Spawn of Ganymede

by Christopher D Schmitz

  A loud creak rattled the nearby wall as the massive hydraulics opened the back partition of their facility and the dull roar of the Crusader’s engines momentarily deafened them. The loading ramp lowered and a lithe, red haired woman carrying boxes of takeout descended.

  “Who’s that?” Juice asked breathlessly.

  “That’s Vivian,” Guy said. “Vivian Briggs. Only surviving daughter of the famous war General Harry Briggs. We call her Vesuvius. She can get explosive at times,” Guy flapped the sock for good measure.

  “The forbidden fruit,” Mustache cautioned him. “I think she and Dekker are an item this week?” He looked to Guy for confirmation.

  Guy shrugged. “I dunno. They were yelling at each other last night, so my money says… yes?”

  Dekker finally followed her out of the ship carrying the few bags that remained of the catering. He wore a dour look.

  “I change my answer,” Guy quipped.

  Vesuvius and Dekker entered the room and dropped the catered meal on a table at the side of the room. “Good. You all made it. My apologies for not being here when you arrived. I had to wrap up that business with Doc and get the Crusader back before our next mission.”

  Mustache nudged Juice who jumped to his feet and offered a curt, introductory bow. “Mister Knight, sir. A pleasure to meet you. I’m…” Juice trailed off as a ripple of laughter circulated the room.

  Dekker stared down his nose at Juice and Mustache burst out in a loud guffaw, wagging his whiskers. His cheeks burned red with amusement.

  After a few long, withering moments of staring at the new guy, Dekker informed him, “It’s just Dekker. I don’t know what these guys told you in my absence, but it’s not as formal as any of the nonsense they do in the MEA. We expect duty and order, but we’re a family here.”

  “A big, dysfunctional family,” Vesuvius said. She tilted her head towards Dekker and her face softened.

  Juice nodded. The truth in what his comrades had said about the couple was written all over Vesuvius’s face.

  “And you,” Dekker raised an eyebrow at Guy, “stop messing with the new guys so close to a mission.”

  Guy held up the sock and jar and pointed to Juice to deflect his anger. “New guy brought a bomb to dinner.”

  Dekker rolled his eyes and chuckled. He and Vesuvius quickly arranged the spread they’d ordered from the caterer.

  Rock leaned back and murmured something about family traditions to Ahmed who sat next to him.

  “Have you seen or heard from Dirk?” Ahmed asked of their former member who’d lost a limb at Io.

  “I heard he’s not doing so well,” Vesuvius mentioned.

  Rock nodded. “Not much work out there for a crippled former Investigator. That blasted Peace For All Races group made sure of that.” An awkward silence passed for a moment. “I saw Dirk the other day in town; some of those PFAR jerks were harassing him, I chased em off, but Dirk wouldn’t let me buy him lunch, even. Not sure where he’s living, but he’s not been okay since leaving.”

  “Sometimes I think I ought to take a cue from Dirk and retire,” Mustache said, running his fingers through his salt-shot hair. “I ain’t as fast or strong as I used to be.”

  “Come on.” Vesuvius leaned into the conversation. “What would we do without your timeless, ancient wisdom,” she teased him.

  Mustache grinned and flashed her a smile. “Careful, girl. The moment one of y’all calls me Grandpa is when I finally show off how fast I still am.”

  She laughed, “How speedy you can file for unemployment services, you mean?”

  “You know it.” Mustache lifted an empty glass and tilted it as if requesting a refill. “Alright, who’s got my calcium fiber drink?”

  Dekker stacked a heap of plates and turned and addressed the new guys. “Welcome to The Dozen.”

  Most of the crew got up to begin loading plates with food. Juice hung slightly back, his eyes dodging from person to person as he counted.

  Mustache nudged him again, sidling up beside him at the end of the line. “If you’re counting heads and planning about asking after the ‘Dozen’s’ math… don’t. It won’t make any sense,” he grinned. “We don’t always add up.”

  Juice nodded his thanks and grabbed one of the thirteen plates.

  “Alright guys,” Guy called out, fork in hand, “After we eat, who wants to go outside and blow this sock up?”

