by Chris Turner
The hovercraft pitched and barreled toward the shore out of control, engines revving to the max as the navigator pushed them beyond their capacity. The left rear propeller blew and made a horrible ratchety sound. The tall black rocks near the shore reared up with menace.
A scream came from the pilot cabin. Gunshots echoed from behind.
Damn that fucker Biggs! He must have wasted the navigator. The rudder jerked, nose pointed straight for the rocks. Regers reeled back in horror.
The boat tore itself up on the rocks, bottom ripped clear out. Regers went flying back, hitting his back hard against the wall. The ship listed, stern sinking, propeller engines churning out a murky foam of seawater, diesel fuel and debris. Regers struggled for air, knee deep in water. The surface hissed and frothed to the hot engines sizzling in the salt water. The vessel slid into the waves, jettisoning passengers into the churning froth, a blue, deep, dark death.
Regers gulped a mouthful of seawater, gagging at the salt in the back of his throat. He clawed, kicked, hoping to chase some sense back into his foggy brain. Gargling foam, he felt the wrath of underwater currents, the muted drone of whining engines, greasy backflush then murk. The tug of unseen currents pulled in different directions and far worse, the suction created by the rapidly sinking ship. All bore Regers spiraling down, sucking him closer to oblivion. Grasping fingers pawed at the brine. His left hand snagged on a slender arm, warm skin in the roiling water. He gripped at it with all his strength then kicked up with his feet. His head broke the surface, mouth gasping a lungful of air. Another head surfaced beside him. A young boy. Twelve, thirteen? The brown-matted hair covered his eyes like a wig of seaweed. The boy was half drowned, coughing up seawater.
Regers struggled for the shore, catching sight of some styrofoam wrapped in a tangled web of wood. He kept the boy’s head up, draped the youth’s limp arm over a drifting plank. Other heads bobbed up, men, women, struggling for the shore. All too few. Nine, maybe ten? Was Marise among them? He could not tell in that chaotic nightmare where a stone’s throw away, the hovercraft turned up its bow, piked like a fish, and started its final descent down to the murky bottom. Baggage and wreckage floated by, clogging the sea like upturned cauliflower in a storm-tossed field.
Regers kept his mind focused on saving the boy. Hollowness gnawed at him for having failed Marise. Wait! That dark-haired head bobbing over there—was it her? Two other heads had appeared and arms reached out to grab some flotsam nearby. Damn, he couldn’t save everybody! To his surprise, figures now ranged the foreshore. The movement of armored vehicles?
He kicked through the cresting waves, kept the boy afloat. Sandy bottom appeared. He felt his feet touch bottom. Dragging the kid to the shore, he staggered a few steps, then caught his breath, heard the roar of swat team vehicles. With a silent curse, he reached into his bedraggled pants pocket, chucked the satchel of Devirol into the scrub bushes, feeling a fuzzy need to retrieve it at a later time.
He staggered a few more steps in the hot sand to swim back for Marise but footfalls sounded behind him. Muscled, khaki arms pulled him back, snapped cuffs on his wrists. The jingle of chains rattled at his ankles as they dragged his struggling body into an armored van.
Chapter 12
“This man’s a hero,” croaked one of the survivors. His hair was matted, disheveled, encrusted with salt. These words and others echoed in his hazy brain.
A long time later, after intense interrogation, hours of endless, repetitive questions under glaring fluorescent lights, a mustached officer dressed in military fatigues and with a sunbrowned face and bleached eyebrows released the shackles on Regers’ wrists.
“You’re free to go.”
Regers bared his teeth in cold appraisal.
“Our men wanted to take you in for more questioning, seeing as you have a long line of prior police infractions, but in this instance, I’ve determined you were on the right side of the law.”
Another officer spoke in an elevated voice, “You were the one who fucked over Biggs and company?”
Regers said in a weary tone, “He had it coming…I just took opportunities as they came.”
“There might be some reward money in it for you, Regers.”
“Couldn’t accept it.”
“You saved the Pandorian government from a murky scandal. Spared the surviving hostages from a hell worse than death. I hate to think what would have happened had those hijackers got this hovercraft to enemy lands, secured whatever contraband they were smuggling.”
