Death Drop (44 page)

“Right, luv,” Simon said sadly, “me…me too.”

Dezmara was a great pilot because she was good at anticipating an adversary’s next move, and the wheels of her mind started turning the moment the gate began to crawl upward. There were only so many scenarios, she figured, that could play out. In her best estimate, the portmaster was going to lure them into the tunnel by raising the tube and then commence with something cruel like opening the gate wide enough so they can catch a glimpse of space and then order the onslaught. Dezmara was genuinely cheered by this thought and liked their odds of survival much better in the bore than down in the dockyard. The tunnel concentrated the large number of fighters into one area and reduced their agility advantage to almost nothing. The portmaster would make it easy to strategize a defense by eliminating all attacks other than a frontal assault and somehow, they would get the gate open. Suddenly, an idea struck her in the darkness of the cockpit.

“Sy?”

“Yeah, luv.”

“He’s opening the gate, right?”

“Well, he’s not
openin’
the gate, but he’s started the sequence, yeah.”

“So, the passcode for the encryption”

“Is already bloody entered!” Simon shouted excitedly. “Luv, you’re a genius! If I can shut him out and keep him from stoppin’ the sequence, the bloody thing’ll just keep on goin’ an’ open—bloody brilliant! Uh, wait a sec, luv. Can you handle the cannons while I do this?”

“Don’t worry, our friend the portmaster is going to make that part easy.”

“All right, luv, but you won’t get out of here if I bloody get my arse shot off, so you’d better be more dashin’ than ever with that luv’ly trigger finger of yours.”

“You got it!” Dezmara said with a confident laugh. Hope was alive on the
Ghost
again, and Dezmara was certain she had uncovered another hole in the portmaster’s game. And this time she intended to slip through.

Unfortunately, the portmaster had planned for this scenario, and he was going to use Luxon’s formidable firepower to his advantage. It was so simple and so far away—hidden in the cold, suffocating blackness on the inside of the tube’s enormous circular top—that even the most veteran, battle-tested warriors would have missed it. Ships entered through the circular port on the side of the gate and they flew
downward
to Luxon—to food and drink, fuel and repairs, to civilization. There was no reason to fly in any other direction; and even if a ship became curious, it would take nav lights with the power of a sun to fight through the darkness stretching from the entrance to the top of the cylinder and touch the row after row of Rolfing 88 machine guns lining the enormous round top of the tube. Tens of thousands of revolving barrels, designed to destroy entire fleets of Durax ships if they ever breached the gate, pointed at the
Ghost,
and the portmaster had his portly finger, quivering with hateful vengeance, on the trigger.

The
Ghost
reached the door and Dezmara held the ship in a steady hover as she brought the cameras for the belly turret up on the display closest to her. The screen was completely black but Dezmara was certain the portmaster wouldn’t begin the attack until he tortured them by opening the portal a fraction. Then, as if she was controlling the door with her thoughts, it cracked open. Dezmara could see the slightest glow of a distant star through the crevice followed by another and another as the gap grew larger with each passing second. She focused on the screen in front of her, prepared to see the fighters stream into view as she readied her hands on the gun controls. But nothing happened. And as each second dragged by, the vertical slit in the gate inched apart. The opening became so substantial, and the lack of action from the dockyard so pronounced, that Dezmara took her hands off the triggers and programmed the mainframe to track the width of the breach and compare it with the dimensions of the
Ghost
. Dezmara calculated minimum safe clearance—with the ship sideways, of course—as twelve meters. She looked up at the belly turret cameras as she engaged the new program; there was still no sign of enemy vessels, and she got the feeling that something wasn’t right.

“What in the hell is that bastard waiting for? If Simon had him locked out, we’d be under full attack. What in the hell is going on?”

What Dezmara didn’t know was that she and the portmaster were waiting for the exact same moment—almost. The portmaster had calculated the dimensions of the
Ghost
as well, and he was tracking the portal opening too, while easily keeping Simon out of his system. He was going to stop the doors at eleven meters, just shy of minimum safe clearance, and then unleash hell. What she had failed to realize was that the final attack wouldn’t come from the fighters still buzzing around the dockyard below, but from the secret cache of deadly guns at the top of the cylinder.

