Star Watch (26 page)

Lord Shakrim had no sooner left the admiral’s side, aboard the human’s own command vessel, when the news reached him: The admiral had been rescued. That was expected … part of the plan to bring the
Minian
here.
It’s all so, so, close to happening now.
The attack would come soon … an attack no one would be able to defend against.

Lord Vikor Shakrim looked up from the slowly filling molds and gestured toward the distant darkness. A man with an eye patch appeared from the haze, wearing a similar metallic breastplate, although one made of silver instead of gold; a new enhancement shield was affixed to his left forearm.

“Ridert. Have you done as I’ve asked?”

“I have, my Lord.”

“All of them?”

“Thirty-six, total.”

Lord Shakrim tilted his head toward the shield molds.

“Each one has been given the latest, most powerful, enhancement shield. They do not know what they’ve done to be given such an honor.”

Lord Shakrim scoffed at that. “Has an arena been prepared, Commander Ridert?”

* * *

Within a mile of the foundry, thirty-six Sahhrain warriors readied themselves for battle. Who they would be pitted against was unknown to them. What they did know, what they had been told, was that there was no higher honor—that this one event would eclipse all other events in their pasts, and all the ones to come. Periodically, they stopped to admire the powerful new shields now gracing their forearms … letting feelings of pride play with their heads.

What they did not know—but what all others within the Sahhrain fleet did know—was that they were disgraced … had failed catastrophically at their individual posts. The human Allied commander, Admiral Reynolds, had been rescued, right beneath their noses. They would need to suffer a price for such negligence—be made examples of.

Lord Shakrim’s arrival was completely clandestine; only his loyal Chosen Spears were aware of the true situation. The
Assailant
’s arrival above the arena was unobserved—since the ship was cloaked—invisible to the naked eye as well as all sensors. It set down fifty yards from the makeshift arena. Seconds later, the gangway was lowered. Magically, Lord Shakrim walked into view—as if appearing out of thin air.

Shakrim took in the hastily erected arena, laid out within the last few hours. True to regulation, the equilateral, decagon-shaped area spanned seventy-five square yards. It was simple, lacking even the most standard properties, such as varying, strategically placed, obstacles. Makeshift bleachers were positioned around three of the four sides of the area, where close to five hundred Sahhrain, many of them warship officers and commanders, sat quietly.

Thirty-six warriors now held, in addition to their enhancement shields, long spear weapons, called pratta-shafts. Standing in a circular formation, they bowed at the approach of Lord Vikor Shakrim. They hadn’t expected him: the most incredible honor imaginable! But his sudden presence, now unwaveringly apparent, foretold their death sentence. No one, ever, had survived a battle against the Lord Commander.

Murmurs arose from the crowd as Lord Shakrim entered the boundaries of the decagon arena. It was near dusk and the setting sun’s reflection sparkled and shimmered off his gold breastplate. He came to a halt ten feet in front of the tight formation of thirty-six Sahhrain warriors. He saw fear on their faces; he felt their growing desperation.

Commander Ridert, now at his side, handed Lord Shakrim, already wearing an enhancement shield, a pratta-shaft. While he adjusted its fit on his arm, Shakrim looked over at his now-cowering opponents and said, “Fight with honor … give me all that you have. Fight like you’ve never fought before … your very life depends on it … fight to the point you will do anything, and everything, to survive. Fight to kill me. Do so, and I will allow one of you … the very best one … to be allowed to live.”

Shakrim let that sink in and there it was … hope. He’d given them a glimmer of something unexpected. They would fight with more intensity now … they would kill each other.
How easily they are manipulated
, he thought. He looked into the stands at the Sahhrain seated around them. He spoke loud and clear: “You are witnessing today the cost of failure. There is not one amongst you who couldn’t, just as easily, be standing here before me. You will not be warned again.”

Lord Shakrim finally gave a cursory bow in the direction of the warriors before him. They broke from their formation—away from each other—taking up defensive stances, their pratta-shafts held high, and their enhancement shields rightly positioned in front of them. Each was highly trained in the Sahhrain’s own, albeit similar to that of the Blues, version of
Kahill Callan
martial arts
.
The warriors moved quickly—several stayed clustered together, in small groups, surrounding Shakrim on all sides.