“Just happy to do my service as a law-abiding civilian, officer.” Dumb fucks.
The officers nodded and turned to leave.
One with a tuft of grey hair, square jaw and hard grey stone eyes turned to look back at Regers. He took him aside.
“We found traces of Devirol in your blood.”
“They forced me to take the stuff,” Regers said, “swallow a dose. Part of their twisted games.”
“Now why don’t I believe that?”
“Because you’re a cynical cop. You’re paid to be suspicious.”
“Any idea what they were smuggling?”
“Some piece of alien tech. Told you guys a million times. Like a mushroom on a stem—black—gave off this weird hum and scrambled people’s minds. Lethal to the core. Took out a couple of coast guard cutters.”
“I thought it was blue?”
“Black. As in the dirt under your fingernails. Don’t try to fuck with me.”
“What happened to it?”
“I chucked it overboard. I told you fifty times. When I had a chance, I stole it from under their noses. The thing was plain evil.”
“Where?”
“How the fuck do I know? Somewhere between here and Gulliver’s Island.”
The man frowned. He scratched at his brow and hissed a weary sigh. “That tech could have been valuable. Our science boys could have learned a lot from it.”
“And it could have been used to fuck us all up royally.”
The officer pursed his lips. He gritted his teeth and gave an exasperated grunt.
Regers asked, “Any sign of…Marise?”
“Yes, she survived, but she’s in rough shape. In shock. Maybe weeks, months before she recovers. Maybe not ever. She doesn’t speak too highly of you, Regers. Said you became one of those scum, left her to get raped.”
A pang of remorse welled up in Regers. Any way he played it, it looked bad. No chance of trying to comfort or win her over now. “I had to play along. Took them all out, except Biggs. What more do you want?” His voice trailed off in a harsh rasp. “Toss me in jail, throw away the key.”
“No witnesses. No proof. Still think you’re speaking in half truths. You passed all the polygraphs but part of me thinks that inside you’re cool as an iceberg and know how to fool the machine.”
Regers shrugged. “Guess the truth is at the bottom of the ocean then. I’ll say this, though. You take any one of your damn best field agents and plunk them in that situation with those fucking psychopaths and I bet none of them comes out any better than me.”
“Maybe. Whatever happened to Biggs Guenabis is still a mystery. His body never showed up.”
“And I hope the fucking thing never does. Means the sharks got him. Hope they gorge on every piece of his black-hearted body.”
The officer narrowed his eyes. “Regers, I don’t like you. Your oily smile, the fake delivery, the ‘aw, shucks, happy to do my duty’ routine. You’ve fooled the others, but not me. Been in this game too long to get bamboozled. I’ve got a sharp eye, and you’re about as bad a shyster as Biggs and the others put together.”
Regers sucked in a breath. “You’ve got me, officer. Your words’re burning my ears. Maybe I should take a bit more Devirol to calm my shattered nerves.”
The officer’s fists knotted, lips clamped, then he gave a frosty smile. “Keep on talking, Regers. You’ll slip up—just a matter of time. A word of friendly advice. Don’t come back to this planet ever again.
You hear? Never. You have yourself a nice day.”
Regers saluted him, lips curled in a lopsided grin.
* * *
At the space station orbiting Phallanor, the hub for offworld and on-planet destinations, a busy hustle of activity ranged around departure gates A45B and A45C. Regers scanned a well-built man with dirty blond hair and scratches on his face. The same man returned Regers a cursory scan.
“Where you heading?” asked Regers.
“Phallanor. Why?”
“Just curious. Me too. Got a gig out there.”
The man’s brows rose. “Oh, yeah? I have this contract lined up with some fancy-dancy CEO.”
Regers laughed. “You don’t say? Chief, looks as if you and me are in the same boat. Wouldn’t by any chance be a Mr. Mathias from Cyber Corp?”
“Yeah, none other. Who are you?”
“Regers. And you?”
“Vrean. Yul Vrean.”