Dezmara turned on the audible warning to track the door as she trained her eyes on the gun cameras and prepared to blast away.

“Sy, how’re we doin’?”

“We’re battlin’ it out, luv! Tit for tat, back an’ forth, an’ all that!”

“Seven meters.”
Hopefully, the soft voice of the holodex would count up to twelve meters, the point when Dezmara would punch the throttles, whip the
Ghost
onto its side, and squeeze out of the gate—safe and free to search once again.

“Keep at it, Simon. As long as those doors are still moving and those fighters aren’t pickin’ us apart, we’ve got a chance!”

“Eight meters.”

Dezmara took a deep breath and readied her nerves for battle, when a very unwelcome and familiar voice broke the silence.

“Are you ready to die, Ghost?!” The portmaster sounded like he had lost his mind as he giggled like a demented, murdering school girl.

“Nine meters.”

“I’ve a feeling you should rethink your plan, chief. You keep underestimating me and my crew.”

“Ten meters.”

“Not this time!” he snapped. “This time, you have miscalculated, and now I’ve won. Enjoy your last look at the heavens,
mighty
Ghost—AHHAHAHAHAHA!” The portmaster’s insane laughter distorted the com as his chubby finger tightened around the trigger, preparing to stir the sea of barrels above the
Ghost
and send a monstrous wave of metal slugs crashing down on them. He could smell victory. The portmaster guessed—rather accurately—that Dezmara and Simon had exhausted every ounce of warrior’s skill, technical ingenuity, hacker savvy, and flying prowess they possessed between them. But their talents weren’t enough to escape the great gate of Luxon. There was a reason the port city had stood for so many years. It was supposed to be a safe haven for the free people of the universe, but now Dezmara Strykar, Simon Latranis, and Diodojo would die as its captives, entombed in its myriad secret passages and forgotten in its darkest depths.

“Eleven meters.”

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Dezmara heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire as the display screen flashed a frantic warning.

Chapter 31:
Shattered Stone

A
balias’ head whipped back as he stumbled forward into his cell. The Berzerker that had half-kicked, half-pushed him into the room cackled loudly as the door was bolted shut.

“Dirty sonofabitch!” he hollered back to the portal as he got to his feet and hopelessly brushed at the dirt on the tattered knees of his uniform and hands. He looked across the room, expecting to see the wide smile that looked so out of place on Graale’s craggy face, but it wasn’t there. Graale was sitting at the back of the cell in exactly the same place he had been when Abalias was forced out by whip and sword. He was staring into nothing.

“Sarge?” Abalias said with hesitation. Graale’s rocky lids slid over his eyes, and he raised his head to look at the colonel.

“Knew you’d kill that ugly bastard.” Graale tried to convey his happiness that Abalias was alive, but his words were heavy with sadness. “I’m glad. It’s the only chance I have…”

“Graale, what the hell are you on about?”

“Can you imagine,” Graale said in a gloomy daze, “how many lives will be lost in the battle? Helekoth and Killikbar—the most cruel beings ever born in any galaxy—pitted against each other for control of the universe. I forbade any of my people from coming forward until it was safe, and I gave my word my powers wouldn’t be used in service of the Durax if I had
even the smallest chance
to stop it. I need you to do something, Colonel,” he whispered. “I need your help.”

“Wait just a damn minute,” said Abalias, “you can
beat
him—I beat that giant monster and you can beat Killikbar!” His words were shaking along with the rest of his body. “You will stand and fight, soldier—you got that?!” Abalias shouted. “You’re a Dissension sergeant, and if there’s even the slightest snowball’s chance in hell we can win, we go in with everything we’ve got and fight to the death! There’s no giving up under my command, Sergeant, is that clear?!” Abalias had a cold, scolding finger pointed at Graale, and he was now standing over him.

Graale smiled up at him patiently like a parent tolerating a tantrum from a small child. He raised his brow and waited for Abalias to understand. The colonel drew in a breath and shook his finger down at Graale, but the sound of his fiery reprimand was snatched away and replaced by clattering teeth as he clamped his mouth shut. His eyes were almost as big and wide as the giant he defeated in the arena less than an hour ago.

