Things went from bad to worse, rapidly.
The burning plastic smell from somewhere under the right side panel was becoming more intense. No smoke yet, but he had waited too long already. Several of his available flight modes, including thermal, were off line. Another warning appeared on the master display in the caution dialog box; a flashing indication of a flight control system reset that settled the matter. Something critical was shorting out behind the panel. He closed his visor, went on internal oxygen, and triggered the CO2 unit.
Three of the caution icons in the dialog box winked out. The cockpit was safe again. But the master caution stayed up and a few meters behind him there were other problems to contend with, less volatile but just as deadly. The cryo fuel sustainers were failing and the temperature in his fuel tanks was rising. At the present rate of increase, he knew, the frozen deuterium slush that powered his sleek, bloodthirsty Raptor would evaporate into a useless gas in approximately eight minutes.
Shit! Lieutenant Jake Morehouse, USN, pressed his flight helmet back into the deep cushion of the headrest, eyes closed, a grimace twisting his features. He gazed disgustedly out through the canopy at the tiny portion of the universe he had ruled just a few short hours ago. Somewhere off his left wing were the scattered particulate remains of a Socon fighter, the same one whose glancing blow had nearly accomplished its pilot’s goal posthumously. That had been Jake’s third kill of the day, adding to the already remarkable tally painted on his fuselage. Life had been good up until then, until the point when the enemy, the indistinct personification of evil that he had used to carve his notch in the galaxy up until now, had finally revealed itself as something other than a target.
While he had never boasted of it, he had thus far not even been scratched in aerial combat. Some small part of him had believed in his own invincibility, believed it all to be just a game, so easy was it for him. He was good. His instructors had told him that, and his grades in every fighter/weapons advanced course had proved it.
But the supposedly poorly trained Socon pilot had done something unanticipated and the burning kiss of plasma had finally caught up with him and set off alarms and small smoldering electrical troubles. He had cracked, only momentarily, and that fact now gnawed at him like acid indigestion. The game had abruptly revealed itself to be life or death, a fact he had brushed aside up until now.
Now, eight minutes was nowhere near enough time to get back to the fleet. He might get within range of the nearest sentry ship, assuming that the admiral had not immediately ordered the ships back into superluminal flight to keep the enemy from detecting the battle group and sounding an alert. He had, of course. Jake was pretty certain of that. The battleships and cruisers had no doubt arced away from the unknown contacts at maximum velocity the second they were reported, the destroyers lingering to cover their backs before hightailing it as well.
The mission to quietly reinforce the Scorpios sector was too important
to be discovered now. The briefing had made that clear. While not elaborating
on the top-secret aspects of the sudden deployment, the admiral had made it
plain that the Allied Security Council and the Chiefs of Staff wanted this to
be the beginning of the end. The Social Confederation’s war of
aggression and economic expansionism must not be allowed to go any
further! The old man had been emphatic on that point. If these sons of
bitches haven’t yet learned from the mistakes of their Mongol ancestors, then,
by God, it’s time somebody pointed it out to them!
And now, Jake was going to miss the party. “Shit!” he muttered futilely. Even if one of his withdrawing comrades had missed the rendezvous, it was not likely that they would answer a call for a tow. Standing orders were for strict communication silence and no time wasted looking for stragglers.
The rest of his flight was long gone anyway; knowing their window for making it back was closing fast, their delaying action successful. His own frantic fight had just lasted a bit too long, his fierce enthusiasm for the blood sport of aerial combat betraying him this time and leaving him alone and emotionally wounded. He was almost glad, though, that no one had been around to witness his indiscretions.
Might they have seen him, witnessed his frantic, awkward moves? No, the others were long gone by the time he had madly tumbled his fighter into a firing position on the Stardragon’s tail. The maneuver had been ugly, but it had worked. An example of what not to do, they might call it one day in a classroom.
There was a planet somewhere around here in this frontier system. Yes, the Nav monitor had it now, AGC-2082-3 in the catalog. It was within his velocity sphere and current fuel curve; just close enough to reach at max speed. There was no question of waiting in space for retrieval. Once his fuel was gone, he was a sitting duck for the next flight of Stardragons who passed through, looking for their own comrades. Or worse, their mother ship, likely a lone warship outfitted as a commerce raider since there were no Confederation bases near here.
He edged his throttles up carefully, trying to avoid a rapid burst of power that would drive up the airframe temperature more quickly, and started plotting an orbital insertion. It had been too long since he had done that, he thought, too long out on the front lines. He was way behind in his qualifications. The squadron personnel officer had let him slide because he was a damned good combat pilot and the Navy needed good pilots out here. They needed them fighting, not doing paperwork.
Slowly, the planet grew from a speck to a dot outside the canopy, a pleasantly bluish dot. Still more insistent warnings continued to crop up on the on the engineering display. Deuterium volume had dropped to fifty percent already. He checked his maneuvering thrusters. Fortunately, their more conventional fuel supply was still intact. He would use them to fine-tune his approach once he had built up enough velocity.
The place looked pleasant enough, warm and friendly and homelike, save for the absence of orbital traffic. No wonder people moved out to these colonies. Life was not hectic out here, far from the rat race.
The G-meter dinged. The planet’s gravity had him now. Just in time, too. The deuterium tank was running dry and filling with nitrogen to prevent any explosive hazard once in atmosphere. It would be a slow coast in from here.
* * *
The old man was quiet as he ambled through the kitchen door.
“Late, Pop,” His youngest said between bites. “We started without you.”
He nodded, dismissing the matter with a weak grin. He was tired in too many ways. So much for retiring to a quiet country life, he mused for the millionth time.
“I make my best deer roast and you come in late for it,” his wife scolded as she got up to fetch his drink. Bless her, he thought. She possessed the ability to set aside the uglier issues of life and just live. “Well, sit down. Here’s your tea.” She put the damp, lemon-garnished glass next to his plate then took off her apron and sat down. “Did Hank get that printer fixed?”
“Yes, no problem. He put it on our bill.”
“Well, good.”
He took his place at the head of the table. What rubbish. Some head of a family you’ve turned out to be! Sometimes he could not look them in the eye. He should have done something about it when he was still young enough to put up a decent fight. He had retired too early, obviously. In his youth, he would’ve…
Forget it, Robert. It’s just too late!
“Carla was telling us about the new massage rugs they just got in over at Caldwell’s,” his wife was saying.
“I’ve been waiting for those things for three months. It still takes forever for new product lines to make it out this far,” his daughter-in-law complained. “Are they ever going to re-bid the colony’s freight line contract? Those people they’re using now are ridiculous.”
Maybe the only way out now was to gather everybody up, put them on a ship, and send them back to Earth. After all, his two youngest boys had never seen the home planet. He could give himself up and they would all be safe.
“Remember that there’s a war on,” his wife reminded Carla.
Was there? Robert had pretty well forgotten about galactic events lately, save for their immediate impact here.
“Even if there wasn’t,” his eldest boy spoke up, “ol’ man Gallagher is too much of a penny pincher to hire decent ships.”
Robert sighed and picked up his fork, stabbing his piece of roast. “They took Caitlin today.”
Conversation stopped with a cold slap. Chewing ceased, and silverware clinked to a halt on china. Everyone knew who “they” were.
“Shit,” his youngest boy muttered.
“Kyle, watch your language at the table!”
The boy reddened a little. “Sorry, Mom. But for God’s sake…”
“How old was she?” his eldest son asked calmly, reaching for his wife’s hand even as Carla began to tremble. She knew that the Hamils’ little girl was the same age as her own daughter.
“Just turned ten.”