“Looks as if this is our ride, Vrean.” Regers inclined his head toward the wide glass departure bay past which a silver-streamlined vessel shaped like a long capsule docked at the nearby spiderweb of berths in slow motion. The two men traded no more words on the short feeder flight down to the capital, Phallanor City. Inevitably, both ended up in the quiet waiting room at Cyber Corp’s extensive, billion-yol home office in the downtown core. Yul took in his plush surroundings with a practiced glance. Five other wary, tough-looking men stood or sat looking out the tall window upon the bustling chrome, concrete and metal glitter of the high-tech city in the harsh sunlight. Everybody had to squint. The bright sun shone through the partially-tinted glass without mercy.
Regers took Yul aside. “How’s it feel to be one of the fresh fish Mathias hooked and pulled out of the pond to be part of this mission?”
Yul rubbed his chin. “Not feeling much. A bit weird, if you ask me. What’s your story?”
“Too long and unimportant to chronicle.” Regers pinched his thumb and forefinger together. “I came this close to getting deep-sixed in the Layling Strait on planet Ganymede. Rough spot on a hovercraft, nothing I couldn’t handle.”
Yul nodded. “Yeah, tough luck. Sounds bad. I’ve been mucking around on Valgon, my home planet. A few hiccups here and there with some shady characters on a Dengal ranch needing some sorting out. But in the end everything worked out. Mathias got a line on me, pulled me in. My lucky card, I guess.”
Regers grunted, as if it meant little to him.
“Gentleman, please, step this way.” An expansive voice spoke. A long, cuff-linked arm beckoned.
The seven men followed him, a man in camel-hair suit with salt-and-pepper hair immaculately groomed, a back ramrod straight, one who spoke with precisely-enunciated words. Yul already had a bad feeling about this meeting and mission.
They assembled in a lavish reception room. It was a board room of sorts—with an opulence that made anything they’d seen so far look like plain poverty—fluted marble pillars supporting a cathedral ceiling, a crystal chandelier sparkling like diamonds over a polished mahogany table, state-of-the-art wide holoscreen displays, one-hundred-year-old whiskey waiting in a hand-painted glass decanter, the vintage bottle on deliberate display. The commanding presence quietly closed the door.
“I’m sure you’re all familiar with The Dim Zone, gentlemen? Ever hear of an obscure little planet, Xeses?” Mathias’s glittering eyes and shark-like grin did not set Yul’s nerves at ease.
THE DIM ZONE
BOOK II
Chapter 1
The planet’s horizon showed as a sepia smudge in the near distance. A small planet by most standards, thought Yul, lighter of atmosphere, half of his home planet’s gravity.
He stared over the drab terrain. His wrist brushed over the blaster at his hip and he felt sweat budding under his thermal suit. His faceplate misted with grey steam from his breath. Tucked under an armpit he carried a bulky glass container for collecting samples. His matted hair itched like the devil, plastered as it was to his neck. It was warm here, even by his standards—Xeses, this alien planet, too close to the young sun that nourished it.
Brown shrubs and prickly thickets pocked the landscape. One could never be too sure what dangers lurked on these uncharted worlds. Various cases of mishaps on remote excursions were not uncommon. Equipment failure, oxygen-tank leaks, explosions, freak accidents, dangerous atmospheric conditions, wild animal attacks.
He flexed his shoulder muscles, squatted to stretch his knees, studying what might be aquatic life in the shallow puddles that lay before him. Oddly his limbs could already feel the stiffness from his long trek from the Lander VI spacecraft. Occasional pools of shimmering water glimmered jungle green in the distance. Bubbles oozed from the muck. He and Hurd and Regers could only safely venture a few miles distance from their parked vessel, the soft ground mushing more and more under their space boots. The ground was treacherous, too risky for a closer landing.
Regers, brisk and wild-eyed and looking slightly off, appeared bulkier in his suit than in reality. He trudged to his right, holding a life sensor apparatus, a black box with sliders and dials. Hurd, in charge of ship’s tactical, took up the rear, a lean man whose pale complexion often mirrored his mood. Three intense, dispossessed men, sent on a lonely mission far across the galaxy.
And yet, Mathias, the smooth-talking industrialist who had approached them a few weeks earlier, had assured them that nothing dangerous existed on this remote world—Mathias, the same man who ran a successful cybernetic company out of Phallanor, a few hundred light years away. “Bring back anything exotic or interesting. Especially plants.” Those were Mathias’s exact words. “The more you can carry, ie plants, the more we’ll credit you for.”
