Three Against the Stars (5 page)

Vash punched his old friend in the arm. “By the Maker—what took you so long?”

“It wasn’t for lack of trying,” Tikrow told him. “We scoured the galaxy and searched every planet the Drakonians know of, until an Arcturan merchant who traded old bones to the Zaturans in exchange for firerocks, told us of a Rhajni held captive by the Zaturans. Your father never lost hope of finding you.”

Vash felt his legs grow unsteady beneath him. “My father . . . he lives?”

“Lives and prospers, my friend.”

“And my brother?”

“He has grown into a Khandra warrior and now serves the Regime.”

“That is indeed good news! That arrogant little mewling had to mature sometime. He always resented my being first-born.”

“Your father has made great strides to strengthen the Cause, my lord,” Tikrow explained. “Soon the Khandra will rise again, and this time we will not fail to wipe the Felisian menace from the face of Rhajnara. The Drakonians are supplying us with ships and weapons.”

“Most excellent!” Vash said.

“Mister Snark is awaiting your return.”

“Snark? That old Drakonian sand dragon still lives? I haven’t seen him since he and the Drakonian ambassador first came to Rhajnara.”

“A pity they were too late to help us then, my friend. But all that will soon change.”

Vash showed his sharp teeth in a fierce grin. “This is glorious news, Warclaw!”

“What would you have us do with the remaining Zaturan villages and their inhabitants?”

“Destroy every living thing on this cesspool of a planet.”

At that moment, Douglas rose to feet and smiled at Vash, his eyes bright with hope. Khandra guards trained their weapons on him.

“And what of the slaves?” Tikrow asked, nodding toward the human.

“Save us, Vash,” Douglas begged. “Please—take us with you!”

Vash smiled and bowed to Douglas. Still looking at the human, he told Tikrow in English, “Kill the slaves. Kill them all.”

“No!” Douglas screamed.

The Earthman charged straight toward Vash, howling like a madman.

Tikrow drew his zapgun and burned a hole in the man’s chest.

444

“By the Maker – what took you so long?”

The interior of the
Dark Star
was cavernous—over a million tons of propulsion, armored plating and energy weapons. She housed three squadrons of jet fighters in her spacious cargo hold, as well as paddocks for the huge
duthoatans
. At one end of the hold sat the
Volkana,
a Lavarian freighter the Drakonians had captured. Vash was told that it was used to smuggle weapons and materiel to the Khandra stronghold on Rhajnara.

Vash was shown to his personal quarters by Tikrow, and after a long and luxurious session in his sonic groomer, the Rhajni lord donned his new uniform. This was similar to the uniforms worn by the tigermen, except that his black leather jacket bore a silver lightning bolt emblazoned across a crimson sun. His holstered sidearm was a Drakonian zapgun.

After he had dressed, a pair of Rhajni tigermen escorted Vash to the bridge. Grateful for his rescue, he offered another prayer to Azra, the Maker of All Things.

Among the Rhajni, there was only one god—Azra. But there were two races, two religious sects on Rhajnara: the Grimalkins and the Felisians. The Grimalkins believed they were chosen by Azra to rule Rhajnara, and this was the main tenet of their Azralon religion. They did not accept or believe in prophets or sibyls, as did the Felisians. An arrogant and ethnocentric breed, many Grimalkins hated the Felisians and considered them an inferior race that should be exterminated like so many lice.

When Vash entered the bridge, all heads turned in his direction. Captain Skreel bowed. Tikrow smiled and nodded.

The bridge was humming with activity. Drakonian technicians and Rhajni scientists manned banks of computer terminals, assembled online data pulsing with green light from the screens of visual monitors, and studied three-dimensional astrogation charts.

“Welcome aboard the
Dark Star,
Lord Vash,” Snark greeted him with a bow.

Vash studied the Drakonian agent with keen interest. “It’s a pleasure to meet with you again, Mister Snark,” he replied.