He kept his eyes on the lone warrior in front of him, knowing he would not be the first to attack. Shakrim already knew who that would be. Twenty feet directly behind his back, Shakrim felt the warrior there try to suppress his thoughts, hide them … but it was a futile effort. A warrior’s pratta-shaft was far more than a simple spear. It was the only weapon capable of piercing through an opponent’s distortion waves. It instantly matched any vibration it came into contact with. The spear came fast, directed towards the back of Shakrim’s head. He used his telekinetic powers to alter the spear’s flight by less than four degrees—just enough, though, to change its trajectory, bypassing his own head—instead, hitting the warrior who stood before him. The pratta-shaft’s tip imbedded itself into his chest, killing him instantly.

Using the edge of his shield, along with telekinesis, Lord Vikor Shakrim catapulted into the air, high above the warriors now charging toward him from up ahead. He sensed their thoughts … knew when they’d make a move. He spun around, now landing at their backsides. He swung his pratta-shaft in a wide sideways arc, its razor-sharp tip decapitating the nearest warrior; then, letting the weapon’s momentum carry it around his own body, in mid-swing, he changed his grip and threw the shaft with a forceful, forward thrust. It flew unhindered for thirty feet, entering the abdominal cavity of a charging warrior, then exited him and entered into the chest of the warrior who was standing ten feet behind him. Both fell to the ground, dead.

As in most Sahhrain close-contact battles, the pratta-shaft, typically, was lost early on. Inevitably, it was the warrior—armed only with his enhancement shield—solely left to endure a prolonged battle.

Right then, no less than five pratta-shafts were in the air, all headed toward Shakrim. He dodged one and used his shield to block another. The next three missed as he again leapt high into the air—his black and red cloak billowing out dramatically behind him. The crowd abruptly cheered in unison.

Violet distortion waves, brighter and more powerful than any of the others, continuously pulsed and streamed out from Shakrim’s enhancement shield. Surviving Sahhrain warriors attempted to block the devastating waves, but could not. One after another, they were catapulted high into the air—several even into the stands. Two warriors were held stationary, paralyzed, ten feet up in the air, as the one-sided battle raged on below them.

Shakrim continued to move with amazing speed and agility—never staying in one place long enough to get hit by a flying pratta-shaft or, more frequent, the continual barrage of distortion waves. One by one, Lord Shakrim pounded these waves into his opponents. Bodies lay motionless within the arena, and several outside it.

He stopped now and saw there was no one left to fight. He had taken no injuries himself. He was barely out of breath. Finally, he let his eyes level upon the two suspended warriors. He released them and they both fell to the ground. Slowly, they regained the ability to move around, and warily stood, facing him. He assessed them both.

“Your fight with me is done. The one who can defeat the other lives.”

With that, Lord Vikor Shakrim strode from the arena toward his now-visible ship. The crowd cheered as the only two surviving warriors took up fighting stances.

Chapter 37

Dacci System

The
Perilous
, Open Space

_________________

The
Perilous
arrived in ten minutes. Within that timespan, Jason watched as his father’s life-support indicators moved from stable to critical. One of Grimes’ young fighter pilots, Lieutenant Tom Burn, occupying the pilot’s seat, phase-shifted the shuttle close to them, and, within seconds, Jason was joined by Billy—who, after phase-shifting into open space, appeared nearby.

“There’s not a lot of room in there, Cap, so we need to transfer the admiral into the
Perilous
the old-fashioned way.”

The back hatch of the shuttle opened as the small ship backed toward them. Inside, everyone wore battle suits. Dira, standing in front of the others, gestured for Jason and Billy to maneuver the admiral’s inert form toward her. Then she, along with several other sets of hands, grabbed on to the admiral’s body and brought him on board.

First Billy, then Jason, got on board. Jason turned outward, to face the nearby fighter. “You okay to fly this pile of scrap back to the
Minian
? It’s a bit tight in here.”

“Yes, Captain … I believe I’ll be fine,” said Ricket.