Provocative promises, thought Yul. But he couldn’t refuse the impressive stipend the billionaire had offered. Hundreds of thousands of yols to split amongst them, depending on the quality and number of plants they brought back.
The details why this planet had been chosen, Mathias had not specified. Yul had not objected to this world or the region out in a far corner of space, The Dim Zone, home to untold, unexplored planets and feral alien pirates, most notably the Zikri and the insectoid Mentera. He was getting paid handsomely. It was enough.
Some three miles from the lander, the trio slogged through knee-high ferns with broad green leaves bearing red and yellow stripes, their light silver suits swishing in the alien foliage.
Regers stopped, a strident buzzing emanating from his sensor. “Hold up. Got something.” He knelt, lifted a tough frond and twisted off one of the pods that hung from its tip. Holding it up to his visor, he studied it like a monkey eyeing a banana.
Yul stooped to stroke one of the alien pods with his gloved hand. It seemed to quiver with a strange energy.
“Take these ones?” Hurd paused, squinting, a hard, strident gust rasping through his com.
Regers continued to examine the pear-like pod with an air of distaste. The mottled patches on its surface seemed to irk him. “What about these buds on the ends?” he grunted.
Yul tipped back his head. “Throw them in. Mathias’ll pay well for them.”
“They’re hardly buds,” scoffed Hurd. “Some type of husk or pod.” He wrinkled his nose and flicked his squirrel-like eyes over the specimens.
“Whatever. You carry them.” Regers tossed the pods, which floated dream-like in the lower gravity to thud against Hurd’s chest.
Yul carefully tucked three pods into the corner of the covered bin he carried and moved it closer to take the plants, soil and all.
The roots of these ferns, for lack of a better word, seemed very short, stubbed with bulbs or nodules like small potatoes on the ends. Probably the low gravity had allowed them to survive with minimal root span. A plant such as this didn’t need huge stability, and there didn’t appear much wind on this planet to blow it over or uproot it. No large water bodies either. Air, 38 degrees Celsius, saturated with excessive nitrogen, some carbon and argon, unbreathable and
toxic for humans.
Yul toiled on while Hurd collected air samples in several canisters, to keep the specimens alive on the ship. Let Mathias worry about keeping them alive after delivery.
The harsh daylight dimmed as the sun dipped behind some low clouds, or what looked like wispy, atmospheric moisture. The three had collected about thirty plants in all and as many pods. The few trees here, odd sculpted ones with yellow cones, looked out of place; some were ragged and bushy with gel-like masses hanging from their ends, as if heavy with snow. The terrain was otherwise an empty shrubland, a barren moors with scattered pools. No movement of any kind graced the landscape. Windless wilds sheltering any number of mysteries. No other apparent life forms. Again Yul asked himself why Mathias had chosen this desolate locale. No answer came. The baking heat was diminishing as the sun crept towards the east in Xeses’s retrograde rotation.
A sudden flicker caught Yul’s eye. A large butterfly landed on one of the hanging pods, to extract juices with an extended proboscis. More a grey moth with four wings than a butterfly, about the length of his index finger.
He reached to grab a sample bottle from his kit. With a wild glint in his eye, Regers tore it from his grasp and blundered forward to ensnare the folded winged thing. Overshooting his mark, he stumbled headlong into the ferns and frightened the insect off.
“You bloody fool,” Yul cursed. He snatched up the sample jar. “That bug could be worth a lot of money.”
Regers scowled with sullen displeasure. He seemed antsy, as if eager to get this job over and get back to the ship. The suit could not hide Yul’s irritation; his massive chest, the accusing eyes and muscular arms that lurked under that light protective outerwear, prompted Regers to back off.
Yul turned from Regers to watch the moth in curious fascination. The large, bulbous middle twitched, and four wavy wings fluttered with back fin to guide it like a helicopter. It landed on another pod several feet away. He approached it with stealth; on a sudden downswing of his bottle, he closed the lid from underneath and secured the insect. The moth’s proboscis dug into the plant leaf which had torn free. The moth happily sucked on it.