Star Watch (11 page)

Ensign McNeil turned in his seat and looked toward Jason.

“Go ahead … take us in, Helm.”

Chapter 14

Alchieves System

Planet Trom, Cloud-Port E5926

_________________

“And what are you, the welcoming committee?” Leon asked.

Larkbadder continued attending to a scrape on Hanna’s elbow. He’d cleaned it with water and wrapped it with a clean strip of cloth. “Infections need to be avoided here. As you can imagine, conditions are unsanitary. There are no medications … no treatments, other than the most basic ones,” Larkbadder said, directly to Hanna.

“Thank you,” she replied, touching the makeshift bandage on her arm.

Larkbadder had brought them to his own barracks tent, which seemed no different from the many others scattered around the encampment. “There are no more available cots, so you’ll need to share these with others.” He gestured to two nearby cots, placed adjacent to each other. “These two are available during the day … the prisoners are out working while the sun is up.”

“Work? What do the Pharloms have everybody doing?” Leon asked, taking a seat on one of the cots—then bouncing on it—as if testing for its level of comfort.

“There’s no shortage of work … shoveling latrine trenches, filling food bowls; those are among the preferred duties.”

“And the not-so-preferred?” Hanna asked.

“Dealing with the dead. There are still thousands of bodies needing to be stripped of jewelry, then carted off to the bio furnaces,” Larkbadder told her.

Leon knew what a bio furnace was. They were a common component of war. He pictured the quasi-portable structure he’d seen on a distant, alien battlefield—basically consisting of a wide chain-mesh conveyor belt, leading into an enclosed, ten-by-ten-foot compartment. The ceiling, also ten feet high, contained a solid bank of high-powered plasma generators. Once a body … or bodies … was fed into the compartment, it took less than three seconds to become atomized. No muss, no mess.

“Who decides who does what around here?” Leon asked.

“Each barrack has its own prisoner representative.”

“And that is you, I’m guessing?”

“Yes. For this barrack, as well as for the camp as a whole.”

“How do we get out of here? You have to have thought about it … perhaps put a plan together?” Leon asked.

Larkbadder didn’t answer right away, cautiously looking both left and right. He sat down next to Hanna on the cot and leaned forward. “At the beginning of the attack, when the Pharloms were first detected in Trom space, pleas for help were sent … to our neighboring systems … as far as central Allied command. They assured us help would come. But that was some time ago. Apparently our inclusion within the Alliance has less importance than we thought. So … we’re on our own.” Larkbadder looked dejected. “Anyway, almost immediately after being imprisoned here attempts were made to escape. I’m sure you’ve noticed we’re situated atop a cloud-port thousands of feet above the surface of the planet of Trom. So the only viable means of escape is to steal, or hijack, a ship.”

Leon shrugged. “So steal a
flippin’
ship.”

“It’s been tried … more than once. Such attempts were monumental failures. The prisoners were apprehended and …” his voice trailed off.

“What?” Hanna coaxed.

“The apprehended prisoners were assembled in front of the others and made an example of.”

Both Leon and Hanna continued to stare at Larkbadder.

“Use your imagination … leave it to say the Pharloms entertained themselves throughout the night … until they were satisfied. I just happened to be one of the prisoners selected to cart off what was left of their remains to the bio furnace. Those mental images will stick with me till the day I die.”

“So you’ve given up?” Hanna asked.

Leon was surprised—she had asked the same question he’d been ready to ask himself; his appreciation for her ballsy attitude just kept on growing.

For the first time, Larkbadder let a smile cross his lips. “I’m not sitting here talking to you, Pike, because I like your company. I don’t. You’re a miscreant … there’s a bounty on your head in this system, and I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that you were wanted in other systems as well.”

Hanna looked straight at Leon now. Her expression was hard to read.

Larkbadder continued, “With that said, if there’s anyone who can get off this rock, it’s you. And just maybe, you can bring back help.”

“That, or he’ll leave this system and never look back,” Hanna said.

Leon placed a hand on his chest. “Your lack of trust in me cuts right to the heart, Hanna.” Though he made light of her comment, it actually stung. He may very well be a miscreant, as Larkbadder put it, but he was loyal to those he cared about—sometimes. He turned back to Larkbadder. “Other than the Marauder, I didn’t notice any other vessel.”