Jason gave a mock salute and stepped away as the rear hatch lowered and secured into place.

Jason looked out the rear observation window and saw that Ricket and his battered fighter were now heading off in the opposite direction of where the
Minian
was located
—
he was heading toward the planet.
What the hell’s he doing?
About to hail Ricket on his NanoCom, his attention was pulled away.

“We need to get the battle suit off the admiral!” Dira yelled into an open channel.

Burn, at the controls, yelled back … “Thirty seconds to decompress the cabin … hold on.”

Dira leaned anxiously over the admiral’s unconscious body as he lay on the deck; even through her visor, Jason could see concern. He was pretty sure it matched his own grim expression. He purposely tried not to think about his father’s worsening condition—how close the admiral was to death’s door.

“Atmosphere’s restored!” Burn announced.

Jason remotely accessed his father’s battle suit HUD settings and disengaged the suit. It immediately withdrew, back into the small SuitPac device affixed to the admiral’s bloodstained belt. Dira gasped, seeing the caked blood on his exposed chest.

“What the fuck did they do to him?” she asked to nobody in particular. She disengaged her own battle suit and quickly went to work, injecting him with a small device of some kind and then affixing three other, larger, devices onto his exposed skin. After that, she reengaged the admiral’s battle suit and, leaning back against the bulkhead, met Jason’s eyes.

“I’m not going to lie to you, Jason … he’s in a very critical condition.”

“What did you do for him?”

“Gave him an amped-up nanites injection that will go directly to the distressed areas within his body. I also placed his body into a semi-stasis … cryogenic … state.”

“Will he live? Were we in time?”

Dira stared back at Jason for several moments before answering. “You didn’t know? I’m sorry, Jason … your father’s not alive. From what I can tell, he’s been gone for several moments now.” She reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. “There’s still hope. We’ll be back on the
Minian
within minutes … let’s see what a MediPod can do for him.”

Jason was fully aware what miracles a MediPod could perform. Mollie did die, shot in the heart by a plasma bolt, and he had only five minutes to get her body into a MediPod. He made it, but barely. How long now had his father been dead? Four minutes … five?

“Burn! How close?” Jason yelled toward the ship’s forward cabin.

Three bright flashes, one right after the other, occurred before he actually heard his answer, “We’re there! Suggest you phase-shift directly into Medical.”

Simultaneously, Dira and Jason initialized their battle suits. Jason took ahold of his father, wrapping his arms around his upper torso, and the threesome flashed away.

* * *

They phase-shifted directly into Medical. Jason, a nearby med-tech, and Dira hefted the admiral’s not-so insubstantial girth into the closest MediPod. Somewhere in the back of his mind Jason was keeping track of the time elapsing. His father had been dead for close to seven minutes … plus or minus—well beyond the maximum allowance of five minutes.

As Jason stared down at his father’s face, visible through the MediPod’s small porthole, he silently wondered if now was the last time he’d be able to see him.

Dira kept busy at the MediPod console. He saw her reposition one of the small display screens away out of his view.

“No … that’s okay … I want to see it.”

Dira tilted her head in a way that spoke volumes—saying, in effect,
you won’t like what you see.

She repositioned the angle of the display so Jason could again see the royal-blue virtual representation of the admiral’s body. A myriad of moving life-indicators, and other readouts, flashed across the screen at alarming rates. The one thing not moving, the one essential thing to show some movement, was still—his father’s heart.

Dira, noting Jason’s expression, said, “We’ll just have to wait and see. There’s substantial internal injuries here. It looks as if various organs have been … individually targeted … and electrified. I’ve heard of this kind of invasive, selective-type torture before. Victims feel unbelievable levels of pain. If you’d gotten him here …” she paused while continuing to work at the console. “I’m sorry—”

He cut her off, “You don’t have to say that for my benefit. I’m not a child. I can keep track of time and I know it’s been too long. He’s dead and he’s going to stay that way.”

Dira crossed her arms over her chest and stared back at him. “So now you’re a doctor too? You’re going to start giving me the patient’s prognosis?”

“Just stop it.” He turned to leave. “I need to make arrangements.”