little as a shady blink of the eye.

  “You have my word. No harm will come to you or any among your boarding party.”

  Whipping his shotgun around quickly and bringing the entire confrontation to an alarming moment; Dalton spun it a bit to hand it over to the Viscion soldier. The rest of his group slowly following their painfully sober leader's actions.

  “This way.” the Viscion said. Walking from the landing bay of the unusual looking ship – his soldiers ushering Commander James and company along at rifle point.

  Meanwhile, the Husk both remained at rifle point. Their oversized arms extended up and completely at the mercy of a race they knew nothing of. A fact that did not sit very well with the proud race of warriors.

  “You're weapons are a bit heavier than we are used to.” one of the escorting Viscion said. Tasked with carrying each of the weapons handed over by Dalton and his group.

  “So is my drinking habit.” Dalton replied.

  “Welcome to my ship Commander Dalton,” a similarly dressed, but heavy decorated man said. His clothing solid white as many symbolic medals were pinned to his chest. “I am Commander Ryalk.”

  “Not happy about having my weapons taken.” Dalton replied with a bit of zest.

  His words filtered into the strange devices which seemed to mount to the collar over every Viscion. Funneling back out to the alien race in their native language.

  “You would not have done the same?”

  It was a damn good question, primarily because they both already knew the answer was yes. Making Dalton question why he'd come along in the first place.

  “Our people could stand to learn a bit from the other. Yes?” Ryalk asked.

  Their language was enough to run chills up the spine of most. Very comparable to that of a savage tribe. Very deep toned with loud clicking on the tail end of most words.

  “Depends on the subject we're learning?” Dalton replied with a question of his own.

  Secretly, he also questioned why the hell their meeting was taking place in the middle of a large hallway. One that was constructed of seamless white walls and plentiful overhead lighting. Bright and white. Everything was just so damn white, in Dalton's opinion.

  “Well,” Ryalk said. “I would first begin by asking why a race of people remain aboard their ships when so many habitable planets sit below.”

  “Here's how this is going to work,” Dalton stated. “I'll answer your damn question. Then you're going to answer mine.”

  “Alright.”

  “Long story short, our race is dealing with a plague down there. The people on my ship are uninfected, but the worlds below us are overrun with infected.” Dalton said.

  “I see.”

  “Now,” Dalton said, drawing a bit closer, much to the disapproval of several Viscion soldiers. “Why did you follow my shuttle so damn far when you could have kept going your own way?”

  He could see the question place the commander of such a strange race in a bit of discomfort.

  “Resources.” Commander Ryalk replied.

  “Resources?” Dalton asked.

  “You see,” Ryalk began. “My people are a race among the stars. Certainly not born of the stars, but we've been among them for many generations. Perhaps hundreds. We've certainly had our opportunities to colonize habitable worlds, but the Viscion are a race among the stars by choice. It is where we feel free.”

  “And living among the stars takes a lot of resources?” Dalton asked.

  “Yes.”

  It made sense. Perhaps at one time the Viscion were even human. It would be a long shot, but certainly not out of the question. People within the Skyla System have been traveling through the stars for hundreds of years. Perhaps even thousands. Along the way there have been numerous attempts to explore beyond the reaches of the Skyla System, though most have failed miserably.

  It was entirely possible that the Viscion were descendants of one such group. Evolving throughout the years. Their skin becoming chalk white as their bodies reconfigured a bit to adapt to life aboard a ship.

  “What type of resources are you in need of?” Dalton asked. “Hell, we have plenty of water down there. If it's fossil fuels you need, we have that...”

  “Food.” Commander Ryalk replied.

  “Well, I mean we have farms and such do
wn there. Though they are most likely covered up with infected.” Dalton replied.

  A silence seemed to drape across the entire group for a moment. Giving the visiting party a very uncomfortable feeling.

  “What kind of food?” Dalton asked.

  His question was simply answered with a look that sent chills ringing down his spine.

  They were futuristic in their technology and weaponry, though savage and basic in their need for meat. Cannibals with a fleet of powerful ships at their disposal.

  “Oh hell naw.” Dalton said.

  “Relax Commander James,” Ryalk said. “I did not bring you aboard this ship to trap you and harvest the meat from your frame.”