  10

  Zarbeth’s eyelids fluttered and opened. Blinding light and hot pain greeted him as he regained consciousness. He tried to move but couldn’t make any of his limbs work, except for his left arm.

  With grogginess still washing over him in waves, Zarbeth tried to use his arm to smooth the ruffled fur around his brows back so he could see. Nothing happened; he tried again to the same effect.

  With a momentary concentration of will he shook off the fugue and stared at his arm. Panic filled in his gut like a hot cloud: it was gone! Pink, fresh skin had just begun to scab over where the wound had been stitched. His other arm and legs were strapped to a bed.

  He thrashed against the restraints and heard his heart rate beeping dangerously fast. Am I in a hospital?

  A familiar voice called out. “Easy, Zarbeth. Calm down; you are among your people.” The Pheema put a hand on Zarbeth’s chest to settle his nerves.

  The wounded Krenzin settled back on his bed and suddenly remembered everything: the attack and theft of his master’s seed, with his arm still attached.

  Zarbeth’s eyes glossed with anguish. “Master… Master I failed you.”

  “It is okay,” The Pheema shushed him. “It’s not too late. But only you can help us now.”

  “But—but my arm. I lost it,” his voice cracked. “There’s no way that I can…”

  “Don’t worry about that right now,” the Krenzin religious leader soothed. He turned to indicate the other two persons in the room.

  An old woman wearing yellow robes and a matching cloak stared at him beneath her furrowed brows. Her stern gaze and stiff posture commanded the room. Next to her stood a thin humanoid. He seemed like a man, but Zarbeth could not tell; it did not smell human according to his keen feline nostrils. He wore only black and a cowled, dark mask hid his face and head.

  The faceless man stepped forward and Zarbeth’s pulse spiked.

  “These are my associates,” The Pheema said. “This is Leviathan. He has… special talents.”

  Zarbeth detected a waft of fear emitted via his master’s pheromones as he glanced to the other person. The woman in yellow said nothing, and The Pheema made no introduction. There remained no doubt that she was in control. Like a god, the old woman was beyond mention.

  Leviathan took Zarbeth by his hand. The sensation felt electric.

  “Easy,” The Pheema said. “Leviathan needs to go deep to get what we require. Just focus on your recollection of what happened.” He swallowed and cautioned, “There will be pain.”

  Zarbeth grimaced. “I understand.”

  Leviathan tilted his mask back on a hinge and revealed his twisted, scarred face. Empty eyes stared out from his lidless sockets and pierced Zarbeth’s mind like psychic daggers.

  Memories washed over Zarbeth like waves… the waves that had jostled him atop the ocean. He laid bleeding in his cockpit, floating upon the salt and foam. Zarbeth relived the pain and agony of the event.

  His mind felt the presence of the mental hitchhiker like a burning rash or stinging wound beneath the surface of his subconscious. Zarbeth relived the memory over and over as Leviathan sifted every detail: the face of his attacker, the thief’s smell and voice, the pain of losing an arm.

  Zarbeth’s ears rang, and he felt his master’s words ripple through his mind. “He has to go deeper.”

  Pain wracked his body and he felt his mind flayed atom by atom. His body stiffened in his restraints though Zarbeth didn’t know if they were of his hospital bed or the skiff’s crash couch. He felt the warmth of blood as it trickled from his nose. Zar
beth howled as the mental intruder ripped every detail from his mind, treating the Krenzin as if he were nothing more than some kind of organic recording device.

  As Leviathan found a useful memory, a moment of sudden clarity and peace found Zarbeth. The pain stopped, and he dwelled in the refuge for what seemed an eternity.

  Zarbeth’s eyes were dark—he’d been unconscious when he’d heard it: the intruder returned to his craft and a series of beeps chimed as the canopy closed on the invader’s Class A craft. The Krenzin merged seamlessly with Leviathan in that moment; he understood that Leviathan was somehow familiar with that ship.

  The notes played over and over as Leviathan played and replayed the memory. They echoed on, reverberating with maddening duration as it repeated in an infinite spiral.

