Phantoms

by T. R. Harris

  One of the enemy ships exploded, an indicator on the right-hand screen showing the graphic.

  “Excellent shot, Summer!” Tidus complimented. “I will move us to the left and then swing back. Prepare to engage the target designated K-3.”

  The Juirean had a small representation of the targeting computer at his station, allowing him to work in concert with the gunner. He guided the warship over, and Summer opened fire. There were more incoming bolts, but instead of targeting the ships firing the weapons, she locked on the bolts themselves. She fired. It was a phenomenal feat, hitting incoming bolts with bolts of her own. Blinding light filled the pilothouse as the plasma balls met and splattered in brilliant, short-lived flashes.

  Next, she lined up on the nearest enemy vessel. At the relative speeds of the two ships, she had to be especially tight with her leading. She pulled off another amazing shot, threading between the two main portside diffusion shields on the Cartel ship and burning a hole through the side hull. It didn’t explode, but lost power and fell out of the fight.

  Even before Tidus could line up another target, Summer disabled a third enemy ship, placing two direct hits to its rear gravity generator nodes.

  “Bring us around,” Summer said to Tidus. “Head directly toward the one in front of us.”

  “But your weapons will not be aligned.”

  “I’ll use the forward battery.”

  “You know how to access it?”

  “Yes! Just do it.”

  Tidus obliged, and a moment later the two vessels were racing toward one another at many thousands of kilometers per hour, playing a deadly game of chicken.

  “I will steer off in ten sec—”

  “No, stay your course. I have this.”

  The Cartel ship had a formidable diffusion shield protecting its nose, just as the Formilian vessel. Summer didn’t care. She lined up and fired a quick succession of six bolts from the forward turret, each aimed at the center of the enemy shield. But she staggered the shots, each a split second behind the other.

  Now they hit the screen, instantly absorbed and diffused as the system did its job. But the bolts kept coming. By the fourth hit, the shield was overloaded and shut down, leaving the bow of the Cartel ship exposed to the next two bolts.

  The flash from the explosion once again filled the cockpit of the Formilian vessel. She checked her screen for another target, disappointed when she saw the two rapidly fading energy signatures of the remaining Cartel ships bugging out.

  She didn’t wait for things to settle down before slapping the center release buckle on her safety harness and lifting herself from the chair in the zero gravity. The internals were offline—maybe for good. She unstrapped her unconscious father and pulled him into the air. A moment later—with one hand gripping Monty’s shirt and the other pulling them along the ceiling—she headed aft to Monty’s stateroom.

  She lay her father on the bed with securing straps to hold him in place; then she ripped open his bloody shirt. His lower abdomen was covered in blood, the previously sewn-up wound hidden by the thick coating of red liquid. She glided out into the corridor, where she pulled an emergency first aid kit from the wall. A few minutes later, she had the wound cleaned and a thick pad of gauze taped across his stomach. It wasn’t as bad as it seemed. Half the staples had come out, but the others held. The blood was bright red, as well, indicating that none of the repairs to his internal organs had ruptured. She gave him a shot of Human-compatible pain killer before drifting away again, holding herself secure to an overhead stanchion, gazing down at her unconscious father.

  Tidus appeared at the doorway.

  “How is he?”

  “He’s okay. It looks worse than it is. I’m going to replace the staples with some of that fancy sealing gel in the kit. It’s supposed to be non-toxic to Humans.”

  “That it is,” the Juirean confirmed.

  Summer looked at the alien. “Are they gone?”

  Tidus nodded. He gave Summer a very Human-like grin. “I believe they were surprised by your expertise at the firing controls. I admit, as was I.”

  “It just made sense after a while. But we also got lucky.”

  “Lucky, indeed. And skill, obviously. I know you are proficient with an arrow device, and even smaller energy and ballistic weapons. But your targeting and execution of the flash cannon were… I am having difficulty finding the right description.”