* * *
The planet was called Gulkana on the charts, Jake noticed. A frontier colony with a deteriorating economy, the fact box said. There was only one major spaceport left operating at Fort Crosby, along with several outpost strips. Most of the planet’s remaining population was concentrated on the coast of a mid-latitude continent in the southern hemisphere. Which, it now seemed, he was going to miss altogether. His entry attitude had been a few degrees high and the maneuvering thrusters, with their puny force not intended for major increases in delta-vee, could not give him enough glide time to go around again.
Dammit, dammit! The skipper’ll ground my ass for this for sure, if the smartass old son of a bitch doesn’t die laughing at me first.
Where was he going to land? There was not a hell of a lot out in front of him now but open ocean. Only one option came up on Nav. Lancaster, a valley town on the northernmost continent, a big island really, about the size of Greenland. In fact, Lancaster was the only remaining town on that small, thickly forested chunk of land. It loomed fifty-two miles left of his current ground track. He frowned and nudged the thrusters, bringing the nose around to the northeast as the digits clicked off on the flight profile window. As the fighter fell further, the wings finally found air thick enough to generate sufficient lift. He was flying the old-fashioned way.
Unyielding mountains almost immediately thrust their peaks through the cloud deck, rocky, snow-dusted slopes gleaming orange as the sun retreated behind him. The plot had him one hundred fifty miles out, thirty-five thousand feet, descending at five thousand feet per minute. That was a little too steep. He brought the nose up and gave a long, strained burst on his thrusters. The numbers slowly decreased to two thousand, just enough to clear the peaks at their lowest point.
Minutes flicked by on the screen. Snowfields flashed whitish-gray on either side of the canopy, uncomfortably close. Stratocumulus clouds closed in around him as he fell behind the peaks. With his thermal seekers out, he fretted briefly about valley fog. There was no way to check the weather, for there was nothing on the meteorological broadcast band but static. Then, thankfully, the thick vapor melted away after a few seconds. The valley remained a pleasant, dark shade of evergreen as shadows from the approaching dusk fell.
Lancaster’s single paved strip had no beacon that he could find after several seconds of finger skating through frequencies on the com panel. Nor was there DME or even a non-directional signal. Another seat-of-the-pants landing! But it was not fun this time. He watched the plot and continued to home in on the GPS coordinates, praying that the planet’s satellites were still calibrated properly.
It appeared that they were. A clear, flat swath of land appeared just beyond the fighter’s nose, with a nice stretch of dark gray concrete through it. He used up the last of his thruster fuel to keep her in the air as he lined up, his hand playing the control stick like a guitar. His own nerve endings were his most important instruments now, sensing the weight of the fighter beneath him, not letting it drop too rapidly. Energy management he figured in his head for the last couple of miles, silently gauging the interactions between titanium wings and air molecules. He deployed no flaps or gear until the last moment, seeking to avoid an unwelcome drag penalty. The strip broadened slowly before him, clumps of weeds visible in the cracks.
Flaps! Gear! The Raptor dropped like stone, tires pumped up to high pressure for a surface landing crunching the weak pavement. Brakes! Velocity fell quickly. He popped the emergency drag chute as the final act.
Wheeeoow! His body went from coiled wet steel to limp, damp rag.
The ride down the poorly maintained runway was bumpy, but nothing the shock struts could not handle. He played the brakes gently, and the Raptor finally ground to a halt near a cluster of rotting structural bones that must have been hangars at one time.
Welcome to Lancaster, ladies and gentlemen…
The caution icons had all vanished from the display now, save for the one denoting the cryo sustainers. Diagnostics showed a pair of burned circuit paths in the flight control system, already automatically bypassed. That was good. His big fingers were not made for the fine work of patching optical circuit boards. He looked around outside in the gathering gloom and popped the canopy, pulling off his flamboyantly adorned helmet and zipping down the neck seal of his flightsuit. The damp unrecycled evening air felt good on his face. He breathed deeply of forest smells from grass, sap and leaves.
Talk about your quick change in environments. From cold, empty vacuum to pastoral countryside in less than twenty minutes. God, how I do love to fly!
Looking around, he did not see a living soul or a single artificial light. Beyond the field perimeter, the tall evergreens were a darkening wall save for one point where what looked like an old blacktop road cut through. It was a safe bet that he would find no help here.
Two choices, he considered with a sigh, resting his right elbow on the cockpit rail and dropping his chin into his Nomex-gloved hand. Trip the beacon and wait for someone to show up. Or walk into town. If there really is one! He tapped the keypad and brought up the atlas again on Nav. Yes, it said Lancaster’s population was approximately one thousand fifty. Or had been two years ago. Great!
Before he did that, though, he had his wounded bird to tend to. When help did come, he would at least have to know what repairs the fighter needed, lest he look like an irresponsible excuse for a pilot. He fetched a flashlight from his sleeve pocket and climbed out of the cockpit. Finding his footing on the recessed egress rungs in the fuselage, he worked his way down and dropped to the pavement. After the rap of his boot heels hitting the concrete, there was utter silence. He walked around and looked the fighter over. Everything important was still attached. Small wonder. The ship had not been designed as a glider, and aerodynamic loads had been fierce at interface. Still, she looked flyable and nothing had showed on the structural caution menu.
Beneath the Raptor, he popped open the cryo tank’s access panel, not far from the black scorch mark on the heat-shielded skin. Inside, he found the double-wall tank itself undamaged. The liquid oxygen vessel, likewise, was intact. The problem, he found, was the system’s expansion valve. The kinetic energy of the plasma beam had cracked it, allowing the coolant to escape. In addition, safeties that should have isolated the valve had been destroyed. All would have to be replaced or bypassed before he could even begin to prepare the fighter for flight again. As he looked around him, he found himself doubting there were adequate parts for cryogenic fuel systems anywhere on this land mass.
He decided to get some shut-eye and head into town in the morning. But after climbing back into the cockpit, fear, the new demon in his life, returned to taunt him as he entered REM sleep. Memories of the past few hours returned in dreams that worse than any reality.
* * *
Doug reined his horses up short of coming out of the tree line. Ahead of him, the sharp, colorless, thermal-only image of the landing strip in his night vision goggles seemed peaceful enough. But the shriek of wings had been too loud to ignore. The noise had scared that big stag so bad that he had forgotten about his wounds and nearly finished himself off while fleeing the clearing, taking a nasty spill over some rocks before vanishing into the trees with newfound strength.
Doug dismounted, curiosity overcoming his disgust at losing the stag, and wrapped the reins of his mare and the pack pony around a sapling, lest another unexpected incident spook them into running. Then he pulled his worn old rifle from his equally shabby saddle. With cautious steps, he followed the blacktop to the last tree.
Holy shit! It was a fighter. One of ours!
He forgot his caution and approached the ship at a trot. The cockpit canopy was down but he could the see the pilot dozing in his seat.
“Hey!” Doug jumped up and down, waving his arms. “Hey, dude! Wake up!”
Jake’s eyes jerked open at the sound and he was startled to see a shadowy, insect-eyed figure waving at him. His first reaction was xenophobic. Bugs!! He fumbled for his sidearm in his post-nightmare haze until the sound of a human voice reached him.
“Hey, dude!”
Chagrined again, Jake squinted out the composite pane and then hit the fighter’s landing lights. It was human, wearing NVGs. Frowning, he opened the canopy.
“Good way to get yourself fried, fella.”
“Sorry, man.” Doug ripped off the now-unnecessary goggles. “But I sure am glad to see you.”
“Actually, I’m pretty glad to see you, too. I was beginning to think I was all alone on this planet.”
“There ain’t many of us left. But we’re still mostly hospitable. Where’d you come from?”