  Everything suddenly clicked in the slowly churning blackness. Only the symphony of electronic tones permeated it, an orchestra of memorized notes.

  And then he suddenly awoke. Leviathan had returned to the yellow woman’s side.

  “It’s from the navigation computer,” Zarbeth said. “You know where my attacker went—where he took the package.”

  The old woman tilted her brow with measured movement towards The Pheema and at Leviathan. Her expression said it clearly: He was right, and now Zarbeth had outlived his usefulness.

  Leviathan gave a curt nod and grabbed the nearby syringe intended to silence the loose end.

  The Pheema blocked him. “No. He is one of mine. Loyalty of this kind,” he waved to the stump where his arm had been severed, “is difficult to come by.”

  “Very well,” said the woman in yellow. “He is your responsibility.”

  Leviathan picked up a different needle and plunged it into Zarbeth’s veins. A moment later, his eyes rolled back and an induced, healing coma consumed him, sending him back to the cockpit and the waves of black.

  11

  With a lurch, the Rickshaw Crusader dropped out of FTL in the Trappist system. Trappist 1, a stable red dwarf burned ahead and Matty fired up the engines with a smile. “It’s handling much better than when we left Io.”

  The broadcast system remained quiet. Its silence was a welcome reprieve from the burst of static and demands that MEA orbital outposts tended to issue whenever their vessel entered range. Expansion worlds, for all their potential danger, enjoyed certain benefits.

  Shortly afterward, the Crusader angled into the atmosphere and descended towards the city of Newhope. Sprawling across the landscape, Newhope boasted the curling plumes of smoke and washed out colors typical of industrial cities that bypassed the MEA’s environmental regulations. The city’s skeletal structures clawed for the air, protruding from the dirt landscape like zombie arms trying to escape Galilee’s crust.

  Matty spun the Crusader on its VTOL thrusters and set the ship down on a large patch of blasted earth in the overflow of an open air market. Dekker holstered a firearm on each thigh and walked towards the loading ramp as the hydraulic ramp lowered to the ground.

  “What, no reliquary this time?” Mustache slapped him on the shoulder.

  “And risk leaving it with one of you guys again? No way,” he grinned and pulled a fist-sized cartridge from his duster’s pocket and then slid it back into hiding. “The shells are too rare to leave them out where someone might set them off.”

  Mustache winked. “I can’t imagine someone would do that lightly.”

  Rock and Guy pulled out of the cargo bay, each driving an ATV, and hooked them up to a chain of trailers containing parts and equipment for Doc Johnson’s cousin. They traded nods with their leader and then set about their delivery task while Dekker descended the ramp; he had a different, personal mission.

  Vesuvius caught up to him at the bottom of the ramp and stepped shoulder to shoulder. “I dunno,” she said. “I kind of have a bad feeling about this whole thing. Should you be going alone?”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” he said. “But I ought to go and see my contact right away and he said to come alone. I’d hate to scare him away.”

  Vesuvius scowled. “Sounds like a setup to me. And like I said, something feels off about this place.”

  “I can take care of myself. And I have confidence you’ll be fine. It’s a simple transfer; we’re even paid in full for the job already.”

  She sighed. “At least give me a kiss before you go?”

  Dekker paused. “In front of the crew?”

  “Stop acting like such an old man and kiss me.” She stood on her toes and locked her lips on his. Vesuvius finally pulled away and said, “That was pretty weak. You owe me more when you get back.” She flashed him a wink and returned to the ship as Rock and Guy left with their cargo in tow.

  12

  Dekker walked through the rundown part of town. A cloister of dilapidated residential buildings leaned against each other.

  He checked his directions against the landmarks again and scanned the area for a door with a unique marking etched upon it. He spotted it and approached cautiously. The wooden landing and stairs threatened to buckle and splinter beneath his weight. Dekker was keenly aware that he’d been spotted by security cameras.

  The Investigator knocked.

  After a few long moments, the door creaked open, coming partly off the hinges as it swung free. “Can I help you?”

  “Are you the Dragonfly?”