  It's a damn good thing.

  “So what is it that you want, exactly?” one of Dalton's accompanying soldiers asked.

  It seemed a bit odd to the Viscion that a subordinate had entered the conversation. But they understood the humans had their own way of handling things.

  Had it been one of their own. He would have died quite painfully for speaking out of turn.

  “It seems that you have the resource we seek in plentiful supply down below,” Ryalk replied. “We could easily cleanse these worlds below for you in exchange for keeping what we kill.”

  “I think you underestimate how many infected roam the planets beneath our ships.” Dalton said.

  “Perhaps you underestimate the hunger my people have for the salty scorch of meat,” Rylak replied. “I assure you, we have the weaponry to exterminate these infected with ease. We have a food processing center, but my people have long grown tired of organic plants filling their stomachs,” he added. “Do we have an agreement?”

  It was the worst kind of agreement Dalton could have been a part of. The type that, ultimately, he had no choice in. If he declined the offer, he'd likely be resting in the pit of a Viscion stomach within the hour. The extraterrestrial race going through with their plan anyway. Or, he could agree and at least buy his people a bit of time.

  “You clear our planets in exchange for the right to keep what you kill? Sounds fair to me.” Dalton replied.

  “Good,” Commander Rylak said. “Now if you'll excuse me. A harvesting of this magnitude will require a bit of planning.”

  The fact that Rylak referred to it as a harvest let Dalton know it had been done before. Several times, by the way Rylak's words from tongue so easily. It was commonplace.

  “You will be harvesting infected only, right?” Dalton asked.

  “That was not our agreement commander.” Rylak said, though he did so as he turned to begin staging for an invasion of planets below their ships.

  “We have innocent people down there awaiting our rescue. Uninfected people,” Dalton said. “You do not want to fuck with me on this.”

  “Thank you for your visit,” Rylak said. Stopping to face Dalton a final time. “My soldiers will see you back to your shuttle,” he added with a look of utmost seriousness. “The terms have been made and are non-negotiable. Do not stand in my way or I can promise you...your race will be humbled to its knees.”

  With that, the commander turned to walk away under armed escort. The bright lights of the large hallway already having gotten on Dalton's nerves.

  “Pack a lunch.” Dalton replied.

  His group was slowly led back to the gunmetal gray shuttle which had brought them aboard. It was a rather long walk, though Dalton felt it took no time at all. Pissed off and ready to throw down, if he thought they stood a chance of making it back to their ship in one piece.

  “Retrieve your weapons and make your way onto you shuttle.” one of the Viscion soldiers demanded.

  The voice crackled through the announcing box mounted to its shoulder, sounding firm. Yet the Viscion had made one serious mistake. Allowing Dalton and his crew to turn their backs while gearing back up. Retrieving their weapons from a large box of translucent structure.

  “Ya'll keep it real.” Dalton said. Turning for a moment to wave farewell to the alien race. A gesture thought of as strange, coming from a man who'd just been handed unfavorable terms.

  Though he'd retrieved both a shotgun and sidearm, Dalton's iron horse of revolving pain remained in the box. A Viscion sidearm tucked snugly into the patch of pants his revolver once called home.

  “Get on the horn and tell the God of War that we're flying straight to Second Glimmeria,” Dalton said. “Have 'em pack their shit and follow us in. Tell my woman I love her.”

  “Second Glimmeria?” the pilot asked. Sitting down into the seat of tough black leather as the rest of the shuttle's crew quickly began boarding.

  “Yep,” Dalton replied. “Gonna go see the good doctor.”

  *

  Adam had pulled his eyes open at the sound of creaking wood. The door of his room shifting a bit as sunlight began to pour in. Or so he imagined.

  The silhouette of Dalton James standing nearby.

  Rubbing his eyes for a moment, Adam grabbed the small bottle of husk wine from his nightstand in order to check its alcoholic content. Thinking it to be a dream; perhaps an illusion.

  “That's some weak ass shit, I already checked.” Dalton said with a grin.

  Bolting from his bed, Adam immediately shook hands with his longtime friend and expressed a sigh of relief. Knowing it would have been one strange dream.

  “It's about time you showed up.” Adam said.

  “Sorry brother, I ran into a bit of a pickle. A shit storm of pickles, actually.”