Larkbadder’s smile returned. “And there you have the crux of the problem. The Pharloms may be thick … dull-witted, but they’re smart enough to ensure no other escape attempts are even remotely possible.”

“Shit.”

“Exactly.”

“So why did you think he could be of any help?” Hanna asked.

“Your friend has a unique ability … like how he was able to divert a freighter, filled to the brim with Dramgolian Ail … metric tons of the stuff … a six-month supply, to this planet. Let me tell you both, the one thing you don’t mess with is a Tromian’s Dramgolian Ail. You’re actually quite famous here, Pike. I’d suggest a disguise, but …” Larkbadder looked around the barracks and shrugged, “not much chance of that.”

Hanna’s expression now was much easier to read: a cross between disgust and disbelief. “Let’s get back to escaping,” Leon said.

“As the Security Commander heading up that case, your unique communications abilities became apparent. Not only can you speak in any alien language, you take on its dialect, too … you sound like a native.”

What Larkbadder was referring to was Leon’s use of his internal nano-devices and his NanoCom’s translating capability. He had to admit, they’d provided him with more opportunities than he ever could have imagined.

Larkbadder stood and hurried over to the tent’s outer fabric—he peered through a small gap in the material.

Leon had been hearing noises coming from outside. Obviously, Larkbadder heard them as well.

“What is it?” Hanna asked.

Larkbadder continued to watch whatever was happening outside. “Pharloms preparing a campfire.” He turned toward Leon. “Just like last time. My guess … some have attempted another escape. There are six men and one woman; all have their hands bound behind their backs. From the looks of the collected Pharloms, they’re feeling uncharacteristically jovial.”

Hanna looked like she was going to be sick. She pointed a finger at Leon, as if she were holding a pistol. “I don’t really know who you are and, to be honest, I don’t really like you very much, but if you can help get us out of here, I’ll do anything for you … Hell, I’ll have your baby.”

“Slow down, cupcake … we just met.” He stood and joined Larkbadder at the small open gap and peered out. “How much time?”

Larkbadder said, “Last time they waited until dark. But the natives are looking restless. My guess? An hour … maybe less.”

“Can you stall them? You have access to the dude with the red sash … the warden?”

“I intervene, even in the slightest, I’ll be bound up and thrown in with the others. We’ve learned to keep our mouths shut, or pay the consequences.”

“Can you think of any other reason you’d need to speak with him … perhaps some camp liaison issues?”

“Overcrowding. I could ask for a meeting to discuss more barracks.”

“If I’m going to be slinking around in the dark, I’d feel a lot better knowing he, and some of the others, were distracted. Maybe you can start a small commotion?”

Larkbadder scowled at that, then nodded. “Look, the communications depot is located on the far side of the big tent you were first brought into for processing.” He crouched down next to his cot, pulled back the blanket, and came up with a metal pipe, about a foot long. “If you’re going to do this, you’ll need a weapon. Take this.”

Hanna stood up, grabbing it from Larkbadder’s hand before Leon could. “I’ll take that.”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m coming with you,” she said.

“Like hell you are. If I get caught, that’s one thing. There’s no point in both of us risking our lives. Sit tight and let me handle this,” Leon said, reaching for the pipe.

“I don’t trust you … certainly not with my life. No, I’m going with you and there’s nothing you can do or say to change my mind.”

Chapter 15

Sol System

The
Assailant
, Open Space – Near Jefferson Station

_________________

Admiral Perry Reynolds was awakened twenty-five minutes after finally falling asleep. He’d returned to the
Assailant
totally exhausted. Too many pressing matters … post-war grievances, tensions regarding how to redistribute military assets among Alliance members, the need to continue to protect Earth, and the near-extinction of humanity there.

He continued lying in bed, listening to the gentle, repetitive tone. The AI’s voice came alive. “Admiral Reynolds, you have an emergency situation that requires your attention. Captain Underwood awaits your response.”

I’m too fucking old for this shit!
He let his mind drift back to the nearly refurbished F1, sitting back at the scrapyard.
Why couldn’t I have just left it alone … stayed retired?

The admiral rubbed his tired eyes and, pulling aside the bedcovers, swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He found his robe, lying at the end of the bed, and stood. “Let him in.”

