Alien Alliance Box Set

by Chris Turner

  Chapter 16

  A few days later, Xaromar made a pit stop at Vendrome planet. They acquired food and battle gear, then headed straight for Phallanor. The planet’s blue-green disc yawned below them, a human hub of hubs expanding from horizon to horizon, getting larger by the minute. The ship impulsed down on its still weak power, transporting its precious cargo, Hresh’s mechnobot. Regers, making due note on the ship’s computer his private bank account a million yols the richer, smoothed his stubbled jowl, feeling a wash of satisfaction.

  Dez seemed unusually energetic, parading about like a spring chicken. He stared hard at Regers. “Radioed into Caz, our security officer. The loading dock on bay E5 is all cleared for landing. Acquisitions building, R & D West tower, East wing. We can land at the heliport, and deposit the armature, then see to Xaromar’s repair. I said I owed you a ship, and I’ll keep my word.”

  Regers peered at him through slitted eyes. “Not repair, a new ship. Hate to burst your bubble, Dez, but home may not be as rosy for you as you may think. See—” he wrapped an arm around the CEO’s shoulder “—I know, you’re thinking that here’s dumb fuck Regers, strutting around like some lame, sloe-eyed ox, sticking his nose into armed forces, security, E1s, tasers, pepper spray, electro-nets, lawyers, judges, you name it. Just giving himself up so easy here on Phallanor like a prodigal son. But been doing some thinking. Had Jennings do a little research on you while we were at the last station, getting supplies and all. Seems you have a pretty wife and daughter back home. Ain’t that nice. Alizia and Beatrix. Mighty fine-looking gals too. Be a shame if anything happened to them.” He let the thought dangle then held up a hand in reproach. “Don’t get all bug-eyed on me, Dez. I put the word out to a couple of associates of mine out in Veglos, no-nonsense types, to pay them gals of yours a visit, should I not happen to report in at a certain hour of each day. How long you think you can hide your loved ones, Dez, you being big, acting CEO? Vespasie and Furad aka ‘Dogfir’ are thorough fellows.”

  Dez paled. He gulped, nodding slowly.

  Regers patted him on the back. “That’s good, Dez. I like it when a man sees eye to eye with his superior and there’s no fucking about like a couple of cat-clawing bitches putting out each other’s eyes.”

  Dez slumped. Events proceeded smoothly, more to Regers’ liking than Dez would have expected after the last disclosure. Regers and his crew were given royal treatment by Cyber Corp staff, ushered in as high-end VIPs, given luxury suites and unlimited booze, service and amenities.

  Ramra blinked at the shag carpet, the crystal glassware, the cathedral ceilings, chrome fixtures and unlimited holo media channels. “Wow, never seen anything like this!”

  Vincent flopped on a queen-sized bed with his boots on, loosing a contented breath. “At last, some payback.”

  “Told you, I’d take care of you,” said Regers.

  Jennings muttered, scratching his cheek with the heel of his hand. “I can’t seem to get Creib out of my mind. Poor bastard, frying out there in The Dim Zone with those locusts and that dragonfly. All some horrible nightmare.”

  “Best you forget about Creib, Jennings,” said Regers. “An unfortunate incident, one that Dez’ll have on his conscience, fucking around as he was back there. This is in part, his way of making it up.”

  Jennings grunted. “Keep on believing that, Regers.”

  “I like to believe my lullabies more than any other knob’s bullshit. Tomorrow we’re hauling ass out of here, once we get our new ship. To Kraetoria, unless new leads crop up.”

  Jennings shook his head. “This scheme of yours stinks.”

  “Shut it, Jiminy. No one cares about your bleeding heart opinions.”

  “Everything’s business first, pleasure after with Regers,” Deakes laughed.

  “Hear, hear,” Ramra cheered, tipping his wine glass, spilling some on the carpet while he toasted Regers’ skullduggery in landing them riches and a new ship.

  Jennings became irritated with the praise and clenched his fists, furrowing his brow, only another source of private amusement for Regers.

  Vincent called up for room service—local surf and turf—giant turtle-like crustaceans of some ilk and yak meat straight from the choicest factory farms. “Too bad we couldn’t get some dames up here too,” Vincent mused.