“Well, that’s still classified at the moment.” Jake took note of the young man’s rifle. A bolt-action? He found that odd. Frontier colonies were usually where modern weapons were in the greatest need. This place really had slipped back.
“I got ya. But you’re here. That’s great! I mean, fantastic!”
There was no denying the young man’s enthusiasm. What, has this guy been smokin’ weed? “Well, it ain’t too fantastic for me.” Jake rubbed his eyes and yawned. “I don’t suppose y’all got a parts store somewhere around here. One that specializes in cryogenic supplies?”
“Well, not here. But there’s a delivery wingship comes from Fort Crosby twice a week.”
“Think you can show me where to get on his list of scheduled stops?”
“Well, sure. Then, you’ll help us, right?”
Oh, man! Now what? “Well, I’m running late but I’ll see what I can do.”
“Alright! Wait’ll my dad hears this!”
It was a long ride on horseback. Jake had not rode a horse since he was eight but he found the sturdy pony calm and bridle-wise. Strangely, the young man had not tried much conversation since their trek started, in contrast to his greeting. The pilot wrote that off to a hunter’s instinct for silence. He was assuming Doug was a hunter only by his gear and weapon and the few words they had quietly exchanged during the ride.
By his reckoning, dawn could not have been far off when they arrived at Doug’s home. Jake liked it. It was a good, old-fashioned, wood frame house at the end of a gravel driveway, with a gabled roof and a front porch, lit by motion sensor lights as they pulled up. There was light from inside the house too, a warm friendly glow along with the aroma of coffee from within the kitchen. Someone stirred in there as they dismounted.
“Doug?” an old voice called. “Where the hell you been, boy? Takes you all night to run down a wounded stag?”
“Sorry, Dad. I woulda called in again but my battery ran down,” He gestured toward the phone dangling from his belt. “Come meet this fella I found at the landing strip!”
The screen door creaked open and Jake saw a white-haired man come out on the porch and into the light. Clad simply in jeans and a flannel shirt, his expression wrinkled as he looked the pilot’s flightsuit and fur-collared leather jacket-clad form over. The aged face then softened somewhat and recognition lit in his eyes. “Navy?” he asked hopefully.
“Yes sir. Lieutenant Jake Morehouse. Your son was kind enough to give me a lift. Told me I could contact a supply house from here, get some parts for my bird.”
The old man’s face cleared up rapidly as the familiar blue color and cut of the pilot’s flightsuit lit old fires in his soul. Just last night, he had been entertaining the distasteful thought of surrendering to his enemies. And now, incredibly, salvation might just have unwittingly ridden in. There is a God! His voice filled with anticipation. “You have a ship?”
“Yes sir. A fighter, back at that landing strip.”
A sigh seemed to slump his whole body for moment, but as he ambled quickly down the steps and came toward them, he stood straighter than he had moments before. “Doug, you go on inside and get some sleep…”
“He said he’d help us, Dad!” Doug broke in excitedly. “Isn’t that great?”
“Fine, son. Just get to bed!” He turned to Jake. “Robert Mahaffey, lieutenant. Glad to meet you. Come along, my winger’s in the shed.”
Breakfast would’ve been nice! Or at least some coffee! “Yes sir. But what’s the rush?”
“Yeah, c’mon, Dad. We got to talk about what we’re gonna do!”
“Doug! Lights out! Now!”
Jake was surprised at the sudden force of the oldster’s voice and at its strident tone, so familiar.
“Yes sir!” Doug replied glumly. “Well, it was good meeting you, lieutenant. Talk to you when you get back.”
“Yeah, same here. Thanks.”
“Now, if you’ll come along, lieutenant,” Mahaffey implored, eager but retaining a semblance of old, professional calm, “we have something we need to do.”
Jake was pretty confused by now but decided he had nothing to lose.
The ground-effect winger was a utility model, with a big cab and a short covered bed, but it rode well over the decaying pavement. As the increasing daylight filtered through the woods, Jake got an idea of just how far gone Lancaster was along the way. Tall, straight, centuries-old trees gave way at several points to choked areas of saplings and second growth. Empty foundations could be glimpsed through the tangle. Water hydrants were rusted, a few were broken off and dry. Crooked road signs under assault by vines flicked past. A few rusted out wingers here and there, a scorched dumpster, and a fallen uplink tower.
“No, there’s not much left of the town.” Mahaffey said, reading his thoughts. “Not in this section, anyway. Robinson’s Commercial Strip is where everything’s concentrated now. Hmph. Our last mayor even moved his office over there.”
“Where are we going?” Jake asked over the hoarse rumble of the winger’s unsuppressed exhaust vents.
“Back to the landing strip before Robinson’s men find your fighter,” Mahaffey said plainly, without taking his eyes off the decayed road.
This Robinson fellow seemed to be a point of contention, Jake noted. Perhaps that explained the old man’s actions. “Well, I don’t think I have to worry about vandals, sir. My fighter’s security program ought to keep it safe.”
“Lieutenant, I’m not worried about someone stealing your hubcaps,” Mahaffey’s voice firmed up. “There’s a bit more to it than that.”
That much was suddenly obvious from the tone of Mahaffey’s words. A clause in Allied Nations Code Title 84, section 108 sprang to Jake’s mind, something he had always hoped to avoid. He considered himself a pilot first, not a mediator, and certainly not a cop. Still, he had his duty. “Maybe you ought to tell me about it.”
“Lieutenant Morehouse, I know your duty,” the old man said bluntly. “In the absence of civil authority on colony worlds, military personnel are federal law enforcement officers by default. But, please.” He said as he met the young pilot’s gaze. “Just let me think things over before you interrogate me.”
Jake could only nod. The old man had recited nearly the exact text of the clause. He let the matter slide for now. Besides, the old man’s knowing manner was actually causing him to worry about the Raptor’s safety. And that was more important to him than whatever local squabbles Mr. Mahaffey wanted to entangle him in.
They arrived at the strip, finding the fighter untouched. Mahaffey could not stifle a sigh of admiration at its sleek profile.
“Pretty. What model?”
“F-1C. Definitive production variant.”
“What happened?”
“ A Stardragon nicked my cryo tank. Broke the expansion valve. So now I need a new valve and a load of deuterium.”
Mahaffey nodded. “Well, the bunker here’s empty. But Robinson’s are full. And I can order you a valve from AstraMerc. Be here in three days on rush order.” He looked seriously at Jake. “Is there a lot of Socon fighter activity in our system these days?”
Jake shook his head, considering what he should let out. The fleet was far off by now but loose lips could still sink ships. ‘No, those guys came from a long range raider prowling the shipping lanes.” He looked carefully at Mahaffey. He had no difficulty imagining him in uniform, stalking the flight deck or bridge of his base ship. “You used to wear a blue suit, didn’t you?”
There was a brief twinkle in the old man’s brown eyes, confirmation enough. “We’ll talk about that later. Let’s get your ship under cover.”
Jake nodded and looked around. The remaining hangars were falling down, offering no real hiding place. “Where?”
Mahaffey grinned and climbed out of the winger. He walked a few yards to the left and knelt in the ankle-high grass. Jake saw a gray box he had not noticed before, almost hidden in the weeds. A moment later, the ground nearby gave way.
Jake and Mahaffey stood over the opening, watching clumps of grass and dirt fall inside, onto a smooth metal floor. The hatch, covered with artificial turf that matched the surrounding grass, was now a ramp to taxi the fighter down.
“There’s a winch down there,” the old man told him. “Do your brakes still work?”
“Yeah.”
“Then let’s get it hooked up. By the way, do you have any clothes with you other than that flightsuit?”
Jake looked down at himself. He had sweated more than he had realized but he still felt comfortable with himself. “Yeah, I keep a change or two onboard.”
