by Drew Avera
“I might advise against that, Captain,” Deis said, the look of worry on his face defying the obvious attempt at humor in his words. Deis wasn’t enjoying the ride before the chaos began and Brendle doubted things were getting any better for the man, if the paleness in his face was any indication.
Frustrated, Brendle refastened the harness and swore under his breath. “She’s going to need me up there,” he said. The truth was he felt he was needed up there and that was close enough in his opinion. He could only imagine all the ways she was cursing him for making her do this. Little does she know I’m cursing myself too.
The Replicade dove again, this time rolling starboard before pulling nose-up. The g-forces pressed against their bodies, driving the blood from their heads. Brendle forced his breathing, struggling to keep the blood in his brain long enough not to pass out. The attempt was negligible, as his vision tunneled. From the corner of his eye he could see the others sitting limply in their seats, no longer conscious. He hoped against all hope that Anki was all right without him, but he imagined she was struggling just as hard as the rest of them. Perhaps she had it worse because she had the burden of being on the bridge alone to deal with the situation. It was too much for someone with little experience piloting a ship to be expected to deal with. He was sure that despite the autopilot doing what was necessary to keep the Replicade aloft, Anki was afraid she would kill them all. That is one of her best traits, her selflessness, he thought.
The ship continued to climb, banking in abnormal directions as the autopilot tried to evade the transport stalking them. Brendle kept an eye on the monitor as the Replicade jostled him around in his seat. Slowly, but surely, it moved out of targeting range as the transport fell back. Still within the red-zone range of the transport’s ballistic weapons, Brendle was surprised the pirates didn’t fire. They might not cripple us from this distance, but why go through all this trouble if you’re not trying to take us out?
The ship listed again, causing Brendle to feel more disoriented as his equilibrium struggled to compensate for his body’s relative position in space. The fluttering of his heart and heavy breathing were exhausting. His fingers tightened onto the armrests of his chair, an exertion he was not able to maintain for long as blood and oxygen pumped more slowly to his muscles. Feeling weak from the constant strain, Brendle finally succumbed to the lowered blood pressure associated with high-g maneuvering. His eyes fluttered, fighting to maintain consciousness before they slowly closed. The only consolation, as he drifted off to unwanted sleep, was that the transport seemed to have disappeared from the monitor. For all intents and purposes, to his groggy mind, the red illumination was gone and they were safe from being boarded.
At least for now.
9
Crase
Finding the Replicade amongst the crisscrossing pattern of radio frequencies shooting out towards the stars was perhaps the simplest hunt he’d had in many years. Usually, a stolen ship would be masked, the transponder sending out a myriad of codes pinging back and forth between the ship and a planetary base, sometimes more than one base, depending on how scattered the signal needed to be. That mask would cloak who, or what, the vessel truly was and seldom was cause for much concern on Farax. Hell, Crase used them all the time. Of course, he would never risk flying into a heavily policed territory and being pinged with a masked transponder—planets like Greshia would disintegrate you upon discovery—but it worked best when no one was really looking for you anyway. As luck would have it, the Replicade chirped with the same codes Crase had programmed into it almost two years before.
“I thought I lost you,” he whispered under his breath as the small transport careened towards the chirping radio frequencies coming from his estranged warship. The Replicade was not yet visible to the naked eye, but there was no denying the signature of its transponder, it was as distinguishable as fingerprints and DNA. Crase’s heart beat faster as he propelled towards the ship, longing to possess her again. It’s only a matter of time, he thought. I will catch you, hunt you, and claim you again.
Neular slept restlessly in the back of the transport, the hushed moans of a man dying from the poisonously high iron content in his blood crept into Crase’s ears, drawing his attention away from the monitor for a moment. A sense of impending loss echoed between his fascination with finding his stolen ship and the fact his most loyal subject was on the brink of death. Crase dared not think of him as a friend, but the man’s obedience was a trait he had learned to respect from the Lechun man. To have to replace that was a fate far worse than losing a ship in Crase’s mind. “You’ll live,” Crase whispered. “By the gods, if I have anything to say about it, you’ll live.”
From his place in Faraxian space, Crase canted his head back to the monitors and watched through the imaging coming into his feed as the Replicade’s digital trajectory appeared to send her silently rushing towards Farax. He commanded the sensor array of his transport to magnify the feed, to construct an image from the noise it picked up. After several seconds the Replicade appeared, simply a rendering of lifelike proportions, but not exactly as his eyes would see it were he close enough. Despite that, he marveled at her. The Replicade was beautiful, if slightly grainy in his feed, the stalking predator of war coasting silently under thrust at no more than twenty-percent of its drive’s full power. So much untapped potential, and so many missed opportunities to release that ship into becoming a mistress of the ever-dying war against silent rebellion, he thought. There were many buyers for the kind of armament available on such a war machine. Her cannon fire alone would be unmatched in most systems, her ability to execute and deliver violence, rendering the targets asunder in such brutal mortality. The Replicade consisted of modified technology, masked by an aged warship’s hull, but with the same capability as the modern Greshian destroyers ripping entire planets to shreds. She would fetch a decade’s wage if he could get his hands back on her. The powers that be were hungry for the devastation she could provide, and Crase wanted nothing more than to hand her over to them. The blood would flow and lead back to the money he would use to buy a new life as someone else, forever disappearing from the tether of Greshian occupancy.