  “We probably could, Vincent, but I don’t want to push Dez too hard. The man might crack. Do something stupid like call the law on us, despite the warnings I’ve given him. Yes, it’s important to keep Dez focused and balanced.”

  Regers frowned. The man was smart. Wise enough to know that once the bugs and squids crawled down upon Phallanor, there would be no Cyber Corp to speak of. An extra incentive for him to put special ‘efforts’ into putting the armor to good use, or financing an exit plan, or at least a strategy to defend this world. As for himself, he could give a rat’s ass who ruled the universe. Plenty of despots and shysters among the human race to go around ten times. Men who’d sell their own mothers, little rat bastards—and others, men and women included, who’d kill and torture for gain.

  “Don’t like not having weapons,” mumbled Vincent. “Feel naked without one.”

  “You and me both, Vince,” croaked Regers. “I’ve got enough leverage on Dez that he won’t get too cute too fast. As long as we don’t tempt him.”

  Deakes harrumphed. “Is it true that you jammed up his wife and kid? Don’t recall Jennings doing any research on Vendrome.”

  “What do you think, Deakes?” grunted Regers.

  Deakes faced the engineer who had turned and was staring out the window. “Well, Jennings, what about it?”

  Jennings continued to blink and stare at the hustle and bustle of magno-trams, hordes of pedestrians and air-speeders vaulting across the cityscape below. He just shook his head and lifted a hand toward Regers who flashed him a smug look.

  * * *

  Dez was, if anything, eager to see Regers off Phallanor asap, yet Regers would not be dismissed so easily. Two ships of Dez’s choice did not appeal to Regers who rejected them out of hand. “These are poor picks and inferior quality, Dez. I told you—an Alpha Roamer X4 or better. Don’t cheat me on firepower. This Manga 6 here is an early bird model with impulse jets that even Xaromar in her wounded capacity could outpower.”

  “Those are rare ships, Regers!” objected Dez, gritting his teeth. “I’m trying to get an equivalent starship for you.”

  “Try harder.”

  Dez shook his head and marched off in a huff.

  Deakes and the others were content to live in the lap of luxury, enjoying the downtime from risking their hides out in The Dim Zone. Breaking heads, running cons, fooling with underground thug rings, blowing up installations, stealing goods…all tough and dangerous work. “Why not stay here and milk Dez for all he’s worth?” Deakes rumbled.

  “Because it’s boring,” said Regers. “Dez’s going to figure out a way to get out from under my thumb. Then we’ll face waking up with ice picks in our heads.”

  Ramra grimaced. “Always thinking two steps ahead, eh, boss?”

  “That’s what I’m here for, Ramra, and why I’m still alive.”

  Jennings rolled his eyes.

  By the end of the week, Dez had procured a lightfighter which met Regers’ approval—a buffed and polished Alpha Roamer berthed in the research hangar, ready to go. Deakes was in awe of the vessel as he and Vincent scrutinized the sleek grey fuselage, its twin jets and roomy forward belvedere with expanded bridge, stocked with custom features like enhanced hyperdrive targeting, AI tactical and weapons deployment. Ramra and the others held Regers in even higher stead while Dez stood strangely aloof. “Vintage, Reg. How’d you manage to pull this off?” praised Ramra. “Equipped with turbo impulse ion drive and four cannons, versus the usual two—a lean, mean fighting machine.”

  Regers showed a set of flashing teeth. “Only the best for the best.”

  Even Jennings had to grumble his approval, though the man was doubtful thei
r luck would hold up. “Haven’t seen one of these classics for ten years. Not convinced there won’t be some repercussions.”

  Regers waved it off.

  Dez addressed Regers with cold formality. “Your new ship is called Grendel. I named it myself, felt it was appropriate, considering the nature of your ‘brigade’.”

  Regers gave a grunting laugh. He slapped his thigh. “Good call, Dez.”

  “The armor is topnotch. Ample range and heavy fire, the shields force 4. Guns able to stand up to L16 destroyers. It comes with an amphibious assault vehicle, a two-man craft for light excursions on-world…air, water, sky. A recent model in Cyber Corp’s long line of portable amphibious vehicles, APVs we call them.”

  “Mighty fine, Dez. Appreciate the gesture.”