The triangular hatch opened with a soft rush of air, and Captain Kriff marched onto the bridge. He and Vash stared at one another for a long moment.

“Hail, Tuleej! Well met, my brother,” Vash said.

“Welcome back and welcome aboard, my lord. But my name is now Kriff.”

“So I’ve been told,” said Vash.

The two Rhajni greeted each other in military fashion—fists pounding their hearts.

“You’ve grown taller since last I saw you,” Vash said.

“Three years is a long time.”

“Tell me about it!” said Vash. “I see that you’ve attained the rank of
kajuro
.”

“Aye, my lord brother. I have been assigned to your command.”

“I am honored to have you serve under me,” Vash said.

He embraced his younger brother—half-brother, that is. Vash’s mother had died over twenty years earlier. His father had later taken a mistress, who eventually bore him a second son—Tuleej. But that did not matter to Vash. His heart swelled with pride: The younger brother had finally emerged from the shadow of the elder.

“So what is our course, Mister Snark?” Vash asked.

The Drakonian smiled and turned to Tikrow. “Please tell him the good news, Warclaw.”

Tikrow bowed. “Lord Vash, we have new information—good, reliable intelligence on the whereabouts of former Minister Jhaza.”

Vash snarled and showed his teeth. “You’ve found him?”

“We have, my lord,” Tikrow told him.

“And what of the other traitor—the one who had me exiled on Zatura?”

“That matter will soon be settled, Lord Vash,” Snark assured him.

Chapter Five

The Smugglers of

Grant’s Planet

S
omewhere on the outer rim of the Haroomian Galaxy, Grant’s Planet was a mere speck of a waterworld orbiting a white-hot sun. Except for vegetation and small, marine and crustacean lifeforms, the planet was uninhabited. Island 881 was just one of the thousands of tropical, primordial islands dotting the planet like so many spots on a leopard.

Two moons hanging in a star-flecked sky illuminated a large clearing surrounded by rolling hills and tall, lush grass. In the clearing were rows of conical, hexagonal, and triangular structures. Behind the encampment a number of large shuttlecraft and bulky space freighters sat like petrified dinosaurs. Spread out in the low-lying foothills, well camouflaged in their tan and green uniforms, were the Space Marines of Company E—the Devil Dogs.

Makki hunkered down behind the lines with the other corpsmen. The memory of what happened on Cindar caused him to be a little nervous. But he knew that once the fighting began, his nerves would be steady; tending to wounded Marines took his mind off his fears. Though he was a non-combatant, his training sessions with Akira and Cortez were making him feel almost indestructible—something that could prove fatal if he wasn’t careful.

Akira crawled toward him, chewing an unlit cigar and toting her favorite weapon—the Eddy Machine Gun. She removed her helmet and wiped her brow. “You okay?” she asked.

“This mewling trusts in the Maker of All Things,” Makki replied.

She punched him in the shoulder. “Hang tough, Corpsman.”

Makki grinned, showing his teeth. Then Akira joined her fire team and the other squads huddled in position below the crest of the hills, where they were well concealed in the tall grass. 

444

Cortez caressed his M-16 and smoothed his mustache. He wasn’t anxious anymore, just revved for action. He swatted a number of flying cockroaches buzzing the air around him.

Akira slid into position next to him. “What’s up, Don Quixote?” she asked.

“I want to know why
we
are the ones who are always picked to hunt every outlaw and smuggler in the galaxy?” he griped. “We are not cops. We are Marines!”

“
Semper fi
, baby.”

Cortex slapped his cheek and looked at his hand.
“Madre de Dios!”

“What’s eating you now?”

“Bugs!”

“Then use your repellent,
stupido,
” Akira told him.

Cortez removed an injector tube from his war belt, shot himself with insect repellent, and then discarded the tube. He slapped the back of his neck.

“A curse upon these bugs . . . and don’t call me stupid!” he said.

