The Army Of Light (Kestrel Saga) (2 page)

    
Reaching for the main engine controls again, he was greeted by the ever
pleasant female voice of the ships computer, which informed the captain in its
melodious tone that all drive systems were completely down.

    
“You have to be kidding me?” he asked in utter disbelief.

    
The computer responded in the negative.

    
“Initiate main drive startup sequence!”

    
“Unable to comply,” the computer immediately replied.

    
“That was too fast. I don’t think you even tried.”

    
“Of course I tried, Captain,” the computer responded in a moderately perturbed
tone. “The safety interlocks prevent this course of action. Please assume crash
positions.”

    
“Override safety locks and initiate the main drive startup sequence now!”

    
“At the current altitude and velocity, such a procedure could be fatal to the
structural integrity of the vessel.”

    
“Are you concerned about me or yourself?”

    
The computer seemed to mull the question over for a second. “Does it matter?”

    
What idiot thought it would be a good idea for computers to talk, let alone
argue with you? Weren’t they supposed to blindly obey orders, no matter how
dangerous or ridiculous it seemed?
Some genius, at some point in the last
two hundred or so years, thought it was a good idea to put a form of artificial
intelligence in these things, making it easier to order a latte while
simultaneously taking out some of the danger involved in basic space flight.
Unfortunately, it was that same forward thinking idiot’s sense of overprotection
that was about to cost Shawn his life.

    
“Look, you and I have gotten on pretty well the last few years, and I’ve never
tried to ask more of you than I thought you could give. You’ve been good to me,
and I’ve tried to be a good steward of what I’ve got. But make no mistake about
this: If you don’t release the locks on the main drive engine and begin an auto
startup sequence I will, so help me, put a bullet through your CPU and do it
myself.” As if to make his point, he withdrew his sidearm from the holster
slung around the side of his chest.

    
The computer, taking a moment to correlate the available information, responded
in the affirmative. “Safety locks disengaged.
Auto startup
sequence in process.”
Its tone was less than pleased. “But don’t say I didn’t
warn you.”

    
The distinctive whine of the engines beginning to power up was music to Shawn’s
ears. All things being equal, a startup of this nature was only required when
the ship first took off from a landed position. To disengage the safety protocols
was to skip about a dozen procedures in the normal startup routine. Vital
systems, such as core coolant levels and
monostator
lubrication pressure, went unchecked as the computer attempted to start the two
massive thrusters at the rear of the cargo ship.

    
The enormous distant volcano, as well as the water below, came more clearly
into focus. Why, at this moment, Shawn’s brain thought it would be a good time
to flash his entire life before his otherwise occupied eyes he couldn’t say for
certain. Perhaps it was all about perspective. When your ship is two hundred
miles above the surface, you don’t get the same feeling of dread as you do when
you’re only a hundredth of that from certain death. Based on the speed of 
Sylvia’s
Delight
 and her current trajectory, if the engines didn’t start up in
the next thirty seconds the cargo ship would either crash head-long into Mount
Di’Kul
or overshoot the island entirely, the one hundred
and ten foot long ship shredding itself to pieces against the large coral monoliths
that jutted from the shallow waters beyond.

    
There was a sharp bump in the control stick, followed quickly by another, and
Shawn realized the engines were attempting to light off. Closer and closer the
jolts came to one another until they were very nearly overlapping. Suddenly
every light, every gauge, every system inside the ship sprang to life. Even a
few gauges he swore were not there before lit up brilliantly. The rough ride
instantly smoothed out as the main drive engines took over the job of
propelling the craft.

    
Fifty feet from the surface of the water, the main engines lit with twin blue
blasts of brilliance as the stern of 
Sylvia’s Delight
 parted
the shallow waters behind the craft in a glorious wake that would’ve made any
pleasure boater green with envy. The ship then rocketed away from the beach,
swinging in a wide arch around the island as Shawn angled the craft for a
landing at his personal hangar.

*          
*           *

    
“Well, Skipper, I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news,” Trent offered slowly
as he entered Shawn’s office. “Which would you like to hear first?”