  “When’s it ready?” asked Deakes.

  Dez scrunched up his mouth. “Tomorrow around noon.”

  “Good, we’ll hold you to it,” said Regers.

  Chapter 17

  The flagship destroyer Orb, Viscurg, hurtled down the light highways toward Quenrix. Admiral Nrog of the Zikri armada faced his sparring partner with a rippling snap of his strongest left motilator. The combat took place in a special war room enlivened with creeping bottle-green foliage growing hydroponically from the walls. Nrog’s pocked, rubbery face was alive in a feral grin. A low, warbling chitter rumbled in his wattled throat and depths of his chest. The robust young pup bobbing before him was a splendid specimen. Also an accomplished wrestler whose elongated motilators, thick with rigid muscle, rippled and constricted in the menacing patterns of time-honored intimidation. Normally, intimidating one’s supreme commanding officer wasn’t recommended, yet the Zikri were notorious for parading their physical prowess in front of one another, like those of old in the gladiator pens, regardless of consequences.

  A chittering voice from the spectators intruded on Nrog’s concentration. “Consul Jnedz wishes to speak with you, Admiral Nrog. He is here, aboard this vessel, transported across by amalgamator to see you, as proxy for Princeps Jring.

  Nrog scowled. “I know for whom he is proxy.” He resisted the urge to lash out and punish his officious aide for distracting him at an inopportune time. “Tell the skulking Mentera to wait.” With a flick of stinging tentacle, Nrog sent him on his way.

  Nrog let his own seven-foot long, sucker-marked motilators rise high over his head as he glided forth to assess better his first opponent. Let the youngblood do his dance. The only reason he allowed such cocky displays in his private battle chamber—and aspirants as arrogant as this pup—was because they were worthy adversaries. They tested his mettle, kept him sharp, fit, and his fighting skills honed. Too many of his fellow Zikri had gone the way of softness over the generations, even the well-intentioned ones, weakened by technology and overindulgence. He would not fall prey to such enticements. That was why he was ‘admiral’ and other competitors of his race remained shredded pulps in the unfolding drama of his constant intrigue, assassinations and machinations.

  The memories of the warm blood spilled in the dark, agonized chitters, squads of many hapless contenders as they fell under his crushing motilators revitalized his soul. Even more so while he had worked his way up the ranks, from lowly marine to squad commander, to stormtrooper, death squad overseer, weapons deployment monitor, intelligence officer, and finally commander of his own fleet.

  Nrog had marked and mapped the steps in his mind—the small, deliberate sacrifices, the shady betrayals, the well-timed trysts and the bloodshed, all necessary manipulations on his road to supremacy.

  Nrog’s wide, inverted-V-shaped upper body gleamed with muscular strength. A robust vessel built up from obsessive conditioning. He locked motilators with the youngblood, Baglaiksh. A freakish pinkish tinge clung to Nrog’s flesh and set him apart from his peers. That and his more massive rubbery build marked him a special breed.

  Four spectators hovered to either side of the sand pit and now scuttled closer to check that no transgressions were committed amid the chittering gasps and slimy heaves of tentacle and torso…Rules must be obeyed…and more importantly, should Nrog lose or start to suffer appreciable injury, the attendants would leap in to kill the overzealous combatant.

  Nrog cleaned himself up with aromatic suds in tubs of water set to the side. Soon these had grown murky with darkened blood. The wrestling match had been a violent one and quick. Baglaiksh overestimated himself; he had foolishly wasted himself on a half lock to Nrog’s upper motilators, the strongest. Easily Nrog had twisted out of that strangling hold and unleashed his own paralyzing grip. The error had cost the pup dearly. Baglaiksh lay sprawled in his own filth with two mangled motilators and much blood. The upstart crawled with difficulty, rasping wheezes along the way, amid sand and sawdust spread upon the floor.

  The aide, fluttering tentacle tips, had crept back to wait expectantly.

  Let the Consul wait. These Mentera were far too officious as it was. They demanded this and that like petty dictators, as if they owned the whole of space.

  Nrog glided through the weapons bay of his Orb battle cruiser. He ran eager eyes over the deployment of his armaments. One by one the warships came out of light drive before Quenrix.