Crase’s mouth watered as he imagined the Replicade screaming into atmosphere, guns blazing from precision-guided turrets, unloading the wrath of vengeful gods. And yet the messenger of those gods would not be Greshian. Not if he had his say. Though Greshia would be the ones to blame. The highest cost of war is death, and there will be much, he thought, the curling of his lips reflected in the monitors as he stared hungrily at the Replicade and all the opportunities she afforded.
A guttural groan from Neular drew Crase’s attention away again. He turned to his dying subject, the gray skin of the Lechun man faded to something much paler, and dire. He needed medical attention if he was going to live. Crase knew that Lechuns had sensitivity to metals in their bloodstream, but he’d never seen a Lechun descend so close to death in such a short period of time. The only thing that made sense was that the shrapnel in Neular’s leg had been contaminated by a chemical reaction with the explosives used to destroy it. The only hope was for Crase to get Neular to a dialysis machine to clean the blood. But where can I find one of those? Like a match striking, he realized that the Replicade had a medical bay far more advanced than any station within the vicinity. It’s a chance I have to take, Crase thought, immediately pivoting his transport to follow the Replicade. If this doesn’t work, I may need to rely on an old friend, but I’m not so sure she will see our relationship the same way.
“You’re not going to die on me,” he whispered, and he meant it. Time was running out, but Crase always had a plan. You don’t survive this long without thinking fast and reacting faster.
The transport dove towards the Faraxian atmosphere, engulfed by scorching flames as the hull burned away the poisonous air, forcing the transport to slow against gravity’s will. The Replicade was designed to enter atmosphere without slowing down, something that gave
the warship a distinct advantage when it came to offensive strikes. The transport Crase piloted was not the Replicade, though.
The ship drifted further away as Crase increased the speed of the transport. It buckled and groaned under the pressure as its small drive fought to compensate against the crushing thick air. The pressure of the atmosphere changing caused Crase’s ears to pop and he opened and closed his jaw to try to level out his equilibrium. The distraction made tracking the Replicade more difficult as he struggled to maintain an ideal trajectory and speed that would not cause the transport to implode from the increased pressure.
Not wanting to lose his precious ship, Crase targeted it with his radar, hoping to obtain a lock on her, to track the ship’s movements as it screamed past the rocky terrain below where he knew he might lose sight of her. He couldn’t let her escape. Not again.
Locking onto the Replicade, his transport followed at a set interval. Typically, a ship would not enter atmosphere for a routine stop without all of its sensor arrays scanning for hostiles. The most precarious time for a warship was when it was prone, pulled by gravity and lacking the agility provided in vacuum. This was especially one of those precarious moments, entering Faraxian airspace, a space known for hijacking and piracy. The fact he was almost certain it was piloted by civilians made him hope against hope that even if they picked up on the targeting, that they wouldn’t know how to respond. He doubted they would fire at him; transports weren’t designed to carry arms, though that didn’t have much impact on the craft he piloted now. If he was forced to, he had enough fire power to cripple the Replicade, rendering it to nothing more than a salvageable heap of twisted metal. If his theory about civilians piloting the Replicade was true, they might launch a defensive just because he was painting them. Either way, it made him nervous, but he had no other choice.
That wasn’t going to happen if he could help it.
The Replicade crept farther away, the vectoring nozzle of the drive widening as more thrust was driven through her bowels. “They noticed,” he said, tapping away at the transport’s heavily modified console. He tightened his restraints as the transport followed the ship, diving and banking as it followed its target ruthlessly. He imagined the maneuvering of the Replicade felt more controlled than what he was experiencing in the smaller craft, struggling to keep up with the larger, more powerful vessel. This is what I get for blowing up a perfectly good ship just to prove a point.
The hull shuddered beneath him, groaning and crying out, metal screeched against metal, as the g-forces acted upon it. This is stupid, Crase thought. I can’t keep up with her and survive. This transport is going to rip its own wings off before I can catch up to her. Ahead of him, the Replicade banked hard and climbed, but he didn’t allow the transport to follow. Instead, he overrode the auto-pilot and slowed the transport enough to no longer be in the red zone. Out of targeting range, he knew the Replicade would not register the threat any longer and it might settle the crew onboard. The last thing he needed was to be shot at.
If nothing else, he knew the Replicade was on Farax now, and with his ear to the ground, he would find her again. But first he had another priority, and the ship hunt would have to wait.
He turned to check on Nuelar, who was still unconscious from his wound. Crase hoped his ambitions to follow the lost ship had not brought more harm to his subject. He swallowed hard, thinking of how hard losing Neular would be. He’d grown so used to having his support that he did not want to experience not having it in the future. Now was not the time for sentiment, though. He banked the transport south and headed towards the only person on Farax he remotely trusted. He just hoped that trust could be reciprocated now. There were a lot of years for healing, or for the seed of hate to grow. He hoped for the former as the transport headed to new coordinates.