  “Thanks,” Summer said, embarrassed by the alien’s awkward attempt at a compliment. “How’s the ship?”

  The question brought a sour look to the narrow, light green face of the Juirean. “Not well. There are multiple hull leaks which we have no means of repairing. One generator is offline, probably permanently, and as you can tell, the internals are not functioning again, something I will not be able to repair.”

  “Can we call the Colony Ship and get someone out here to pick us up?”

  “Unfortunately, the first strike sheared off the Continuous Wormhole communication array from the top of the hull. We have standard comms, but not CW. It will take too long for a signal to reach the Colony Ship before our atmosphere runs out. As an alternative, I have done a quick survey of the surrounding space. There is a planet within range.”

  “You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”

  “It is a world called Sasin.”

  “Do you know the place?”

  Tidus nodded. “I do, from my time with Priority Acquisitions. It is a lawless planet that recently has become even worse.”

  “Worse? Why?”

  “The refugees,” Tidus said. “As Kracion and the Klin cut their path of death across the galaxy, refugees flooded into space and sought protection on a hundred worlds.”

  “I know that,” Summer said. “I was there, remember?”

  “Then as you know, the powerful and the wealthy were able to find permanent refuge among the more elite worlds of the Expansion, and to a limited degree, within the Human Union. However, the others—the common people, the workers on ships between worlds and the former military with nowhere to go—have had a harder time finding planets that will accept them. Some have managed, but the ones which no one else will allow in have come to Sasin. The planet was a disgusting cesspool before. Now I suspect it has become the most dangerous place in the galaxy.”

  “And Sasin is our only option?”

  “Yes.”

  “But we’ll be able to call Adam when we get there, right?”

  “That should be possible. We do have credits, for as long as we can keep them. I will study Sasin more thoroughly during our transit to the planet. It is three days away, utilizing the shallow gravity well we can muster after the damage. But I must warn you. By then, we will be confined to spacesuits for breathing. We should begin our preparations. It will not be a pleasant three days.”

  2

  Arieel Bol lay naked on the beach in all her breathtaking glory while leaving nothing to the imagination. Adam Cain shifted self-consciously next to her, trying to maintain his composure. Even though he’d opted for swim trunks that morning, he still felt as if every eye on the beach was watching him. He was living in a fishbowl, in a Hell of his own making.

  “Why take clothing into the water?” Arieel had asked that morning when she saw what he was wearing. “They will only get wet.”

  Adam couldn’t argue with her logic, especially since that seemed to be the prevailing attitude of the creatures on the alien beach, as no one but Adam was wearing, well, anything. Arieel basked in his discomfort.

  “You must be accepting, Adam Cain,” she said, a wicked smirk on her full, pouty lips. “On Formil, we have a more open acceptance of our bodies, as well as the act of lovemaking.”

  That was obvious. Adam looked beyond the few guards who stood nearby, securing a small section of the beach for the Speaker of the Formilian People and her consort. There were dozens of unbelievably gorgeous native hunks and babes beyond the cordon, lounging, cavorting or otherwise engaged in open acts of
a sexual nature. No one seemed to care.

  Maybe if I looked like them, I wouldn’t care either, Adam thought. Each of the Formilians—male and female—were prime examples of their gender, perfectly proportioned, incredibly fit and tinged with a light bronze skin tone that defied the burning rays of the Formilian sun.

  “With the Mad Aris defeated, you must allow yourself the opportunity to relax,” Arieel said, causing him to return his attention to her stunning… everything. “Our vacation will soon come to an end, and we will return to our appointed responsibilities. We must make every moment count.”