“Civilian dress?”
He did have jeans, t-shirt, and a plain denim jacket for overnight stays on temporary duty. What was the old fellow getting at? “Yeah.”
“Well, do me a favor and get into them.” The voice did not brook any argument.
Jake thought about it for moment. Was he afraid of something? This Robinson, maybe? Into something illegal? He decided, once again, to play along and went to pop open his personal stowage compartment. The plot thickens. What have you landed in, Jake-boy?
“Does this Robinson know about that underground hangar?” Jake inquired once they were well on their way back to Mahaffey’s house.
“Yes, but he never goes to the old strip anymore. And few of his men know about it these days. It belonged to the local militia, before they were disbanded.”
“What does he do, run a chop shop?”
The old man did not bat an eyelash at the straight inquiry. “No.”
“Smuggler?”
“No.”
Jake frowned to himself. I’m a lousy detective! “He the local strongman?”
Mahaffey took a deep breath, his old frame shuddering as he stared into the passing woods. The evergreens suddenly seemed as haunted as an overrun graveyard, faces dancing among them in his mind’s eye. Faces torn from what used to be a good life here. “Robinson is a no-good son of a bitch. He’s… a monster, for lack of a better term. Flesh peddler would be another good description. Strongman? Yes, in so far as he has a monopoly on politics hereabouts. But he really isn’t the problem for you. If it wasn’t for Temujin, Robinson would shit his pants if he knew you were here.”
Temujin? “That sounds like a nomad name.”
“I agree. I don’t know where he came from originally. Robinson came around showing him off about four years ago. He’s a mercenary, close combat-trained, seems like.”
“Robinson’s enforcer?”
“Yeah.”
Okay, it’s getting clearer. “Who chartered this colony?”
“Kenai Industries. They went Chapter 11 in 2170.”
“And who holds the charter now?”
“The Conclave Interior Department. Far as I know, it was never reissued to anyone. Apparently, none of Kenai’s creditors wanted it.”
That definitely made whatever was going on around here a federal matter. “If there’s a problem, why haven’t you contacted the authorities on Monterey?” That was the nearest Allied administrative point, about ten light years away.
“Please,” Mahaffey muttered, “with a war on, those Californians have better things to worry about than our little backwater here. Besides, they’d never believe us. As for planetary authority, Robinson is a big buddy with Governor Atkins. Most other people in Fort Crosby have forgotten we exist up here.”
Believe what? Let that go for now… “Mister Mahaffey, you’ve told me a lot but not said much. I’m a soldier and a pilot and I like things simple. Something to shoot at and…” Jake broke off as Mahaffey stood on the braking thrusters. He grabbed the door rail as the bellow of rapidly redirected thrust pounded on his eardrums. “What the hell…?”
In front of the winger, he saw what. Another vehicle, a bulky off-roader, blocked the road in the curve. Its powerful thrust vectors kicked up dirt in a furious storm before it settled to the pavement. Once the noise of the turbofan faded, the doors popped open and two men got out.
Jake had his sidearm in a shoulder holster and tucked under his jacket. He very much wanted to reach for it now but decided against it as Mahaffey’s eyes implored him to stay cool. Shit…son of a bitch!
The driver was, at first glance, an ordinary looking fellow with rugged Eurasian features and clad in a black insulated coverall. He moved with the confident swagger of a well-trained fighter. But these characteristics did not set Jake’s heart to racing. Two other things did. One was the fiendishly complex weapon hanging on a paramilitary sling over the man’s chest. It was a Socon Akinake assault rifle, state-of-the-art Confederation manufacture and exceedingly rare on this side of the border. The other was the vulgarly defaced medal he wore on a gold chain around his neck. Though marred with drilled holes and crudely painted dark red, it was plainly a Congressional Medal of Honor.
The other man was hefty type, like a bodybuilder who had let himself go, still a hint of a former physique under the growing flab and faded hiking clothes. He sidled up to the driver’s side window.
“ Morning, Mister Bob. What are you doing out this way so early?”
Mahaffey managed a grin. “Nothing much, Howard. Doug wounded a stag and then lost it. Me and Jake here were trying to find him before the wolves did.”
Howard chuckled. “Sounds like ol’ Dougie better bone up on his fieldcraft.” He looked curiously at Jake. “Afraid I don’t know your friend there. Jake, you said?”
“Yeah. He’s a friend of Bob Junior’s from college. Dropped in unexpectedly.”
“I see. Howard Carter, nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Jake played along coolly, playing the innocent tourist. “Nice country around here.”
“We like it.” His accompanying grin was a little odd. “Well, go get yourself that stag, Mister Bob. We’ll be movin’ on.”
“Doin’ some huntin’ yourselves?”
“Nah. Couple of the guys swear they saw a UFO yesterday evening. They’re full of shit, of course, but the boss wanted us to check.”
Throughout the conversation, the driver remained silent and still. Jake did his best to ignore him, acting unassuming and neighborly. He noticed there was a mark on the man’s face. A tattoo of some sort? That would fit.
Mahaffey and Carter said their good-byes. Carter gave Jake a friendly wave, which the pilot returned amiably. Then he turned, met the driver’s gaze, and gave him a wave as well. There was no return gesture.
Jake did get one last good look at the mark. It was a tattoo.
As the two vehicles diverged, Mahaffey started breathing again.
“That was Temujin.”
“I figured that,” Jake said in low tone. “Where’d the medal come from?”
Mahaffey’s expression was clouded in disgust. “The bastard likes to brag about that. Says he took it from a dead United States Marine colonel he assassinated. You saw the tattoo?”
Jake nodded. It was the character she jen, from the ancient Chinese alphabet, meaning retainer. It was applied to the faces of the men selected for the Confederation’s elite Crimson Guards of Tashkent, spec-ops troops and intelligence officers fanatically devoted to the Socon nation. What the bloody hell was he doing here? What exactly was going down on this quiet planet?
It took a couple of hours after introductions, breakfast and brief explanations were made back at the house for Mahaffey’s family to finally release Jake from their warm company. Doug and Kyle were the most eager talkers, though the former no longer alluded to the pilot “helping” them. Some code of silence had been imposed.
Bob Junior and Carla finally said their good-byes, scooped up their still wide-eyed daughter and piled into their battered winger. Jake could not help but notice Carla’s fearful eyes, and how tightly she held onto her little girl. And the old but powerful sidearm Bob Junior carried on his belt, a hunting revolver with a reflex scope and a gaping hole of a muzzle.
In Mahaffey’s study, a large bay window looked out over a pasture where the horses grazed. Jake stood before it, drinking in the view, thinking about Temujin and wondering how he could get a message to Fleet Ops.
Despite the early hour, Mahaffey reached for his decanter and filled two glasses with whiskey.
“Pretty place you got,” Jake commented, his mental processes resting a moment. “Nice planet, too. Lot like home.”
“Very much like home, according to the geologists.” The old man handed him a glass. “Composition nearly identical to Earth. Same goes for the star. Very much like Sol.”
Jake did not pass on the liquor. After all that had happened, he could use it. “I like that cannon your son carries.”
“Family heirloom. .454 Casull. You haven’t seen wolves until you seen the ones on this planet. They could eat a grizzly. Good thing bears didn’t evolve much here.” Mahaffey raised his glass. “May the wind be at our backs.”
“Amen to that.” Jake tipped his glass, recognizing the flavor. “Mmmm. Jack Daniels.”
“I used to have it shipped in special, before things went to shit. Costs a fortune this far out. Where you from, Jake?”
“Mississippi, around Brookhaven. You?”
“Hmm. Baltimore, originally, till I was about ten. Then Dad moved us to Mobile. Then Canopus. Then I enlisted.” Mahaffey drained his glass. “How’s the war going these days? Our news here usually pretty outdated by the time we get it.”
