Legend Beyond The Stars (2 page)

The alien gave an irritated snort. “I do not see why you would question such a matter. Primitive life forms such as you naturally have limited reasoning capacity. It should be enough that you do as you are directed.”

Damn, he is so irritating! And that high prissy voice!
The sound scratched over her taut nerves like cat claws across concrete. About to snap a rejoinder, she directed a suspicious glare at the alien and straightened. Time to get some answers. “The traders have no right to direct us to do anything, unless it’s a matter of security and only while we’re on board this ship.”

Norman folded his arms and frowned with severity looking for all the world like a three-eyed garden gnome. “This is not correct. The Scaleen traders are in charge and must be obeyed.”

Alana remained silent, her gaze holding his.

He slumped his shoulders, raised his hands in supplication. “We also are imprisoned on this ship.”

Her throat tightened as her mind repeated his words, ‘
imprisoned ….we also’
. Her gasp was snapped off before it formed.
Aw, damnit!

She swallowed. Voice hoarse, she prodded, “We’d appreciate any information you can give us, Norman. We’re travelling blind here and we’ve got an awful lot of questions needing answers.”

The glow of his eyes dimmed. She read a pitiful entreaty in his glum expression.

“My race, the Jurians are scholars of the science of species. We are not warriors, nor are we explorers. Our numbers are few but our knowledge is valued. The traders are a different breed.” He sighed mournfully. “They know only of the lust for credit and the ease of prosperity. They trade with lives.”

Jessamine whimpered, “Holy moma.”

Alana sucked in air, waiting a beat until she had control over her voice to say, “We’re not heading towards a new colony are we, Norman ?”

“Alas, Alana, you are correct. They have deceived your rulers.”

“What about the women missing from my list?”

Norman shrugged. “They were not considered suitable and were returned to your planet unharmed.”

“Thank goodness they’re okay but what do you mean about being suitable? If we’re not being transported to a new colony then what do they intend to do with us?”

“We have made a successful passage through the Azzirt Vortex. As we speak the ship approaches the Mirva System.”

At his evasive answer, she glared at the hapless messenger. Names of places she had never heard of told her nothing. Beside her, Jessamine stood silent, her mouth sagging open, her eyes wide.

The alien plucked at the skin on the back of his hand with thin fingers. His actions did not bode well for what he intended to impart next. Clearly troubled, he maintained an uneasy silence.

“In this Mirva System, will we land on a habitable planet? What then?” asked Alana.

“The voyager is too large to land on any planet. It docks at orbiting space stations and personnel use transport shuttles to travel to terra firma.” His gaze flittered about the room.

“Please, Norman.”

The alien’s pale olive-tinged skin blanched. “The Mirva System …” He hesitated and stared at her intently. “The Mirva System is an elliptical galaxy on the outer fringe of the local galaxy from which we hail.” He pointed a finger in the air. “Travel beyond the outer fringe is forbidden. But the Scaleen traders obey only those laws they will benefit from and chose to risk intergalactic imprisonment. You realise, of course, far, far beyond the outer fringe lays the vortex through which we need to traverse to reach your galaxy.” He waved a hand vaguely skyward.

Behind her back, she clenched her hands into fists. “Then why do they take the risk?”

He windmilled his hands with agitation. “The payload. For the promise of three energy spheres the size of my fist, many would risk all they possess to gain such wealth. Even their very lives!” he hissed, his face inches from hers.

Alana stepped back a pace. “Energy spheres, huh? That sounds important. What are they?”

“Energy spheres are a renewable energy source mined in the Darkos system. They are the source of all wealth in our worlds. The desire for this power has lead to a battle that has raged for many cycles.”

“So there’s a bunch of aliens kicking shit out of each other?”

“Errrrr ….?”

“I mean, these people are at war?” snapped Alana.

Norman nodded his head. His voice sank to little more than a murmur. “In two rones, that is approximately two and a half of your earth hours, the voyager will reach the rendezvous point with the Darkons.”