    
Of all the people in Beta Sector, why did this have to happen to him, and why
now? As if the unrelenting heat waves wafting around the islands weren’t
enough, Shawn had also missed the last payments on his utility bills. To make
matters even worse, his singular source of income was now little more than a
barely hovering money pit sitting out in the hangar.

    
Shawn looked forlornly to Trent Maddox, his faithful mechanic, friend, sole
business partner at the Old Flamingo Transport Agency, occasional drinking
buddy, and often smart ass. 

    
The old wooden desk chair squeaked in protest as Shawn leaned back and put a
hand to his mouth, rubbing a days’ worth of stubble on his chin as he pondered
how to best answer Trent. An hour before, Shawn had realized that if he’d been
able to complete his most recent shipment, he would’ve finally been able to
pull himself free of the near bottomless pit of bills and notices stacked
haphazardly on the desk before of him. As it was, the cargo from that haul—that
fateful third leg that never should have been—was now warm and comfortable in
the belly of some pirate cruiser, and his own vessel had more than her share of
damage to show for the encounter. So, with the primary inspection of 
Sylvia’s
Delight
 done, it seemed that Trent’s singular responsibility was to
deliver the fatal torpedo to Shawn’s already foundering week. After all, what
good news could he possibly have?

    
Trent, standing in the center of the
office opposite Shawn’s desk, with his tattered and stained red ball cap on
backwards
, rung
his hands nervously as he searched for
the right words to offer his employer. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms,
and his arms and hands were coated in some kind of thick, black slime that the
mechanic had tracked into the office. Trent’s gray coveralls were smattered in
grease stains from nearly head to toe. When he finally took a seat, he left
sticky hand prints smudged into the armrests of the chair.

Shawn locked eyes
with his mechanic, glancing down to Trent’s hands before bringing them back up.

    
“Oh, sorry,” Trent replied sheepishly as he manufactured an old rag from his
back pocket and attempted to wipe off the offending grease. The scene was more
comical than sanitary, as the rag he’d produced was filthier than his hands had
been—if that were possible. In fact, Shawn swore it’d made his hands even
worse. Looking defeated over the futility of the endeavor, Trent put the rag
back into his pocket just as Shawn produced a clean one from his desk and
tossed it over.

    
While Trent cleaned the last bits of grime off his hands and the chair, Shawn
absently rubbed at his eyes and then leaned back again, feeling instantly
overwhelmed with the situation. Exhausted, he ran his right hand through his
wavy brown hair and began to contemplate how he’d gotten into this situation in
the first place. This whole thing was supposed to be about starting over,
about making a new, more relaxing life for myself. It was not supposed to be
about having my livelihood sitting useless in a hangar, not about being
hijacked by pirates, and certainly not about almost plummeting to my death in
my own ship. He looked to the slowly sputtering coffee maker on the far
cabinet, probably the slowest one in the known universe, realizing with a dash
of misery that he’d have to wait another ten to fifteen years before his
morning cup would be brewed.

    
Par for the course.

    
Pushing his past mistakes and poor decisions aside for the moment, he realized
that he may well have to pry the information about the status of his ship from
Trent. “Just tell me what’s wrong with 
D
,” he said, looking down at
the cluttered mound of paperwork on his usually well-organized desk.

    
Trent tossed the now thoroughly soiled towel into a metal wastebasket to
the right of Shawn’s desk, and then leaned back in his own chair. “Well, the
number two and three ventral inverters are blown on the starboard engine. Also,
it looks like we have a slight hydraulic leak in the port forward landing
strut.”

    
Shawn rolled his eyes. “Oh, is that all?”

    
“Well, that and the fact that a few of the gauges aren’t working so well.”

    
With one hand already on his scalp, Shawn brought the other up to meet it as he
rested his elbows on the desktop, his eyes fixed on the stack of bills. “They
were working fine when I landed.”

    
Trent narrowed his eyes. “You call that a landing?”

    
“It was the best I could do.” Shawn had no idea why he was defending himself.
He only knew that, somewhere in this whole mess, he was sure that he was the
victim. “It’s not like I had a lot to work with. Anyway, which gauges are
supposedly not working?”