  The grizzled old man tilted his head expectantly. His overly long and greasy hair slid down his shoulders; he had poor hygiene and a paunch. “Some have called me that. Come in, come in.”

  Dekker ducked through the door and followed his host through the dingy shop. It looked like every back-alley black market that he’d ever seen. Weapons and other kinds of illegal equipment and devices lay stacked and shelved along the walls.

  “They call me Bob,” the Dragonfly said, slipping behind the bar-top where he conducted business. A bank of surveillance monitors showed live feeds of all the shop’s access points. Bob nodded to the single barstool across from him.

  Dekker meandered through the makeshift store. His footsteps creaked on the wooden flooring. He leaned against the nearby wall instead of sitting at the stool; the surrounding floor had been stained dark ocher with telltale splatters.

  Bob’s expression seemed irked, but he asked, “You have one of the weapons?”

  Dekker nodded. “Do you have any of the ammunition?”

  “I’m not entirely certain that I know what you need exactly. May I see the gun?”

  “I didn’t bring it. Too valuable.”

  “Well, how am I supposed to…”

  Dekker retrieved the shell from his pocket and tossed it to him.

  Bob caught it. Excitement lit behind his eyes and he snapped his magnetic glasses around his face and held the cartridge into the light. He turned it over and over in his hand. “Yes… yes…” he murmured. His eyebrows raised and his voice hinted at awe. “These ones are marked with ancient Greek letters. How can that be?” He looked over at Dekker. “Your gun…”

  “The reliquary.”

  “Your reliquary… it works?”

  “I wouldn’t be looking for more ammunition if it didn’t. There are others? You’ve seen them?”

  Bob nodded enthusiastically. “I’ve seen two before. Neither of them worked. But I’ve heard stories—ancient tales of their power.”

  “And the ammo. What do you know?” Dekker asked, doing his best to appear relaxed.”

  “Very rare. I’ve seen three rounds. One in a language I did not know; two were marked with ancient runes.”

  “Are they available for purchase?”

  Bob shrugged. “I don’t know where they even are, anymore. I came across them long ago... before I’d even seen the broken weapons. I imagine they are priceless.”

  Dekker eyed the way Bob clutched the cartridge. “Then why did you bring me all this way?”

  Bob’s eyes flashed like flint.

  “You weren’t planning on shooting me and stealing my stuff, were you, Bob?�
� Dekker stood nonchalant, but he eyed him knowingly.

  The black market dealer looked away, to the stool that his guest had refused. He tensed and then snatched a scattergun from beneath his bar-top; it had been aimed at the vacant seat.

  Dekker yanked his guns free and dug them into Bob’s face before the man even got the weapon freed from its holder. “That was not a wise move, Bob.” He shoved the would-be thief far enough back that he couldn’t make a play for another weapon. He demanded, “My property?”

  Bob placed the shell into Dekker’s waiting hand and watched covetously as it disappeared into Dekker’s pocket.

  “How do you know so much about these weapons? Where did you hear stories of them?” Dekker tied Bob’s wrist with a length of cord.

  Bob growled, “The Book of Aang.”

  “Never heard of it. How do I get a copy?” Dekker pressed the muzzle of his pistol into Bob’s temple to punctuate his sentence.

  “I—I have a copy. Got it from those silver-haired freaks years ago… when Galilee was re-settled after the first failure.”

  The investigator raised an eyebrow.

  “I don’t trade with them no more,” he insisted as if that meant something to the off-worlder. “They been trying to run me out of business for two years now. It-it’s in the store room. I’ll tell you where the book is, just don’t kill me.”

  Dekker dragged the killer after him and over to the door.

  “The key’s above the door frame.”

  Dekker felt over the threshold and retrieved it. He put it into Bob’s hands. “Well… after you.”

  Bob snorted a hot blast of disappointment and gave Dekker a nasty look. He unlocked the door, but stepped aside to stand on a pressure plate as he opened the door to reveal a tripod mounted gun that would have fired without standing on the hidden switch.

  Dekker merely grinned and shoved Bob into the room.

  Reluctantly, Bob pulled the old book off of a shelf and handed it over to him. Dekker drew a long knife off of another shelf.