“It’s still up in the air.” Jake said carefully, a trace of uncertainty remaining. “The nomads have stopped their ‘resource thrust’ into Deneb but they’re just reallocating assets to met our forces at Antares. And we were…” He hesitated before stumbling over his words. “…on our way there when I sorta got sidetracked.”
Mahaffey smiled. “I know all about ‘need to know”, lieutenant. And I’m sure I’ll read about the big operation that dropped you on my doorstep someday, if I live that long.”
Hopefully, Jake considered, downing his drink, it would be sooner rather than later. The odds of the Allies coming out on top in Scorpios were about even.
“Why’d you go in, Jake?” Mahaffey asked bluntly, his expression somber.
Jake shrugged, the whiskey finally chasing away any hesitation from his reply. Besides, he was already growing comfortable with this old fellow. “Be a hero. Save the universe. Stuff like that. Then came reality.” Only very recently! “And war.”
Mahaffey’s eyes darkened. “War’s nothing, Jake. Neither is Temujin, really, despite what he is. Nothing in this context but a setting. Any war in a region as vast that which our Earth nations and our Socon outcasts are squabbling to control just leaves too much ignored. Men fighting men for control over something they haven’t even fully understood yet.”
Jake’s brow furled. “What are you saying?”
“That man is not the only intelligent predator in this galaxy.” His tone was almost ominous. “But like any predator, he’s only interested in what can fill his belly. He shrugs off the presence of others like him while he bickers over the meat.”
The presence of…others? Jake felt his xenophobia creeping back in again. The existence of non-humanoid aliens has never been confirmed was the official Navy line. But legends and rumors persisted. No one had as yet explained the disappearance of the Australian deep probe ship Abel Tasman, the last such mission beyond known space before the war. And old stories of unidentified space vehicles and strange signals from the early exploration days in the late twenty-first century were still being re-examined. Folklore of bugs and beasts who walked like men colored space exploration to this day.
Mahaffey saw it in his eyes. “It’s true, Jake. There’s nothing mystical about it, despite how I may sound. Let me tell you.”
* * *
It had begun four years ago. Shifting star lines of communication, brought on by the Socon invasion of Deneb, had already doomed Gulkana. With no markets for its products, the planet’s economy began to die. Clark Robinson, an unctuous businessman with commercial interests galore and dreams of empire, clung doggedly to his piece of the pie throughout the slow collapse of the financial system. As people left Lancaster in droves, he bought up discarded property. Then Kenai lost the charter and Governor Atkins had prepared to abandon the capital. Just when Robinson was whining to anyone who would listen about all his petty dreams going up in smoke, “they” had arrived.
They were called the Kolren. As it turned out, they had just been on a commercial scouting mission, a corporate-sponsored prospecting jaunt, and were checking out this curious human world on the fringes. But they had been too long gone from home, their captain a brutal, hard-driving officer who had unwittingly broken his already disgruntled crew’s will to go on. The Kolren’s procedures for crewing their ships, it seemed, was somewhat less than what a human captain would term “professional.” The unruly aliens had killed and eaten their skipper not long after arriving. The mutineers had also taken a liking to this world, lush in comparison with their own, and they had decided to remain here. It was an old story. And humans, it had turned out, were quite tasty.
When they met Clark Robinson, they realized that humans could be easily manipulated as well. Occupied with their war, these Terrans had no idea what lay beyond the borders of their little slice of the galaxy, and the aliens took care to fill Robinson’s head with lurid tales of how other civilizations would drool at the prospect of exploiting humans and their weak, divided culture. They struck a bargain with the nervous, overweight Terran businessman. It was terribly simple, as such things often were. Robinson gave them free run and a house and kept them supplied with all the necessities, including gourmet Homo sapiens meals when their palates desired it. They, in return, did not report in to their command base that there was money to be made in food here, as well as resources. In addition, they had provided enough of their own technical know-how for Robinson to efficiently continue mineral mining operations in the mountains with a greatly depleted work force, enough so that the colony had remained just barely afloat and the governor had not had to relinquish total control to the feds. Thus, Robinson’s narrow little fiefdom remained intact. The aliens had also provided enough of a quiet threat to the population to keep him in control hereabouts.
* * *
Jake struggled to continue listening to this horrific story.
“This is a no-shitter, Jake. Temujin is just the tip of the iceberg. He crashed here, just like you, probably from another raider. But rumor also has it that he’s put the Kolren in contact with Confederation diplomats. They could open up a whole second front, or worse, if they get tired of Robinson or he runs out of meals for them.”
Mahaffey was babbling now. What did he really know about these aliens? Or Temujin? Still, the part about selling humans as food was appalling enough, if true. It certainly would explain a lot. Mahaffey’s behavior, the fear in Carla’s eyes. “So, how does Robinson… obtain his victims?”
“Mostly kidnapping. The freight wingship from Fort Crosby? Her captain’s in on it. He hauls ‘em up here like regular cargo. And then there’s tribute.” Mahaffey could not keep the disgust from his voice. “Every family left in Lancaster has to give someone up when their number is drawn. It’s sort of like… taxation. If anyone tries to go to the feds, Robinson just sends Temujin to set them straight.”
“Why not just leave?”
“We can. If he prevented that, somebody on the outside might get suspicious. But the catch is the ‘departure fee’.”
“A family member?” To be… eaten?! Jake remembered Earth’s history and the gruesome methods of the old dictatorships. But they suddenly paled in comparison.
“Right,” Mahaffey’s voice dropped off as he said it. “Even if anyone does leave, who in the government is gonna take time to listen to them with the war on.” Mahaffey looked into his young guest’s eyes but they were still wide with uncertainty. “You still doubt me, don’t you?”
“Wouldn’t you in my place?” Jake snorted.
“Yes, I would. So, after you get some sleep, I’ll prove it to you.”
* * *
When morning came, Jake did not want to get out of the bed. He found the mattress the softest he had slept in since he used to visit his grandparents in Osyka. And real feather pillows, too.
It was cold in the house and dark outside when Mahaffey came in, entreating him to crawl from beneath the comfort of the blanket.
“So what are we going to do?” Jake asked, pulling on his jeans. Damn, this floor’s like ice! “Put on our camouflage and recon his camp?”
“No, lieutenant.” Mahaffey was still dressed simply, but his inflection was that of a superior officer now. “We’re walking through the front door. Remember, I told you all that’s left of the town is the commercial strip. It’s not a fortress. It’s where we shop. And they’re there. Shopping as well.”
“So, they’ll just let a stranger like me waltz in and see everything?”
“What is there to see?” The old man shrugged. “A dying town? We don’t get many tourists. And the few who go back and say they saw aliens? Who’s going to believe them? They can be written off as genetic mutations or radiation deformities or defective clones.”
“So, they look sorta human?”
“No.”
The blacktop split in two directions opposite the way to the landing strip, three miles from the house. And the further they rode in this direction, the less chaotic the landscape looked. Finally, tree-topping signs appeared, lit by sodium vapor lamps, and the blacktop gave way to newer concrete with freshly painted lines. Obligatory fluorescent green road signs pronounced: Robinson’s – Next two exits.
The contrast with what was behind them was remarkable. Neat parking lots, brightly lit stores, colorful signs, shiny wingers, and well-dressed people.
Mahaffey pulled into the parking lot of a warehouse store called T.C. Brown Mercantile. As they got out and walked in, nothing seemed unusual. Just ordinary looking shoppers you might find anywhere, pushing baskets down rows of goods in bulk. The cashiers and stock boys wore bright red aprons and smiled amiably at everyone.