    
Trent removed his soiled ball cap and scratched at the crest of his head.
“I’m pretty sure all of them.”

    
Shawn couldn’t help but let an exasperated sigh escape his lips.

    
“I know, Captain. It’s a bit of a letdown.”

    
“Just a small one,” Shawn quipped, holding up his thumb and index fingers in a
pinching motion.

    
“I have no doubt that I can get her ship shape again,” Trent offered
apologetically. “But it’s going to take some time. It isn’t exactly easy
getting spare parts for one of these old Mark-IV’s in the middle of nowhere, you
know?”

    
Shawn’s buried his face in his hands.
“How long?”

    
Trent smiled and quickly stood up from his chair, then grandly waved a
hand in front of his face—as if to swat the world’s slowest imaginary
fly
. “Don’t worry about a thing, skipper. I’m sure I can
have her up and running in less than two weeks.”

    
Shawn, his eyes wide in shock, smacked his palms on the desktop. “Two weeks?”

    
“Yeah, two weeks, assuming we order the parts from Alpha
Unuthal
III today.
Of course, I might be able to get
it done sooner if you can pull some strings with the locals.”

    
Shawn fell back in his chair, bringing one hand to his face and slowly
massaging the bridge of his nose. “By locals, you mean De Lorme?”

    
“Just remember, I wasn’t the one who said it.” Trent held up his hands
cautiously. “While I’m sure Jacques De Lorme can steal whatever we need, I’m
willing to bet there are other locals who can help us just as easily—at least,
ones that are far less likely to kill us, anyway.”

    
Shawn cast his eyes to the ceiling. The yellowed plaster was peeling in several
places, and a rather large spider had taken up residence in the furthest
corner. He let out an exasperated sigh. “Do you think he’s going to be sore
about what happened to his shipment to
Donatue
III?”
Shawn asked, instantly reminded of the time he’d wordily asked his mother if
she thought his father was going to be upset about him crashing the family
hover car through the garage when he was twelve.

    
“You’re joking, right?” Trent asked in surprise. “Knowing Jack, he probably
hijacked his own shipment just so he could get out of paying you for it.”

    
That thought had definitely crossed Shawn’s mind—especially in those last few
moments when the pirate’s laser batteries had fried his port retro infusers.
That was the trouble with dealing with pirates, and the fast talking Jacques De
Lorme was one of the slickest—not to mention one of the best dressed—in the
whole sector.  In any case, it’d be best to avoid Jacques’ drinking
establishment, known by most everyone as Jack’s Place, for as long as possible.

    
“Besides,” Trent continued. “I’m sure there are others around here who owe you
a favor or two.”

  
  Shawn pushed himself free from his chair and walked slowly out from
behind his wooden desk. “There aren’t, I can assure you.  I’ve pulled in
every outstanding favor I’ve been owed just to keep this place afloat for the
last three months. I think I may even owe some favors of my own. Be that as it
may, it seems that everyone expects this ship to be operational and at their
beck and call. Everyone has cargo that needs to be ferried in a timely manner,
and we do it or we don’t get paid. Need I remind you that some of these
shipments fall into the category of, shall we say, questionably legal? We’re
near enough to the edge of the Sector Command’s patrol area that friendly
assistance is about three weeks distant on a good day. It wouldn’t cause anyone
much concern if one more free trader and his wayward mechanic up and vanished,
if you get my drift.”

    
“Yeah, but… but the locals need us,” Trent said, but his tone failed to be
reassuring. “We’re kind of a planetary asset. It’s not like there’s a whole
cadre of ships willing to transport the kind of things we move between systems.”

    
“Maybe,” Shawn had to agree, and it made him feel even worse. He regretted
having to skirt past Sector Command, and he’d done so on more than once
occasion, which meant he felt exceedingly bad about it. He usually thought of
himself as a good citizen—save for an occasional misstep in judgment. It’d
never crossed his mind that someday he might have to blur the line between
right and wrong just to put food on his plate. While he’d never stoop to the
level of a common pirate, he’d admittedly become quite the opportunist in the
last year. Someday, he was
sure,
he’d have to make
amends—one way or another. Hopefully that time was a long way off.