“Quiet!” Akira hissed. “Are you trying to wake the smugglers?”

“This is crap!” Cortez said in a quieter voice. “The Fleet gets all the newest gizmos and gadgets, and all we get are their leftovers. I am sick of this crap! Are you not sick of this crap?”

“You know, Cortez—you’re getting to be a genuine pain in the asteroid.”

O’Hara crawled toward them on his belly. He had painted a shamrock on his helmet and was toting his Primo-2000 mini-bazooka.

“Is this a private feud or can anyone join in?” he asked.

“Que pasa?”
Cortez handed him a stick of chewing gum. “Where have you been—consulting with Captain Branch?”

O’Hara popped the gum in his mouth without unwrapping it. “Yes, that I was.”

“Did you see Lieutenant Hooks?” Akira asked.

“No, I did not,” O’Hara said.

Akira knocked on O’Hara’s helmet. “So how we going to do this?”

“I say we rush the
cabrons
,” Cortez suggested.

“Who taught you strategy?” Akira asked him. “General Custer?”

Cortez looked bewildered. “Who?”

“Never mind, spacehead.”

Cortez threw back his shoulders. “I am a descendant of the Conquistadors!”

“Big frigging deal,” Akira said. “My ancestors were gangsters and samurai warriors.”

“And I’m one of the fightin’ Irish,” O’Hara told them.

He pulled a detonator from a pocket and studied the chronoband on his wrist. Then he grinned and activated the device.

Cortez cradled his M-16 between his side and his armpit, and plugged both ears with his fingers. He was one Marine who tried to avoid loud noises.

444

A series of explosions rocked the hills behind the encampment below, illuminating the night like flashes of sheet lightning. Moments later, the Drakonian smugglers rushed from the buildings, firing zapguns and tazer rifles. The Marines hiding in the hills immediately opened fire. Bright red laser beams zigzagged across the early morning sky. Yellow machine gun bullets whizzed through the air like a swarm of bees wired up on amphetamines. The Drakonians returned fire. Bursts of green tracers shot from tazer rifles and scorched the air. Blue zapgun bolts chewed the ground and stitched the hills.

Two Comanche AEVs dropped from the clouds like falcons descending to snatch up their prey. The gunships strafed the space freighters with lasers and photon missiles, reducing them to smoldering debris. Drakonians by the score were charred and torn to bloody ribbons. The Comanche assault craft then targeted sprawling warehouses and blew them into oblivion. Ground vehicles exploded into infernos of flaming wreckage. Smoking shards of white-hot metal showered the area like a thunderstorm from the nether regions.

When the AEVs circled around and landed, the rest of Company E poured from the belly-hatches to take part in the battle.

444

Akira’s fire team was the first to rush from the hills, shouting and blasting the smugglers. She grinned as she opened up with her Eddy and lit the night with yellow death. Pretty Boy Steele, Fatty Russo and Tattoo Annie slammed into the enemy like a medieval battering ram. Drakonians died howling, fried by laser beams and cut to pieces by a heavy barrage of machine gun fire. Akira chewed her cigar calmly and sprayed a group of lizardmen with quartz bullets exploding from her Eddy, electrocuting and tearing the Draks to pieces.

“Give ‘em hell, Sarge!” Pretty Boy shouted.

“Time to earn your pay, Devil Dogs!” Tattoo Annie screamed like an Antarian jackal.

Cortez led his fire team into the thick of it, spraying laser beams left and right. Horseface Jenkins, Skinny Jones and Blondie Hampton peppered the ground with hot lasers and whistling bullets. Two more squads of seasoned jarheads joined the attack, greeting the Drakonians with a deadly fanfare blasting from the muzzles of Eddy machine guns and M-16s.

But the Drakonians gave back as good as they got. Marines screamed and tumbled to the ground, burned by tazer beams or shredded by zapper bolts. Horseface and Skinny Jones fired their laser rifles and scorched a unit of Drakonian commandos. Yellow bullets from Blondie’s machine gun zipped through the air, glowing with electricity.