“So far, I’m not impressed, Bob,” Jake said, addressing Mahaffey by his first name to emphasize it. “By the way, you never did tell me what your rank was.”
“Retired first as O-6.”
Jake groaned inwardly. Captain. That’s nice! “First?”
“Yeah. Seconded to NSIO. My other pension is O-5.”
NSIO. National Security and Intelligence Office. Bob was a spook.
Maybe I should’ve taken my chances in space! That was where pilots were supposed to die, in a blaze of glory and not pounding the ground.
They rounded a corner stocked with tuna fish and Mahaffey halted, looked down the aisle briefly and then pretended to be checking the date on the cans. “There you are, Jake.” His voice was a tight whisper. “Welcome to the rest of this big universe.”
Jake followed his glance. His heart made a sudden mad dash up his throat.
“It” was tall, a little over six feet. And it did not look even vaguely human, save for being bipedal. It’s lower jaw was almost fish-like, the upper portion prominent nearly to the top of the skull on either side. It’s unblinking eyes were set looking forward, surrounded by bony plates and ridges. Its neck was almost nonexistent, one narrow, flabby fold of flesh, and the hairless skin visible just above its low-cut collar glistened as if oily or wet. Its expression was one of malicious amusement as it admired the child of a stone-faced woman standing next to the canned hams. As it moved on, it morbidly patted its bulging abdomen and uttered a low, guttural noise that sounded chillingly like a laugh.
Jake had his sidearm, the Mark Nine Personal Defensive Weapon, in a shoulder holster under his jacket. And from the look of things, it was probably the most advanced weapon on the planet. It was only with great effort that he kept his fingers from it. He had this… thing flatfooted. He could burn it down in a heartbeat.
And bring down who knew how many more of whatever they were, and their human allies, on his unprepared head.
The ride back was a quiet one for a while.
Jake looked over at Mahaffey blankly. “So you’re a spook.”
“Former spook.”
“Whatever. And I’m a mediocre pilot and mediocre soldier who still doesn’t know what the hell is going on.” So what the hell do I do now? “Shit, I know less now than I did an hour ago. The galaxy just shrunk around my head and I’m no Ph.D. What are we supposed to do?”
“What’s the first thing that enters your head?” Mahaffey knew the answer.
“Steal a load of deuterium from your friends back there, refuel my ship and strafe that place until it glows in the dark.” Lash out like a scared animal.
“Probably work, too,” Mahaffey echoed. “Robinson has no dedicated combat aircraft and no heavy artillery. As for the Kolren’s ship, its power is depleted and nothing on this planet can reenergize its storage cells. Different voltage, different cycles. So their weapons are useless. The only catch is the hostages.”
Of course! Now he wants me to be a SEAL, too!
“In addition to the tribute, Robinson keeps several people hostage. And occasionally feeds one to his buddies when we locals get uppity.”
It was suddenly too much. He blew his breath out and started rubbing his right temple anxiously. He had not done that since he had tried to work up the nerve to ask Mary Kate Spencer to the prom. Shades of old fears danced through his mind, things he thought his training had taught him how to handle, and he cursed them. “Well, Bob.” He could only shake his head. “Quite frankly, I don’t see what I can do for you. Except to take some fuel and go for help.”
Mahaffey could see that Jake was scared, despite his even tone of voice. He did not blame him. That was how he himself had reacted the first time he saw the Kolren. He had just wanted to run like hell. The boy, this young officer, needed time to think.
* * *
Jake sat quietly in the comfortable chair in his borrowed bedroom for a couple of hours, listening to the wind rise, berating his continued affliction of cowardice and wondering whether he was really cut out for the responsibility of defending the Home Systems. He felt like a six foot eight year old in a man’s uniform. But that was what the liberal journalists liked to call fighter pilots. Maybe they were right after all. Before dozing off, his thought processes had become chaotic. Dreams came, though, and finally filtered the situation down to something more easily grasped. He was back at the prom and feeling terrific with Mary Kate on his arm. He had even ignored the Kolren who showed up, laughing at his poor attempts at dancing.
Clatter from the kitchen roused him a couple of hours later. He got up refreshed, almost his old self, shaking his head at the dream.
“Good morning, lieutenant,” Mrs. Mahaffey greeted him cordially as she cut round shapes from the rolled-out biscuit dough.
“ ‘Morning.” He fought down a yawn out of politeness and nodded toward the biscuits. “That sure brings back memories.”
“The biscuits?”
“Yes ma’am. My grandma always made ‘em that way. She absolutely refused anything frozen or dehydrated.”
“Good for her.” Flour puffed up as she plopped the ready shapes onto a greased pan. “There are too few of us old homemakers left in this galaxy.” She slipped the pan into the oven and set the timer. “I imagine my husband has riled up your thoughts pretty well. I’m sure you have enough to concern yourself with, what with the war and all.”
“Actually, as things stand, I’m probably out of the war for some time. The fleet was in a pretty big hurry. It’d be months before I could rejoin my unit at any rate.”
She noticed his voice was much more subdued than it had been yesterday. “Well, you’re more than welcome to bunk in with us till then.”
“Thank you.” Jake slid into a chair at the table, spreading his hands on the checkerboard cloth. “You don’t seem to let things here get to you.”
“Someone has to keep anchored to the ordinary aspects of life in a marriage.” She sighed, brushing back an iron-gray strand from her brow. “If it weren’t for… my biscuits and deer roast and hanging the laundry out to dry like nothing was wrong, Robert would have no safe harbor to return to. Despite his age, he would have thrown himself on Robinson like the brash young warrior he was when I married him.” She watched Jake’s expression. “As you would like to do.” Her gaze then traveled outside at the swaying trees and up at the swathes of cloud rolling in. “Looks like snow tonight. I’ll have to remind him to bring the horses in.”
This wise woman in the jeans and oversized shirt had read him well. He did want to throw himself at this new enemy and far more than just his duty under Title 84 was motivating him. How could he not be enraged? Humans selling their own kind to aliens, just to hold onto a meager scrap of supremacy on a forgotten colony world?
Slavery as an institution had vanished from the Earth in 1888, when Brazil became the last nation to outlaw it. With the social reorganization that followed man’s move into space and the rise of the amoral Unified Social Confederation of Rigel as Earth’s sworn enemy, Title 29 of the Allied Nations Code redefined slavery and set a new penalty: death. These people, good, honest folks, just like his kin back home, were plagued by this appalling new incarnation of it now. For them to have to live under this kind of duress was enough to boil the already-hot Southern blood of a country boy turned fighter pilot.
And now, too, of all the matters already on his plate, he had to expunge from his soul forever his brief flirtations with cowardice. It was a pleasing thought that both objectives could be accomplished by venting his own frustration with himself through…
A roar from outside shattered the morning calm, catching him off guard. It was the big off-road winger that belonged to Robinson. After it halted mere inches from the porch, Temujin and Carter stepped out, followed by another man. Obese and overdressed, he waddled toward the porch as if his knees barely worked. Jake wondered if he would be able to climb the steps without help.
“Good morning, Sylvia,” Robinson squeaked upon entering the kitchen. His voice was rather high-pitched for something so large.
Mrs. Mahaffey kept her composure. “Good morning, Clark. Would you like some breakfast?”
I’ll never be as strong as this old woman, Jake realized. God preserve us!
“No, thank you, Sylvia. I’ve eaten. And I’m afraid this is not a social call. It seems that your family’s number… has come up.”
Underneath the table, out of sight, Jake abruptly dug his fingernails into the armrest of his chair. Goddammit, NO! …Control yourself, lieutenant! You’ll do no one any service by dying here today! Temujin was close behind his boss, the Akinake unslung, safety off, its muzzle sweeping the entire room with purpose. He met Jake’s gaze for a second and dismissed him.
