Torian Reclamation 3: Test of Fortitude (2 page)

“Who are they?”

Halstov waited for the galactic map to show on his computer screen before answering.

“Their world is called Bolkos, and is located here.” A red dot appeared among the star formations on the screen that was now filling with familiar gridlines.

“They’re not far from our edge of the sphere,” Gorbinshir said. “I’m surprised we didn’t have their ship designs indexed by now.”

Halstov changed screens to display an image of the Bolkans’ now-destroyed transport ships.

“I don’t think they’re very active,” he said. “Came here in lightly-armed vessels that were clearly unequipped for any type of warfare.”

“Then what are they doing here, Colonel?”

“Delivering heavy machinery. Some kind of a trade deal, from what we could gather—probably for the mineral. A stroke of luck for us. We’ve retrieved six beam-borers from their landing craft. Good ones. Powerful and more sensitive than those we’ve acquired from the natives.”

Gorbinshir nodded. “We can certainly use them. Let the commanding excavation engineer know. Orient the captives in the usual fashion. Then see if any of the survivors happen to be experts in operating those borers.”

The chief astronomer came rushing into Halstov’s office and interrupted them.

“Sir, we have another visitor.”

“More Bolkans?” Halstov asked.

“No. Azaarian.”

“Those fools,” Gorbinshir muttered. “Better see what they want, Colonel, and fast.”

At that moment another messenger ran in, filling the dank den to near capacity. It was one of the chief astronomer’s subordinates.

“Sir, we’re picking up another ship, just arrived at the Latian fleet above the fourth planet.”

“Latian or Azaarian?” Gorbinshir asked.

The junior astronomer, now completely out of breath, only shook his head.

Gorbinshir raised his brow. “Bolkan?”

“No,” he managed to say. “Unidentified.”

*

“Your brother is on his way up,” Shaldan said with a contagious smile, revealing the teeth at the corners of his rumpled mouth.

Trodenjo chuckled. He knew Shaldan was just as excited as he was whenever they stopped for a little sightseeing—and Trodenmark, Trodenjo’s younger sibling, always had to be in on it as well.

By the book, Shaldan and Trodenjo were the only two civilians officially allowed on the bridge. But the military staff was used to this by now, and weren’t prone to getting uptight over such things—especially with the enterprise shaping up so successfully.
The Measure
was now projecting to be profitable within a few short months. It would be the first of Mpar’s six new interstellar commercial ships to reach that status, and, correspondingly, the first successful commerce vessel operating in the Erobian Sphere.

The sliding door in the rear opened and Trodenmark arrived.

“What have we got?” he asked as he came around the railing that separated the command pit from the upper perimeter of the rectangular bridge.

Trodenjo was half-sitting on the railing and didn’t bother standing up. He pointed to the medium-sized screen over Shaldan’s workstation before answering his brother.

“There it is. The surrendered Latian fleet, peacefully drifting over a beautiful gas giant.”

“Hmm,” Trodenmark said. “Hard to see from here.”

Trodenjo turned his head. “Can we get closer, Admiral?”

Admiral Farenbart only nodded from the command pit and mumbled some instructions to the senior navigator. The Measure responded and the view of the moored Latian fleet gradually became large on the viewing screens about the bridge.

“Quite an ominous site,” Trodenmark said. “Let’s not get
too
close. I’m actually glad we didn’t know about it the first time we came through here.”

Shaldan looked up from his station and said, “Information is the most valuable commodity. Right, Trodenjo?”

Trodenjo hesitated to respond. As the lead merchant, he recognized the truth in that statement. But he also knew it wasn’t in Mpar’s best interest to be in the intelligence business. That was a dangerous profession, especially in unstable times. The crew of The Measure was quickly becoming aware of just how unstable the current times really were. That made it all the more important for them to establish a reputation as a neutral and entirely profit-motivated commercial venture.

“Yes and no, Shaldan. It’s critical we stay apprised of interstellar political relations, yes. And there’s certainly a market for information. But The Measure will never deal in that particular commodity. We seek it solely for purposes of our own security.”

Shaldan shrugged. He was young and idealistic, but Trodenjo knew he also respected the business savvy of his superiors. The kid would be a good trader someday, assuming Trodenjo remained his mentor. For now, Shaldan was content to handle merchant communications and learn. That’s where most of the action was anyway.

Trodenjo noticed his brother looking disturbed as he surveyed the Latian fleet.

“What’s the matter?”

Trodenmark shook his head. “I regret asking to come closer. It shudders me to think that if we—or anyone else who might be in the area—should fire a single missile into one of those ships, the whole fleet might blow in a chain reaction, possibly taking us with them.”

“I doubt the security systems are as sensitive as that,” Trodenjo replied. “And we aren’t as close as we appear. I thought you’d enjoy the sight. Why are you so easily rattled all of a sudden? What happened to the fearless merchant marine who signed on with this outfit?”

“I think he disembarked at Dirg.”

Trodenjo laughed. “Didn’t care for the Dirgs, did you? They weren’t so bad. Offered some interesting items for our catalog, and we have them profiled enough now that we ought to be able to target goods for them. We’ll make customers out of the Dirgs yet.”

“No, it’s not that. They were the last world we visited along the outer rim, and the only receptive race out there, if you want to call that receptive. Everything we’ve learned about that region is discouraging. If our government had gotten a sniff of how much war is really in the wind on this side of the sphere, I doubt they would have sanctioned our project.”

Trodenjo stood up off the rail and faced his younger brother.

“The time for interstellar commerce has arrived,” he said. “It’s only proper that the Mparians pioneer it. We must adapt to the environment we find ourselves in, and make the best of it.”