  “Huh?” Adam asked.

  “I'll explain on the way,” Dalton replied. “I need you to take a walk with me.”

  “Dalton I can't. Avery is still sleeping.” Adam replied.

  “Sasha has it covered.” Dalton said.

  His statement brought extreme hesitation. Adam remembering that his son was under Cambria's care the last time he was taken. None of it Cambria's fault, of course, but the hesitation of a father was still there to say the least.

  “You can relax Adam,” Cambria added, entering the room slowly. “He has these trees following me around. Everywhere.”

  Standing behind her were two of the largest and most decorated husk Adam had ever seen. And he'd seen his share. Each of the orc-like soldiers cut from the same cloth. A cloth made of muscle and bad looks.

  “Ri'ial, what do you do if anyone comes in unannounced to threaten my woman or my friend's son?” Dalton asked.

  “Rip their arms from their sockets. Watch them bleed out. Check for whiskey.” one of the large warriors replied.

  “Bet your ass.” Dalton said with a grin.

  Still, Adam seemed a bit reluctant.

  “I'd die before I let someone else take your son.” Cambria admitted.

  “Alright,” Adam replied. “But can we make it quick?”

  “You got it buddy.” Dalton said.

  “You son of a bitch!” Doctor Arness yelled. “You have a lot of nerve showing up here after holding me in shackles for days on end!”

  “Calm down and listen.” Dalton replied.

  “What's this?” Adam asked.

  “I'll explain later.” Dalton replied.

  “I'll NOT calm down!” the doctor shouted. “I've eaten three meals in as many days. THREE! None of them exactly a king's ransom, either.”

  “You'll calm down or I'll beat the feisty right out of 'ya.” Dalton replied.

  His words led to an awkward silence among the men. The sound of absolutely nothing for several moments, which nearly deafened the lot of them.

  “I need your help.” Dalton admitted.

  “Oh...oh,” the doctor said with a loud tone. “Now you need MY help.”

  “There's a very important meeting in about twenty minutes. I'd like to have you there. On my side, this time, rather than plotting against me. There will be plenty of food, wine,” Dalton said to entice the humbled doctor. “You name it, you'll have it.”

  “And then what?” Doctor Arness questioned.

  “Then you'll be free to help
or go as you please. No strings attached.”

  “What kind of meeting?”

  Dalton had stirred the curiosity of the fleet's good doctor. And that, combined with a mighty strong need to eat, was just enough to force him into agreement.

  As Dalton, Adam and Doctor Arness entered the large room, the gathered members of humanity fell to a hush.

  Adam could see a vaulted ceiling nearly fifty feet high above them. Carvings and designs that were hand decorated onto the sandstone material, as was the case on the walls around them. He wasn't sure what the building once stood for, but understood that it was now the designated meeting point of the high-ranking officials among what remained of their race.

  “There's no food,” Doctor Arness replied. “And I see no wine. None of what you said is true.”

  Pulling a small flask of unknown drink from his brown duster, Dalton forcefully handed it to the doctor.

  “That right there will put some wing in your ding. Make you forget all about wine,” Dalton said. “I'll promise you that damn much.”

  “And for food?” the doctor asked. Swiping the flask from Dalton's hand.

  “Do what I do.”

  “Which is?”

  “Without.” Dalton replied sternly.

  “Commander James.” one of the ranking officers said, saluting him with honor.

  “At ease, all of 'ya,” Dalton said. “Just find a seat to park your asses and we'll get to it.”

  Adam did just that. Wondering how far his old friend was dragging him down the rabbit hole.

  “As most of you know. We've run across a brand new race. One that's full of weaponry, and, as it turns out, surprises.” Dalton said. Shaking his head a bit.

  A new race? Adam thought.

  “Turns out they're looking for resources. Food in particular.” Dalton added.

  “What kind of food?” one of the seated ranking officers asked. A dozen or so each seated around a large wooden table of polished shine. As were Adam and the doctor.

  “The kind of food that likes to walk and talk,” Dalton replied. “Carry on conversation and have sex after closing time.”

  “I don't get it?” the doctor admitted.

  “Humans.” Dalton replied.

  His statement brought a hush across the room. Each seated man in shock at the mere thought of such a thing.