  Looking at the wonder that was Arieel Bol didn’t help Adam relax. Quite the contrary. He blinked several times while his mouth hung slack. It was like this every time he gazed upon the amazing creature commonly referred to as the Most Beautiful Prime Female in the Galaxy. Adam had to admit the title had merit, even though Arieel was over a hundred Formilian years old, middle-aged for her species. She was the face of Formil, the leader of the planet, and the person most associated with the race. However, looking along the beach at the younger versions of Arieel frolicking in the sand and surf—as well as otherwise engaged—Adam could detect subtle differences. He didn’t care. Arieel Bol was still a work of art—his work of art—of which he was intimately familiar with every brush stroke, every sensual detail.

  Adam was no spring chicken himself—but, unlike Arieel, he showed it—which only added to his insecurity. He was grateful—as well as a little perplexed—that Arieel still found him appealing, especially in light of the reality that was flaunting itself nearby. Formilian males—every last one of the bastards—were more male than Adam, and they weren’t shy about showing it. Maybe that was why Arieel worked him so hard when they were alone? He had a lot of compensating to do.

  “I’m trying to relax, Arieel,” Adam grumbled. “It’s just that I’m not as comfortable as all of you seem to be out here in the open.”

  “You are a fine Human specimen, my love,” she consoled. “You should be proud.”

  Adam spied a young Formilian couple as they strolled by. He sighed as Arieel giggled. “I prefer skill and experience over raw exuberance,” she said coyishly.

  Raw exuberance, yeah, right.

  Adam was just thankful Arieel had given him a chance to catch his breath. For the past four days, the pair hadn’t left their room at the tropical resort in the equatorial latitudes of Formil. Arieel wouldn’t let them. Having survived the harrowing war with Kracion—the Mad Aris—each deserved time off, if only to deflate, relax and enjoy each other’s company. But Arieel had a strange way of relaxing. If it hadn’t been for Adam’s enhanced strength and stamina—thanks to the residual effects of his recent mind-meld with Panur—all this relaxation might have killed him. Acknowledging her insatiable sexual appetite, Arieel offered him a day off to lounge in the sun, swim in the crystal clear waters of the bay, or otherwise regain his strength. He would need it. There were another three days left before he was due back on the Colony Ship.

  As Arieel lay back again, with none of her assets sagging even a bit to either side or up and down, Adam took another look at the people on the beach, convinced they were watching his every move. Nearly all were Formilians since the shock of Kracion’s horrific tenure was still being felt throughout the galaxy. Leisure travel wasn’t something most species were ready to resume, leaving the tranquil and picturesque strip of white-sand beach and its five-star resort to natives and their guests.

  As before, no one was watching Adam—the lone Human on the beach. No one cared.

  That’s when Adam spotted him. He was about half a kilometer away, seated in the shade of one of the open-air bars closer to the main resort. If it hadn’t been for Adam’s enhanced eyesight—thanks again to the mind-meld—he would have missed him. But there he was, a short creature with a pair of electronic binoculars, looking down the beach at him and Arieel.

  Adam cringed at the sight of the alien. He’d only experienced this race once before, with a prominent scar along his lower left side as a reminder. They were called Holaconese, and they were color-shifters. It had been nearly twenty years before, on the planet Zyrum-4, but still, the memory was vivid.

  At the time, Adam witnessed a Holaconese spy take a direct hit to the side of his head from Riyad’s fist and snap right back. That didn’t happen, not with aliens. These bastards were tough. And that was only the first surprise the four-and-a-half-foot-tall alien held in store for him. When Adam lifted the creature to question him, he discovered Holaconese sported a second set of small arms positioned at mid torso. The knife held by the hidden hand barely missed Adam’s spleen.

  Arieel said the scar was sexy. But that’s what she said about the other dozen or so souvenirs decorating his body.

  Adam pretended to casually scan the beach while keeping an eye on the alien. From his overt use of the binoculars, it was obvious he felt secure that Adam couldn’t see him at this distance. And Adam was the target; that was clear since the creature wasn’t moving the spyglass along the shore, taking in the more glorious sights found thereon.

  Adam rolled over and kissed Arieel. “I’ll be right back.”

  As he went to stand, she pulled him onto her cushy breasts.