“
You
forbade them?”

“I am eldest and most powerful of my people,” Graale said after a long pause. “I am king of the Guardians…”

Abalias’ head was still hanging off of his shoulders and pointed down, but he wasn’t staring at Graale anymore. His eyes had glazed over and the carnival was spinning in his head again. He sidestepped Graale’s outstretched legs, spun to face the cell door, and slid down the wall next to the king of the Guardian’s with a dejected plop. He felt two feet tall. Abalias didn’t run the entire Dissension Army, and even if he did, it wasn’t exactly huge. All this time, he had been barking orders at Graale—trying to lead him, inspire him—and he had been a ruler of an entire race of people for god knows how long.

“So I take it all that stuff you described earlier—crumbling planets, earthquakes, volcanoes—you can do all that?”

“Yes,” Graale said without the smallest hint of pride or ego.

“Shit!” Abalias exhaled as he rolled the back of his head along the wall to face Graale.

“I know you understand—Killikbar can’t have this power—and I know you’ll do the right thing. You’re a good leader, Colonel—a good man.”

“But I can’t kill you, Graale!” Abalias said frantically as the grim reality set in. “Killing one of my men doesn’t make me a good man—I just can’t
kill
you!”

“My death will save countless lives. Even if Killikbar is defeated, Helekoth might have the power to search the minds of his phantoms and find the Guardians through me...through my spirit. There’s too much risk.
I must
fall by your hand; not his!”

Abalias was on his feet now, pacing the cell, shaking his head vigorously, and repeating the same thing over and over. “I can’t kill you—I can’t kill you—I can’t kill you…”

“YOU HAVE TO!” Graale said as he rose to his feet and gripped Abalias firmly on the shoulders. “You have to, Colonel. The power of the Guardians could sweep aside the Dissension, the Serum, planets and galaxies in the blink of an eye. There will be no one left to fight this war, and evil will reign forever. You have to do it…
for hope
.

We don’t have much time. I’m sure Killikbar isn’t happy about you disposing of his monster and you have to do this before it’s too late.”

“You mean, before they kill me?” Abalias said.

Graale got down on one knee in front of the colonel and looked up at him. “Remember the dagger that was on my belt?”

Abalias nodded his head in a stupor as rage and sadness flushed to his eyes and his vision blurred.

“Make it as sharp as you can,” Graale said.

Abalias’ blood was on fire—something he’d never experienced until now—and the muscles on the side of his jaw were flexing as he ground his teeth in torment. Tears slowly crested his cheekbones and rolled to the middle of his stark face before freezing. He chiseled the hard trails of sorrow from his skin with his left hand and the little chunks of ice fell to the floor and scattered around them. “Goddamit, Graale, I CAN’T do this!”

Graale reached up and gripped the colonel’s trembling arm behind his elbow and around the wrist. “Then we’ll do it together.

“Hurry, there isn’t much time.”

A translucent sheen encased Abalias’ right hand and an icy spike steadily grew from his forefinger. The colonel was shaking uncontrollably—even in Graale’s rock solid grip—and the blade waggled back and forth like the unsteady quill of a schoolboy just learning to write. But this was no child’s assignment. Abalias was going to kill one of his own; he was going to kill a friend.

Menacing howls echoed through the cutouts in the cell door and steadily grew louder. Graale looked up at Colonel Abalias one last time and nodded his readiness as the heavy bolt was heaved aside and the door began to grind open.

“Goodbye, my friend,” Abalias choked and he closed his eyes. He felt a quick jerk on his arm and a miserable cry escaped his lips. The spike was as sharp as Abalias could make it, but that didn’t matter. Graale’s incredible strength would have driven Malo’s battle hammer through his eye sideways, and Abalias felt the tip of the extension slam into the back of the Guardian’s skull. He had seen death countless times and it was always the same: whether by blade, bullet or beating, the fatal blow was always followed by the slackening of muscles and the dimming of life’s spark from the eyes. For the first time ever, Abalias was ashamed of the life he had helped take. He wanted nothing more than to slip under the thick ooze of guilt that was slowly swallowing him whole, but death wasn’t following protocol this time. Confusion pried his eyes open and forced him to watch the strange ritual.