  One thousand attack Orbs! With half as many stealth Orbs for dogfighting and recon. The Mentera were left with the dirty task of rounding up human slaves planet-wide to appease their vampirish hungers. The Zikri kept the Quenrix space clear and secure of any defending space fleet. The Mentera got their choice of the slaves, the Zikri got the planet’s resources—the mines, the factories and the remaining humans as slaves. A mutual win-win for both sides.

  Nrog was under no illusion as to how the Mentera were using the Zikri’s muscle to subjugate the galaxy. He had confidence that his armada of Orbs could defeat the Mentera lightfighters if it ever came to an all-out skirmish. Zikri-Mentera past relations had not been free of incidents of mutual aggression, each had never trusted the other. Too often Mentera raiders would initiate an attack and enslave Zikri in their despicable tanks. He would not allow such practices to continue, nor would he put his faith in any sworn treaties or promises, or any overt displays of cooperation. All just lip service. Zikri and Mentera had been enemies since the beginning. It was a miracle that this alliance had even taken shape—only by his own diplomacy in promising the Mentera a hefty booty of slaves and territory. Personally, he did not like the idea of Mentera infantry amassing so much power in the acquisition of new slaves. It could fuel their race for centuries, if not a millennium.

  “Sir, our forces are ready to strike—”

  Nrog stared at his aide, as if nothing could be more obvious.

  “—yet we have reported irregularities among the Mentera ranks.”

  “What irregularities?”

  “Three lightfighters on the right flank. Fighters Meijk, Breulk and Kiuk wing breaking rank, drifting in uncharacteristic patterns. Transmissions have been routed on unauthorized encrypted channel.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Our database reports them as scouts from Kraetoria.”

  Betrayal? Nrog’s eyes narrowed. “Scouts? Investigate it. We don’t want any security leaks or anomalies,” he said with a dangerous edge.

  The aide snuffled and turned away.

  “Incompetent locusts. Monitor them, Fuxifix. Inform Consul Jnedz and have him talk to First Officer Jring. It could be just technical glitches. But maybe not.”

  “As you wish, sir.” The aide departed, gliding out on sleek motilators.

  Nrog chittered under his raspy breath. Sloppy, stupid locusts. The invasion’s assured success relied on clockwork precision. The assault must go as planned. There must not be anything to impede it. Odd that Jring and his captains had not dealt with the anomaly. They probably did not consider it a threat. No matter. All would be settled before long.

  * * *

  The arrogance of Nrog’s communication did not cease to amaze Princeps Jring, commander of the Mentera army. He looked out to the
stars from his stateroom on the LU destroyer with the same pride he always had. Though with more doubt and perhaps critical apprehension than usual. This allied venture could go all wrong, if proper protocols were not observed. Everything executed according to protocol and logic. No stone left unturned. He mustn’t underestimate these humans. They’d eluded subjugation before and thwarted Mentera manifest destiny. But with those staggering numbers of lightfighters and Orbs out there, how could the invasion fail? Eight thousand attack craft gathered already. And more by the minute as the Zikri forces hyperdrived in from distant destinations.

  The Zikri troubled him. Merciless, ruthless savages, half squid, half amphipod, beings who kill first, ask questions later. Creatures known for their superior strength and brutality, but they were nowhere near as intelligent as was he, or his race in general. He would see that they remain subjugated, kept in their place, mere tools to serve the Mentera’s purpose. This ambitious leader of theirs, Nrog, was by no means stupid…the squid was a threat and not to be treated lightly. A dangerous ally who could turn on them when the moment was ripe. He must ensure this did not happen.

  Jring both dreaded and was titillated by the thought of their first meeting. That would be soon enough.

  He exited his private lodging, leaving behind the commanding view of the stars, and clacked down the U-shaped halls, pausing to scrutinize and examine the attack plans posted on the walls of various crew and engineers. He jingled along, bands of resinous gold metal clipped to his hind legs to show his exalted rank. As far as male locusts went, Jring was short and slender; for this reason, he walked on his hind legs with less of a stoop and crouching gait to compensate. He kept his chitinous carapace oiled and gleaming a slick, fulsome green. More a deep, disturbing jade than his blackish-green or copper-plated Mentera compatriots. An impressive presence nonetheless.