“And, then what?” She compressed her shaking lips into a tight line.

“I am, indeed sorry to tell you that you will be sold. Carbon based females are what the Darkons hunt. You and the others are the payload.”

She just hated it when she was proved right.

Commander Tarak el Rajan strode along the corridor towards the Command Bridge, his brow furrowed in deep concentration.

A Darkon warrior dressed in battle armour uniform, the deep blue colour on his epaulettes signifying his allegiance to Tarak’s royal house, stood at the ready beside the entrance.

Tarak punched his personal code into the small panel on the wall. He inclined his head in acknowledgement of the soldier’s salute. A bright green light shot towards him and, authenticity verified, the door slid upwards. Pausing inside the entrance, he surveyed the busy scene with grim satisfaction. Behind him the door slid shut, sealing him into the secure room.

One of his captains seated before his consol, glanced up from his task and attracted his attention. “Sir, it appears we have company.” With long blunt edged fingers, he clicked a series of commands onto the array of glowing markings indented on the bench.

A stream of light flowed from the ceiling. A holo display appeared in the air in front of them.

Tarak leaned over his subordinate’s shoulder to study the data. A low grunt of irritation emerged from his throat. He straightened. “How long until contact?” He kept his voice measured and cool.

“ETA three rones until the Elite Battle Cruiser is within range, sir.”

“The traders’ ship is dead ahead, Commander,” announced Magar, his second-in-command.

With a few long strides, Tarak reached Magar’s side. Together they stared in silence at another viewing display where the traders’ ship appeared to hang suspended, motionless, in the black void of space. In reality the ship cruised with steady speed towards the rendezvous
point. The other men ceased work to also examine the intel, tension etched grim lines into their dark visages.

Tarak flexed his fingers encased in protective gloves. Then allowed them to rest loosely at his sides. With his elbows bent, head lowered a fraction, he stood unmoving in a casual stance.

He was poised for battle.

“The Scaleen traders are devious. They are rarely truthful. This could be a trap given an Elite battle cruiser has also emerged into the same sector. Do we continue, sir?” First Officer Magar asked.

“We have little choice, Magar. All of us here know the ramifications should we fail in our mission. No, we must proceed, but we need to move fast,” Tarak growled. His voice though quiet exuded his indomitable will. He kept his face an implacable mask.

He turned to address a younger man, operating a vast complex array of intricate panels, schematic displays and holograms.

“Wyomeh, locate the quickest exit from this sector and ready the ship for the jump. Casis, declare battlestations and prime the auxiliary weapons. Magar, I assume we have two divisions ready for boarding?”

Receiving an affirmative nod in response, Tarak turned and strode towards the door.

Magar followed and motioned for Pilot Officer Wray to fall in beside him.

“Do you believe we can overthrow our enemies, Tarak? So many cycles have passed and yet the war rages on. I admit there are times when I wonder whether it would be better for us
to depart the Darkos System. Seek a new world to live what time we have left in peace,” asked Magar of his friend.

“Do not let the other men hear you speak so!” Irritated, Tarak shot his second-in-command a cold look. “There is no peace to be had for us, Magar. How can there be with our race facing extinction?”

The warriors turned and entered a small apartment. Tarak punched in his code and several panels slid open with quiet smoothness. He perused the collection of weapons presented, then methodically attached his selection to various clips and compartments concealed in his armour.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed his friend’s glum expression. “We must fight to the end. Of more importance, we must continue our search. We must have hope.”

Magar remained silent and Tarak realised his friend did not need to ask the obvious question.

“Do you have hope, Tarak?” Wray insisted.

Tarak clamped down on the bitter resignation gnawing constantly at his very spirit. For over ten cycles their greatest minds had laboured seeking a solution whilst their warriors had waged war in a never-ending battle, and still no solution had been found.

Why should now be any different?

In reality he held very little faith they would attain their goal with whatever the traders hawked. The long reign of the mighty Warlord Guardians of the Seven Galaxies was at an end. His people, now little more than rebels fighting a desperate rear guard action.