“Get it while it’s hot!” shouted Skinny.

Blondie let loose with a Rebel Yell. “It’s party time!”

“Come on, you apes—play now and die later!” Horseface yelled.

Cortez tossed a grenade at three Drakonians attempting to board a small shuttle. He managed to dive for cover and plug his ears only seconds before the shuttle erupted in a cloud of smoke and fire. 

O’Hara’s team charged into battle on the bootheels of the other Marines. Monster Kowalski led the charge, the muzzle of his Eddy machine gun flashing yellow like so many tiny supernovas. Nervous Ned and Tommy Barnes were right behind him, their M-16s spitting incandescent red beams that cut the smugglers to smoking pieces.

“Come out, come out wherever you are, you creepy little reptiles!” Kowalski shouted.

Emerald tracers and cobalt zapper bolts zinged over their heads. But O’Hara seemed to be on a Sunday stroll in the park as he walked behind his team. He grinned like a bear who had found a bee hive dripping with honey as he aimed his Primo-2000 and launched three small rockets that blew up a pair of metal shacks and turned a groundcar into flaming junk.

Then a sonic grenade thrown by a Drakonian exploded and knocked the Irishman off his feet. The Primo flew from his hand as shrapnel ripped through his leg. Cursing in Gaelic, he drew his .45 automatic and scrambled for cover behind a damaged storage shed.

“Corpsman! Corpsman!” Nervous Ned shouted.

“O’Hara’s been hit!” Skinny hollered.

444

Makki had just finished tending to a wounded Marine when he heard the call, turned his head and saw O’Hara pinned down by enemy fire. His green and yellow eyes flared and then narrowed as he leapt into action.

Sprinting across the battle zone, he ducked and dodged a storm of enemy fire, and managed to reach O’Hara. The big Irishman was clutching his wound and firing his sidearm around one corner of the shack when Makki landed in a squat beside him.

“Who the hell gave you orders to risk your scrawny little neck?” O’Hara growled.

“No need for orders,” said Makki. “You are hurt.”

O’Hara grinned, and the knife concealed in his prosthetic arm slid into the palm of his hand. He used the knife to slit open his pants leg.

“Patch me,” he said.

The din of battle receded into the background as Makki removed the Diascan Unit from his medikit and scanned O’Hara’s wound. Then he slapped an antibiotic bandage over it.

“Only a scratch,” he said.

“I could have told you that, you enuretic furball,” O’Hara said.

Four Drakonians crept up on them, their weapons ready to fire.

“Heads up, Sergeant!” Makki shouted, throwing himself on top of the Irishman.

O’Hara turned and threw his knife, skewering one Drakonian. Then he blew away two more with just as many shots from his automatic. A short burst from an Eddy machine gun spun the fourth Drakonian around. A laser beam finished off the lizardman.

Akira and Cortez rushed over to O’Hara and Makki.

Cortez kicked one of the dead Drakonians. “It is all over now, O’Hara.”

“Get off me!” O’Hara said, pushing Makki away from him.

Makki helped O’Hara to his feet and then retrieved the Irishman’s knife.

“We thought you were dead, Seamus,” Akira said, relief written all over her face.

“That’ll bloody be the day,” O’Hara told her.

Makki flipped O’Hara’s knife into the air and caught it by the hilt.

O’Hara scowled and raised a threatening fist. “Gimme that thing before I clip your whiskers, you ambulant biped!”

Grinning, Makki tossed the knife to O’Hara, who caught it by the hilt. The Rhajni corpsman then saluted as Captain Luther Branch joined them.

“Officer on deck!” Makki announced.

“Captain Branch, sir!” Akira snapped to attention.

O’Hara and Cortez were slow to follow suit.