“Without accidentally making enemies, you mean.”

“Of course. That would be unproductive.”

Trodenmark looked back at the screen. “I wonder if it can be avoided. We’re bound to eventually upset someone, or at least draw suspicion of having made political alliances.”

“That’s why it’s important for us to establish a reputation for nonpartisanship.” Trodenjo raised his voice as he walked around the front railing. “You worry too much, brother. Forget about those unreceptive worlds on the outer edge. We’ve established trading relationships with a dozen different races already. That’s plenty. We’ll disregard the others for a while. I’m all for playing it safe.”

“Glad to hear it,” Trodenmark said. “But I’m still unsettled. We’ll have to travel to Dirg in order to trade with them. There’s something about that whole region that doesn’t feel right. Don’t you think it’s odd that only the outer worlds have outright refused us?”

“I suppose. Maybe their remote locations have something to do with it. I’m just happy we’ve set up a viable operation, and faster than expected. Now it’s time to start doing business. Speaking of which, you better prepare the landing party. We’ve done enough gawking here.”

“The borer’s already on the shuttle. We’re ready when you are. When do you expect the Bolkans to deliver the rest of them?”

“Soon.” Trodenjo flashed his corner teeth. “We’ll tell the Sulienites to expect them any day. As enthusiastic as the Bolkans are about this deal, I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if they beat us here.”

Trodenjo turned back to the command pit.

“All right, Admiral. We’re done. Pull us up to Hydro-Dwarf 28.”

Camp Store Mercenary Course, C4 Banor

Alan sensed the second group of young Banorians was about to be ambushed. He remembered now, it was always the second group. The first group had already come up the front side of the trench and was crawling through the tall goliagrass towards the final target range.

Which side the ambush would come from, and exactly who would get them, he couldn’t tell. Jumper and Kayla vanished in the far woods twenty minutes ago, so they could be anywhere by now. Their two assistants were positioned behind the rocks on this side of the field, below the observation platform, waiting to pick off any overanxious snipers.

And then there was you-know-who, the x-factor, a foe who operated mostly by smell and had remarkable patience. Unless he lost interest and decided to take a bath.

He didn’t this time. Alan detected an unnatural rustle in the brush just above the bend in the trench and knew he was in there, crouched like a compressed spring.

“I think I saw some bushes above the ditch move against the wind,” Brandon said.

Alan nodded. “I saw it, too. Hope these guys are tougher than they look.”

The two of them watched as the three teenage natives rounded the bend in the trench below. One of them took off running ahead of the others. That must have been an inspired move. He scrambled up the embankment and wriggled into the goliagrass.

His two companions were about to pay for their over-cautiousness. As they crept forward, the bushes on the ridge above them suddenly danced. A dark red blur flew forth and landed on the youth in the rear. His chilling scream echoed across the range. The victim’s remaining companion was so startled he fell and dropped his weapon. Alan couldn’t blame him for that. His friend sounded so horrified it even made Alan instinctively start to reach for a weapon he didn’t have. Brandon only laughed.

The great cat then pounced on the companion, pinning him and bringing his large fangs close to his neck. Now Alan laughed. Casanova really did seem to enjoy these games every bit as much as Jumper and Kayla. Satisfied with his kill, Casanova sprang up from the trench and vanished in the tall grass. His two victims stayed in place, appearing resigned. One of them had his hands on his chest.

A firefight then broke out in the rocky dunes beyond them. Jumper and Kayla must have located the third group. It was a running fight, moving forward towards the grassy field at the end of the course.

The first group, well-hidden in the grass, seized the opportunity and revealed their position by taking shots at the final targets. Jumper’s assistants opened fire on them from behind the boulders on their right, but it was too late. The first group was good. They took out the targets, so now only needed to slink through the last patch of goliagrass without getting hit.

“Come on,” Alan said to Brandon. “It’s about over.”

Brandon followed him off the observation deck and back through the camp store. Alan stopped briefly before the front door to examine one of the float suits hanging on the wall. He brushed some dust off it before continuing.

“How’s business?” Brandon asked when they were outside.

“Steady. Busy enough to depress Derek, anyway.”

“That was my next question.”

“Yeah,” Alan said. “He prefers it slow. That’s when he gets to tinker with his other inventions. When we get a big float suit order, he starts mumbling about ‘the establishment’ and how he’s ashamed of himself for being a ‘sell-out.’ Sometimes I have to adjust his attitude by threatening to quit and come work here at the camp store.”

“Would you ever really do that?”

“No. I’m taking Jumper and Kayla in measured doses these days.”

“How are they doing?” Brandon asked.

Alan shrugged. “On again, I guess—for the last few months, anyway. Honestly, I get tired of keeping track. I think Jumper needs a break, though.” He chuckled. “That’s why I’m here. You?”

Brandon’s expression turned serious. “I have an important bit of business to discuss with Jumper.”

They turned the corner and started walking the path that led to the staging area for the mercenary course. The three natives from the first group had already come out of it and were standing above the final target range pointing to spots in the grass, probably where they thought their friends still were. They were laughing and seemed pleased with themselves.

On the trail a ways behind them, two of their friends were slowly approaching. Those were the ones Casanova ambushed. They had taken the dead soldier’s path off the course.

As Alan and Brandon joined the group of victorious youths, more laser fire came from the grass directed at the final targets. Crossfire then erupted from both sides of the field, attempting to pick off the snipers. A few minutes later, another youth emerged from the front side of the field with his hands victoriously held above his head. He was the one who ran ahead and left his two squad members to become Casanova’s lunch.