  “Do not start something you are not willing to finish,” she purred, keeping his face and lips close to hers.

  “Really, I’ll be right back. I need to check on something.”

  “Do not be gone long. You have once again ignited my internal flames.”

  Adam felt like a jerk when he stood up, thinking, really, not again? What was wrong with him? He sighed, looking down at Arieel’s gorgeous body. Too much of a good thing can definitely be hazardous to one’s health.

  Adam scooped up his facemask and moved toward the lapping shoreline of the crescent-shaped bay. The water was warm and clear. He wetted the lens before spitting onto the interior plate. Then he rinsed it again and slipped it over his head.

  After a few steps, he dove under the surface, reveling in the welcoming embrace of the ocean. To the Southern California native and former Navy SEAL, it felt like home. He came up once, took in a deep breath, and then dove under again.

  He kicked and moved deeper toward the white, sandy bottom, which was occasionally dotted by beds of seagrass waving in the light current. There was a myriad of sea life around, with the same abundance of colorful fish as found on Earth. It was easy for him to forget he was on an alien world nearly nineteen thousand light-years from his home.

  He kicked with his newfound strength, picking up speed while turning north and paralleling the shoreline. Another of the consequences of his recent mind-meld was he could now hold his breath for nearly ten minutes. He’d discovered this ability earlier in the day and was mesmerized by the freedom he felt staying under for so long without tanks or even a snorkel. As his legs moved, propelling him forward, Adam felt more a part of the sea than ever before.

  He continued underwater for several minutes until he came to one of the small volcanic islands that dotted the shallow bay. This one was just past the row of bars and restaurants outside the back entrance to the resort and about fifty meters out in the water.

  He surfaced. The spy was still in the shade of the bar, but now he was standing, using his binoculars to scan the waters out from where Arieel lay. Adam had submerged, and as far as the alien knew, hadn’t resurfaced. His target was out of sight, and the spy was beginning to panic.

  Adam moved toward the shore alligator-style, with just the top of his head breaking the surface. When his knees and hands reached the sandy bottom, he continued to crawl along until he had no choice but to stand up. He put a foot forward onto the sand—and froze.

  His foot—something wasn’t right. He took another step. Both his feet were like this.

  Tiny crescents of skin grew between his toes, forming webs; yet as he watched, the skin began to recede. A moment later, his feet were back to normal.

  Adam nodded, knowing what was happening. Pa
nur—his five-thousand-year-old, immortal mutant genius friend—was also a shapeshifter. His longevity was a result of his ability to instantly regenerate his cells, and as a consequence, Panur could direct those cells into just about any form he wished. Several years back, he’d even impersonated Adam during a gladiator fight with a Nuorean warrior.

  Adam was light-years away from being able to do that. But still, he had a little shapeshifting ability in him. He smirked. A little skin between his toes—he wasn’t impressed, especially since he hadn’t made a conscious decision to turn his feet into swim fins. That was something his subconscious did on its own. He took a quick mental inventory of his newfound abilities; they didn’t add up to much. Sure, increased strength, durability and endurance helped. But enhanced hearing, eyesight, and the ability to hold his breath for a long time—and now this. He was still a long way from becoming Superman.

  Adam moved swiftly across the warm sand to the nearest bar, coming up behind the spy. The tiny alien’s attention remained fixated on the water beyond the shore. His target was out there, somewhere. He was sure of it.

  Pulling a decorative fishing net from the wall of the bar, Adam stepped up behind the spy. He knew these things were tough and shifty. He wasn’t taking any chances.

  Adam threw the net over the alien, then tossed aside the table at which he’d been sitting. He swept a leg and knocked the spy off his feet. Grabbing the bottom of the net, Adam pulled tight, wrapping the course strands around the struggling creature. Next, he took a chair and planted it over the alien, the legs threaded through the net and buried into the sand, pinning the squirming creature in place.