Captain Underwood hurried into the admiral’s cabin looking desperate. He, too, looked as if he’d been rousted early from sleep. One of the older officers in the fleet, Underwood was almost completely gray on top, tall, and in relatively good shape. “Admiral, we have a situation.”

“I gathered as much, Carl. Tell me what couldn’t wait—”

The captain cut him off: “I’m sorry, Admiral, but the shit’s hit the fan in quadrant 5626.”

The admiral shook his head. “I don’t have any idea what that means.”

“It’s the Sahhrain, Admiral … they entered the Dacci Commonwealth system three hours ago … casualties are already in the hundreds of thousands.” The admiral was well aware the Sahhrain were like no other adversary. Driven by ancient rituals, superstitions, myths, and folklore, the Sahhrain were consumed with a dark, evil belief system that crossed into the afterlife.

He had already determined the Sahhrain needed to be dealt with. They were the next mission, after Trom, for Jason and his Star Watch armada.

“How many Allied warships are battle-ready at this moment?”

“Here at Jefferson Station?”

“Yes.”

“Close to one hundred, Admiral.”

He contemplated on that figure for a moment. The
Assailant
had recently undergone retrofitting, allowing for interchange wormhole travel. If they wanted to get to the Dacci Commonwealth system ASAP, his ship would be needed to open up an interchange wormhole. She was also, next to the
Minian
, the most powerful warship in the fleet. With the ship’s cloaking capability, she was nearly impossible to defeat.

Underwood said, “In anticipation of your command, I’ve taken the liberty to ready the fleet, sir.”

“I’ll be commanding the operation from the
Assailant
, Captain. Have the fleet ready to move within the hour.”

“Very good, sir.” Underwood quickly left his quarters.

The admiral walked to the observation window. In the distance, blue and captivating—Earth shone bright amid the contrasting blackness of space. He pushed away the growing feeling of dread that recently had begun burrowing, like slithering dark snakes, into his consciousness. He wondered, as he gazed at his home planet, if this might be the last time he’d ever see Earth.

* * *

Similar to what the admiral was doing, thirty-eight light-years away, Lord Vikor Shakrim
was
gazing out through a large, elongated, observation aperture toward another distant planet—a planet devoid of any coloration with the exception, perhaps, of pale gray. One of the least populated of the Dacci Commonwealth system of planets, it was the most similar to his
own
home world, Sahhrain. Wind, perpetual sandstorms, and other harsh conditions had fashioned his people into what they’d become … certainly resilient … but also patient. Feeling his excitement elevating, Shakrim
checked himself. Neutral ambivalence toward others, those not of Sahhrain lineage, was the sacred state of mind to hold, as prescribed by his early forefathers, and set down in their holy primogenitor writings. But over the years, the millennia, most Sahhrain had transposed all vestiges of such ambivalence toward other races into unadulterated hatred, smacking of evilness.

His muted reflection, staring back at him on the glassy surface of the observation window, told of his lack of sleep. Deep creases around his mouth, a sunken hollowness to his cheeks, were noticeable. The pallor of his skin—the color of the distant gray planet—had recently turned several shades darker. Lord
Vikor Shakrim, standing straight, took two steps backward, allowing his full reflection to come into view. At six-foot-eight, he had a striking form. As dictated by his rank, he wore the customary, reflective-gold breastplate, which somewhat enhanced his own chiseled pectoral and abdominal musculature. His black stretched uniform, molded to the contours of his flesh, glistened as black as the dark space beyond. And black like his hair—pulled straight up, angled back, thick and coarse like Brillo, it was formed into a cone-shaped mound. The only indulgence of color came from the inside lining of his cloak, revealing when he moved bright glimpses of scarlet red.

Enough of this!
Shakrim reluctantly pulled his eyes away from his reflection, turned, and hurried from his simply adorned, albeit ample, living quarters. In the passageway three crewmembers immediately stopped in their tracks, and bowed their heads. He ignored them. He also ignored the many figures, like grotesque artistic reliefs, displayed on the bulkheads throughout the ship. Mostly heads and upper torsos—enemies of the Sahhrain—were positioned as though some incredible force had pressed their form into one side of the bulkhead. They now peered forth, each covered in metallic black, in suspended animations of both agony and despair. Shakrim passed by almost a dozen mummified alien forms before reaching the bridge.