Good. Underestimate me, you bastard!
Mahaffey suddenly walked in at that point and froze so suddenly that Jake thought he might be going into cardiac arrest. His demons had come and caught him emotionally unprepared.
“Ah, Robert. I bring bad news. We require… your son Kyle.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus, no!” Mrs. Mahaffey gasped. Temujin had the effrontery at that point to level his weapon in her direction, his face blank. As if she were any threat to him. If hate were a plasma beam, the nomad soldier would have vaporized instantly under Jake’s gaze.
“And this is Jake, your visitor.” Robinson focused his greasy attention on the pilot, his gaze traveling over him. “Glad to meet you, young man. My, but you’re quite fit.” Jake suddenly felt filthy. “Fortunately, our friends would find you… stringy. Kyle, on the other hand, is a prime specimen. Would you fetch him, Robert, or must we?”
“I’m here.” The boy walked out from behind his father, avoiding his gaze, staring defiantly at Robinson. Mrs. Mahaffey made a desperate grab for him but the old man stopped her.
“Kyle… oh, God, no! Please!” she sobbed.
“It’s okay, Mom.” The boy said calmly, his mouth firm and eyes bright. “I’m not afraid.”
Mahaffey’s teeth were clicking as rage at the invasion of his home mingled with his fear for his son’s life. He turned his left side in the direction of his tormentors, lest they see the tendons of his right arm trembling. Temujin might take that as a threat. Better to try to keep him off guard.
A hint of a sneer crossed Temujin’s face as he grabbed Kyle and prodded him out the door. Jake’s fingers tingled with the imagined feel of the nomad soldier’s windpipe breaking beneath them.
Robinson then met Jake’s gaze. “You’d do well, young man, to forget what transpired here today when you return to the outside.”
And they were gone.
After escorting his trembling wife to their bedroom and calling Bob Junior to come get Doug, Mahaffey rejoined Jake, nursing his bruised knuckles. Fixing that portion of the wall later would be something good to occupy his time.
He saw the pilot was trembling too, blood drained from his clenched fists.
Taking a seat, the old man mechanically poured himself some coffee.
“The wingship,” Jake muttered.
Mahaffey looked back at him vaguely. “What about it?”
“Does it deliver fuel?”
“Not here.” Mahaffey answered automatically. “Our reactors are supplied for the next twenty years. Humph. Fat lot of good that does.”
“But will it have deuterium onboard,” Jake persisted, “for delivery elsewhere?”
“Should have. What are you going to do? Hijack it? It’s too well guarded.”
“Give a youngster some credit, skipper,” Jake said with a grim smile, seeing something old and comfortable in Mahaffey’s eyes at being called that. “I need to go back to my ship.”
* * *
Down in the underground hangar, Jake led Mahaffey under the ebony overhang of the wing. There was a flush-fitting weapon module there. Jake popped the access panel off the bottom, revealing his three remaining HV-7E 127 millimeter strafing rockets.
“Now, when I grab it and push up on it, you pop those stowage latches at either end. These little bitches are heavy!”
“Aren’t these unguided? You’ll have a helluva time hitting that wingship in this wind.”
“Stick with me, skipper.” Jake positioned himself. “Okay, pop ‘em!”
The weight of the rocket descended onto his shoulder and he steadied it, moving a few steps clear of the wing before easing the weapon to the floor by nearly laying himself on his side and then straining to gently roll it off.
Mahaffey had not been a pilot. He had been a line officer and a spook. He knew what the dark, pointy-tipped tube before him was for but not what his young friend had in mind. “Tell me what we’re doing, lieutenant.” It was like a briefing before an operation, only this time, the objective was more precious than ever. His training was taking over, keeping him straight.
“Skipper, this little beauty here is the E-model. Just your basic air-to-ground ordnance, dirt simple, with one exception.” Jake pointed out the folded-up fins against the body of the rocket. “Note the control surfaces. These are not just for stabilization.” The pilot got up and went back to the ship. He returned a moment later with four items from another compartment. One was a telescoping green plastic tube, to which Jake added a broomhandle-shaped piece and another device that looked like a soup can. “This, with gripstock and BCU attached, becomes your launcher.” As for the rocket, he replaced the plastic cone at the nose with a subtly different-shaped composite one, tipped with a gleaming clear lens. “And with the seeker, this humble firework becomes an IR-guided surface-to-air missile! All I need now, sir, is a good firing position.”
“Right up that hill.” Mahaffey nodded, anticipation welling up within his old soul. “Captain Kurdin uses this strip as a navigation landmark. He’ll come right over it. If you damage him badly enough, he’ll bring it down right here.”
“What make of ship is it?”
“Aeroprogress T-4214.”
Jake pictured the big, slow ten million pound ground-effect transport, lumbering its way over these mountains on massive amounts of thrust. He knew just where to hit it. And scavenging a standard expansion valve from somewhere in its cooling system should not be difficult, either. “Is her crew armed?”
The old man shook his head. “She’s mostly automated. Three man flight crew. Kurdin’s a feather merchant, doesn’t like guns!”
“Poor attitude for his current line of endeavor!” Jake snorted.
Mahaffey grabbed his arm. “You haven’t told me how we’re going to do this without them killing the hostages.”
“Skipper, terrorists with a cause and bank robbers backed into a corner kill hostages. Otherwise, criminals are usually too worried about saving their own asses when the shit hits the fan. Especially if you don’t give them time to think about anything else.”
Mahaffey chewed that over for moment and finally nodded. “How good a shot are you?”
Jake grinned broadly, the biggest grin the old man had ever seen on his face. “Take a walk forward and tell me what you think.”
Mahaffey did so. Under the cockpit rail were tiny painted silhouettes representing combat victories, fighters, and other craft shot down. Forty-seven of them.
“What do you do? Sleep with this thing?” The old man looked the fighter over again, its predatory shape in no way resembling his childhood impressions of the angels who destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah.
* * *
The wingship was late. Despite his otherwise repulsive business habits, her captain was usually a punctual and efficient officer, loath to be off schedule.
Perhaps the weather was bad down south as well. If the ship did not arrive soon, unloading might be messy, Carter frowned. He hated having to work in a blizzard.
But his waiting was soon rewarded by the sound of engines from
beyond the mountains. Strange, though. They seemed to getting louder awfully
fast. Kurdin must be trying to beat the storm!
“Okay, ground crew up.” Carter pulled up his thick collar. “Here he comes! Let’s get this shit over with before we get snowed under!”
From behind him, men shuffled out onto the tarmac silently, hands pushed down into the pockets of their insulated coveralls.
Carter noted their uninterested gait. “Try to show a little enthusiasm, guys!” He tried to cajole them with a forced grin.
Several muffled obscenities and an unmistakable gesture or two was the reply he got. Try as he might, Howard Carter had just never been able to inspire men with his leadership. He decided to attempt a friendlier approach. “How’s the tractor running, Ed?” he said, turning to the man in front. “I heard you get it cranked up.”
“Purring like a kitten,” Ed replied, talking around his tobacco wad. “Trash in the fuel line again.”
“You’re a good man with a wrench.”
“Yeah, that’s what they told me at Interstellar Harvester. Right before they laid me off.” He spat a brown stream onto the tarmac and gave Carter a grimy grin.
The big man was still frowning at him when the face of a young boy on the crew crinkled in confusion. “That ain’t the wingship, is it?”
“What?” Carter looked puzzled too.
The kid was right. It was way too small. And way too fas…
Plasma entered his brain, absorbing the electrical impulse that was the thought he had just formed, even as it vaporized synapses and cells. The rest of the ground crew vanished at about the same rate.