Crase settled back into his seat, the gentle hum of the transport’s drive reverberating through the steel bulkhead of the craft. He could see the fading dot that was the Replicade pulling away on his starboard side. Crase bit his lip and inhaled deeply. He wasn’t the kind of person to let something go, but there were larger stakes than his pride. He would focus on one thing at a time, and once Neular was back on his feet, together they would reclaim the Replicade.
10
Anki
Seemingly out of harm’s way, Anki allowed herself a sigh of relief. Her hands hurt from the white-knuckled grip she had held on the armrests of her chair through the duration of the ship’s evasion. She had barely had enough time to get strapped in before the first lurch of the Replicade cast her forward, the straps digging into her shoulders. Her throat was sore from screaming, but it wasn’t purely fear of the situation that made her afraid. A part of her mind mirrored the current events with the day her world was destroyed. It took her a few minutes to pull herself together, but the screaming continued, this time from her warrior perspective as she urged Pilot on while the AI maneuvered the ship. The entire evasive procedure had lasted only a few minutes, but in her head it seemed to last hours. That was the adrenaline, she thought as she removed her restraints and rubbed at her sore shoulders.
The triggered alarm was gone, and the monitor now showed the transport craft no longer painting them. It seemed to have given up the chase. She could still see it on the screen, nothing more than a speck falling further away from the Replicade. For the time being, they were out of harm’s way. At least for now, she thought as Brendle enter the bridge, panting.
“You look as bad as I feel,” Anki said sarcastically. He didn’t seem to get the joke, though.
“Are you all right?”
She rose from her seat, allowing the restraints to fall haphazardly to the deck. “Yes, I’m fine,” she answered. “Pilot took care of most of the heavy lifting. I think I may have passed out on one of the high-g maneuvers, but it was only for a few seconds. Other than being a little sore, I’m perfectly fine. How are Deis and Malikea?”
Brendle leaned against the console, trying to catch his breath. The blue light of the console reflected from his pale skin and accentuated his wide eyes. His face was paler than usual, probably from fear, she assumed, but there was a sign of relief in his eyes as well. “They are both fine. Malikea is a bit shaken, but I think that’s mostly because he hates flying. Of course, there seems to be a lot of things he complains about in high-stress situations,” Brendle answered. He ran his fingers through his sweaty hair and wiped them off on his coveralls, leaving a wet stain.
Anki smiled. “Yeah, he does, doesn’t he? You should let him know that it wasn’t that great for me either.”
Brendle chuckled as he stepped closer, his arms open for an embrace and she gave herself over to him, taking comfort in the warmth of his arms wrapping around her. Despite the fact she was sweaty too, it was from stress and not heat. The bridge was cold, and feeling Brendle’s touch was like wrapping up in a warm blanket. She felt at peace there. “I can relate to that,” he said, a mockingly playful tone to his voice.
Anki pulled back slowly. “Are you saying I’m not a very good pilot?”
Looking shocked, Brendle said, “I’m not saying that at all, but I also don’t feel comfortable not saying it…” he paused, eyebrows raised.
She knew he was fishing for a response, to be allowed to crack a joke despite the fact they very well could have died moments before. That was the thing about being in the military, though. Most people joked about death in order to take the power away from it. Something that people who did not serve in that capacity could not understand. It was a defense mechanism to prevent the brain from shutting down; it was why some people did extraordinary things in the face of danger. They were not crazy; they just didn’t perceive the danger in the same way any longer. She was glad she could share that mindset with someone else who understood. “Well I didn’t have a very good teacher now did I?” Anki replied.
Brendle shrugged and smiled sheepishly. “Actually, your lessons were very thorough. I thought we went over everything you needed to
know.”
Anki poked him in the ribs and he flinched. “You forgot the lesson about what to do if we are pursued by space pirates. Don’t you think that would have been slightly helpful considering I just had to do that?”
Brendle pulled her back into his embrace, letting his chin rest on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, it wasn’t something I gave much thought to beforehand.”
That was not a very comforting response, not so much about what had just happened, but by what could happen when the ship was on the ground. “What does that mean for our time here on Farax?”
He was silent and she wondered if he had even thought that far in advance. It wasn’t a good sign to be so shortsighted as to fall into captivity when they were just trying to live free lives. “I’ll talk to Deis and see what he thinks. He and Malikea know a little more about Farax than I do, so maybe he’s experienced this sort of thing before.”
“And if he hasn’t?” She felt bad being pushy, but this was the sort of thing they should have expected coming into Farax. Being caught unaware wasn’t part of a plan she wanted to be involved in. Luthia had fallen due to a lack of proper planning. Because of that, she at least knew that having a solid plan was the best insurance for staying alive. Once again she thought the crew did a disservice by not talking to her about the plan. That was not something she would allow to be repeated in the future, regardless of whose feelings it might hurt.
Brendle shrugged, a grin spreading across his lips. “Then we vote on it, I guess.”
A vote? Anki didn’t think casting lots to determine their safety was that great of an idea, but knowing how serious the repairs needed to restore the Replicade were, and how small their supplies had grown, she understood why it was important to stay if they could.