Renegades who continued to wage war in an attempt to buy time—this was all that was left of a warrior’s duty. As one who had imbibed with his first breath the age old traditions of the Darkon code of honour and valour, he believed the only thing left for him and those who chose to follow, was to die in battle.

His gut clenched as if an Elite sabre prong squeezed it dry of all its juices.

By the stars of Darkos, his race would be remembered as proud and glorious warriors long after they were reduced to dust
—
his duty as the eldest son of their leader demanded it
.

Hence, this journey so far from their home system to investigate the rumours of a mysterious payload. If the traders proved to be untrustworthy, he would deal with them then turn his attention to the next battle.

“I have no hope, Wray.” He faced his officers. “But at all costs we must continue to fight for our freedom. Should the goddess decree, we will die with weapons in our hands and honour in our hearts. No one will smear the name of the Darkons while I live.”

He clapped a heavy hand to the back of Magar, a blow which would have felled a lesser warrior. “Are we not the best fighters in the Seven Galaxies?”

The older warrior snorted. “Affirmative. No one can beat us in a fair fight. That is why after twelve cycles of war, they still have not conquered us.”

“Nor will they, my friend. Now we will stand, as always, united. I know of what you all will lose by following my lead on this voyage. I can think of no better companions to fight at my side. Come. Let us see how deceptive these traders are.”

Tarak secured the panel and the warriors stepped into narrow tubes which lined the opposite wall. In an instant they were whisked to a lower level. Here, there was a hub of activity. Maintenance crew on hover boards performed final checks of the crafts. Four lines of warriors marched towards the shuttles which were fired up, the blinking lights on their undercarriage signalling their readiness for flight. High above the runways, behind blast-proof flexiglass, technicians worked at their respective stations relaying instructions into their comms.

Tarak and his men split up, each heading to man separate transport shuttles.

He stalked towards the lead shuttle. The men pounded their chest with their right hand once in salute. Tarak acknowledged their sign of reverence. As he entered the craft heading towards the flight deck, he keyed in his protective armour code. From the confines of the armour encasing his shoulders and neck, a helmet emerged to mould against his head. The advanced nano technology immediately connected to his brain.

The barrage of information always came with a slight electric charge which never failed to cause his muscles to spasm in protest. He rolled his shoulders to shrug off the discomfort, settled into the pilot’s seat, his concentration already centred on the task ahead.

He would need to ensure they had more than one exit plan.

Neither he nor his second-in-command trusted the Scaleen traders. His lips curled in a forbidding grimace at the forthcoming confrontation. The transport shuttle left the relative safety of the Darkon battle cruiser, the angular shape of the traders’ ship in his sights.

A small contingent of twittering Scaleen traders glided along the curved corridors on their hover boards.

In their wake, Tarak and his men marched with military cadence, weapons primed and ready. All sensors tuned into the smallest hint of trouble.

Beside him, he observed Magar utilise his compu unit to sweep the chambers hidden behind heavy metal doors which lined the long corridor for signs of concealed militia.

So far, nothing.

And that by itself bothered Tarak. The hairs on his nape prickled.

Tension radiated off his men. His body tightened with the effort of maintaining control as adrenaline surged through his blood stream. Too much depended on him and his warriors. If the Scaleen traders deceived him, he would have difficulty in reining in his vengeance.

They stopped outside a well secured door and one of the traders performed a complicated series of codes on the control panel. The door slid open.

“Come. Come. You shall see. Here is what you have been seeking,” hissed the Scaleen leader. His one bright red eye glowed, an unholy beacon in the darkness of the grey hood which covered his pointy head. “Three energy chips is the price. You must pay now.”

In his excitement, his hover board wobbled. He pitched sideways with an agitated squawk.

Tarak brushed past. Behind him, the trader grumbled in his wake as he entered the chamber. His men followed, fanning out on either side of the entrance. By force of habit, five
remained outside, their weapons pointing down the corridor which stretched in both directions.