Temujin was outside before anyone else, practically tearing the door of the lounge off its hinges, the noise stirring his twisted soul, the hot rush of battle fueling him again as he sought out the enemy in the sky. Jake saw this, his smile grim, as the nomad warrior obliged him so well. The man was turning around on the master display, framed neatly by the high-resolution imager. The Raptor’s wing root laser emitters, ball mounts with multiple apertures, swiveled through fine adjustments. They unleashed a designator beam, which the marked target seekers saw. The intricate crosshairs on the tactical overlay went red. The emitters then automatically pulsed at max output for .82 seconds. As they did, the only man in Robinson’s compound who grasped what was happening became molecular residue on the cold ground.
Mahaffey could see the Raptor just over the treetops as Bob
Junior drove like a madman through the strip. People all around were either
running or staring in disbelief. It maddened him not to be closer, to see just
where Jake’s fire was hitting. He prayed he had briefed the young pilot
thoroughly on the layout of Robinson’s compound. Christ, Jake, shoot
straight, boy!
“Take the shortcut, son! Behind the big garage!” He gestured toward Robinson’s winger repair facility.
“I know, Dad! Hang on!”
Finding the hostages was no difficult task for Jake’s instrument package. Robinson’s thugs were rather unimaginative at stashing them, obviously expecting no resistance or rescue attempts. Thermal imaging unmistakably showed several warm human shapes huddled in a room with no heat. The lone man with a metallic signature in the shape of a weapon on his person fleeing from outside the only door just about confirmed it. 3-D rendering of a quick tomographic scan nailed it down. One of the huddling shapes was Kyle, a real live human being and someone he knew amid the chaos. Someone with a terrified mother at home, waiting. A mother who had looked to Jake to save her child. What better way to keep his oath to defend the people of the Terran Allied Nations? God, let my aim be true! Jake shot through the roof, roasting the fleeing guard for good measure and came around for another pass.
Robinson had made no attempt at running. He was physically incapable of such an act. He froze at his desk, waiting for the awful noise to stop, the muscles of his congested heart growing weaker with every passing second.
Jake ran them all down, one by one, in the open or indoors, cursing them for their inhumanity, whether by action or inaction. He even used his last two strafing rockets to lay open a cellar before hosing its cowering occupants with plasma.
The Kolren made it easy for him. Utterly flabbergasted by the fighter’s appearance, they could only gawk as he carved up their hillside quarters a little at a time, leaving them just enough structure to stand on but no way to escape, save for jumping the thousand feet to the riverbed.
Mahaffey and his eldest son stumbled to a halt at the edge of the trees, surveying the destruction with desperate eyes. The old man saw the dormitory building, where the hostages were kept. It was no secret in a community this small. The roof, he saw, was buckled and blackened in one spot. Good God! He ran.
When there was no one left moving in a threatening manner, Jake brought the Raptor to a hover in front of Robinson’s still-intact office, the downblast of the thrust vectors tossing broken plywood and sheetrock around as would some angry giant.
Inside, the fat man was glued to his desk, his face utter terror carved in stone. Starkly unmoving, he watched the implacable young Terran pilot disembark and approach, sidearm drawn.
“Why… why, Jake, isn’t it?” he babbled. “Whatever… d-do you mean by… all this?”
“It’s Lieutenant Jake Morehouse, Mister Robinson, United States Navy,” Jake bit out each word with mounting supremacy. “And de facto federal authority on this world, under Title 84, Allied Nations Code, Section 108. And under Title 29, Section 2, you are under arrest, charged with the high crime of slavery. I don’t have any handcuffs but trust me, if you move from that chair without my okay, you’ll get your sentence right here and now.”
“Y-yes!” Robinson blubbered, licking his lips, “I shall… stay put! Most definitely!”
“Jake.” It was Mahaffey behind him, looking even older, with a grim Bob Junior backing him up, the .454 Casull out of its holster and eager.
“Did you get your people out okay?” Jake asked the old man, not taking his eyes off Robinson, not yet certain the man was defeated. He might have thought differently had he been able to see the stain in the crotch of the fat man’s pants.
“Yes. There were a few less than we had hoped for.” Mahaffey reported. His old eyes almost misted over, his voice cracking. Then his gaze changed to something hideous as it settled on Robinson. “No thanks to you, you sorry sack of shit!!”
Mahaffey started to lunge but Robinson’s terrified scuttle backwards and violent trembling made him stop. The man was defeated. He was little more than a purposeless lump of flesh now.
The old man pushed his enemy’s existence away from his consideration. “Kyle’s okay,” he told Jake. “Caitlin too.”
Jake glanced back at him and could only nod. Thank the Good Lord in Heaven!
“The Kolren, Jake,” Mahaffey went on. “They jumped.”
Oh, shit! Jake whirled to face him. “They got away?”
“No, no.” He licked his lips, lubricating a path for the words. “They killed themselves.”
* * *
An hour later, Jake, Mahaffey and Bob Junior were standing over the wet, broken bodies of the aliens on the rocky riverbank. They varied in appearance. The one from the warehouse store was by far the biggest; his sharp, white teeth gritted tightly in his expression of death and stained now with his own dark blood. The others looked rather ordinary in comparison, even comical. They seemed gruesomely overweight, stomachs round and sated, and wore human clothes, yet another macabre touch.
“Were they that afraid of your fighter?” Bob Junior asked of Jake.
“Damned if I care to guess.” Jake shrugged, still taking in the grisly tableau before him.
Endeavoring to pat them down, Mahaffey found a bulge in the back pants pocket of the smallest one and gingerly removed it. It unfolded and turned out to be a small photo album.
The three humans looked it over tentatively. In it, crisp images showed the particular Kolren, somewhat thinner, with others of his kind, much smaller, who resembled him. And there was another adult Kolren, obviously female, affectionately nuzzling him. And in another picture, he was stooping over the unmoving, flower-draped form of an elderly alien, tears plain on his cheeks, its hand clasped to his chest.
Mahaffey could only shake his head, over and over. True, they were unfamiliar carnivorous aliens and had been a ghastly threat for too long here. But it now appeared that despite all that, they had been people too.
“This galaxy’s gotten too big for me, Jake.” Mahaffey sighed, unable yet to tear his gaze from the dead aliens. “ Way too big. I think I’m losing my objectivity and that’s bad for a spook.”
“Former spook,” Jake reminded him quietly.
“Hmm. Yeah. Guess you’ll be glad to get back to your unit now.”
“Yeah. These occasional little wars are too broad for me.” But very enlightening. It seemed that a large part of him might forever remain behind on Gulkana. But his soul would be lighter without it. “I’ll be happy to focus on one aspect again.”
“I’ll bet.” The old man turned to him, appreciation lightening his expression, and held out his still-trembling hand. “I’m glad to have known you, Jake Morehouse. Thank you.”
Jake shook his hand vigorously. “Aye-aye, sir.” He then snapped out a rigid salute, accented with a last boyish grin.
END
© 2000 Born in 1966 and raised in the coastal town of Buras, Louisiana (population around 3,500), I was a science fiction fan before I could spell. Or maybe space opera fan would be more appropriate, as that is my particular area of interest in the genre. Being from a small Louisiana town is not very conducive to SF writing. In school, my classmates acknowledged my interests by dubbing me "space nut". Disdaining college, I figured I had better learn about the world outside of books before I wrote any and I went to work in the oilfield on a crewboat. Now, fifteen years later, I took a civil service job with better hours and sat down to put word to paper. Or, in this case, web page. Why did I choose SF? Flexibility, I guess. And the just excitement of it as well. What lies beyond the stars lies just beyond the next page.