The captain was a tall, handsome but stern-faced black man with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. With him were Lieutenant Blip Levine, a freckle-faced lad, and Corporal Susan Baim.

“I knew I’d find my three favorite malingerers taking a break as soon as we secured the area,” Captain Branch said. “Oh—as you were, for God’s sake!”

Makki and the three sergeants stood at ease.

“Any sign of Lieutenant Hooks, Captain?” O’Hara asked.

Branch shook his head. “His last report said that he was holed up in some storage facility with a handful of Drakonians. He gave us his coordinates so our AEVs wouldn’t target the warehouse. I want you three to check it out.” He sighed and shook his head. “And O’Hara? Kindly sheathe that knife before you hurt someone.”

O’Hara grinned and slid the knife back into his prosthetic arm.

444

Akira and Cortez moved into position on opposite sides of the door to a large, octagonal building. Makki stood back, out of harm’s way. O’Hara peeked through a dirty window.

“Kick it open, lass,” he told Akira.

“Hold this,” Akira said, shoving her cigar into Cortez’s mouth.

Akira kicked open the door, and they stormed into the building. Makki tagged after them, sniffing the air for signs of danger.

The bodies of six Drakonians lay sprawled among crates and stacks of weapons, ammo, and other assorted materiel. Five of the dead lizardmen had holes burned through their heads or chests. Zapguns were still clenched in the claws of three of them.

“Here’s one for Sherlock Holmes,” Akira said.

Cortez handed the cigar to her. “Who?”

“Looks like these Draks committed suicide,” she said, ignoring Cortez.

“Drakonians never kill themselves,” Makki said.

“How would you know, furface?” O’Hara asked.

“Stow it, O’Hara,” said Lieutenant Levine.

“Makki is right,” Cortez said, examining the sixth Drakonian lying sprawled across a crate. Then he noticed the red and green buttons on the lizardman’s silver belt buckle.

Shaking his head, he pressed the red button.

The corpse of the Drakonian suddenly blurred like a bad image on an ancient video screen, and then morphed into a human being.

“Lieutenant Hooks!” Akira said.

“Them Drakonian sons of banshees must’ve found out who he was,” O’Hara said.

“But how, Seamus?” Akira asked. “He was wearing a holo disguise.”

O’Hara shook his head and looked around.

“Why did the lieutenant go undercover?” Corporal Baim asked. “He was an officer.”

O’Hara nodded. “Aye—but first he was a Marine.” He crossed himself. “God rest him.”

Makki bowed his head and then closed the lieutenant’s eyes.

444

Makki emerged from the sick bay of Comanche One, totally exhausted after helping with triage. His surgical scrubs were covered with blood. Captain Deanna Chan, a pretty Asian doctor with short black hair, accompanied him.

“Thanks for your help, Corpsman,” she said. “You have the makings of a fine doctor.”

“This one thanks you, Captain Doctor,” Makki replied.

“Well, Makki. In a few hours I’ll be shoving off.”

“You are leaving us?”

“Yes. I’ve be reassigned to the hospital ship,
Angel of Mercy.
”

Makki’s eyes misted over.
“This mewling will miss you, Doctor Chan, and wishes you all good blessings from the Maker.”

“Thank you, Makki,” said the physician. “I wish you good luck with your studies. I hope one day we’ll work together again when you’re a doctor.”

“This one would hope so,” Makki said. He felt sadness over Doctor Chan’s reassignment, as well as joy at her good fortune. But becoming a doctor was the last thing on his mind at the moment. He was looking forward to another weapons training session with Sergeant Cortez.

Chan smiled. “Farewell, Corpsman Doon!” She gave him a gentle tap on the jaw with one fist and then headed off down an adjoining passageway.

Makki opened a recyclable bottle of water, took a long drink and plopped down on the deck against a bulkhead. His long whiskers and pointy ears drooped with exhaustion. He yawned and rubbed his eyes with lightly-furred, hand-like paws.