by Lee Watts
A hurried silence fell as the encircling group paused, awaiting the outcome. Dakota Farabaugh reached out to the choice the Marine indicated and locked eyes with him. They exchanged no words, the muscular man merely nodded in confirmation. Everyone's breathing stopped as if the soft brush of air might tip the balance. Dakota lifted the cup…but the ball wasn't there.
Sympathetic and anguishing "ah's" and "oh's" filled the room.
"I can't believe it - six times in a row," a bystander remarked.
The Marine didn't turn to see who it was, because he was fixated on the flyboy in front of him who had effectively taken his money and pride. He set his mind to get at least one of these back.
Dakota reached across the table to scoop the wager into his satchel, but a massive hand seized his wrist.
"I think you're cheating me."
Unflinching, the pilot looked at the far bigger man.
"I'm gonna say this one time, let go of my hand."
The grip tightened while the Marine's eyes bore into Dakota's.
"Okay, one more time," Dakota said, "but this time I mean it."
Releasing the wrist, the brute quickly grabbed one of the two remaining cups and picked it up, there was nothing beneath it. He went for the final cup but was stopped by a far smaller hand on his wrist.
"I wouldn't do that, Friend." Dakota cautioned coyly.
"Why not?"
"If you look under all the cups, it ruins the spirit of the game. If you want another chance, you'll have to pay for it." Dakota thought he had bled the man dry. Just in case not he probed, "You got any money left?"
The other man growled.
"Let go," the Marine demanded then picked up the last cup which revealed, without much surprise, nothing there.
Dakota tilted his head and had the look of unconvincing shock on his face.
"Well, who'd a thunk that?" he quipped.
Roaring, the cheated man grabbed the swindler by the shirt and dragged him across the table. Familiar with this response from years of hustling dullards with sleight-of-hand tricks, Dakota knew precisely what to do. The Marine drew back, preparing to smash the trickster's face, but noticed Dakota's eyes fix on something over the Marine's shoulder followed by the pilot quickly ducking. Instinctively, the Marine spun, but there was nothing there. Realizing he had been tricked again and more infuriated, he twisted back to pummel Dakota. However, the gambling shark, and the satchel full of winnings were gone. The Marine rushed out of the club looking down each way of the corridor but lost the trail of his prey and money.
Upon first receiving orders to the flagship, Ian Hammond allowed himself a moment of what he considered justified smugness. Having completed a tour in the elite Royal Escort Squadron shortly before its destruction during the ambush of the Chariot, it was apparent that a pilot such as himself deserved assignment to the new flagship.
When his transport docked at the station, Ian headed straight to the Dauntless to report for duty. Except for personal gear in the small bag he carried, the rest of his luggage was automatically transferred to the ship. He made sure his bag's symbol of the Royal Escort Squadron was prominently displayed as he made his way through the spaceport. Approaching the docking tube, he ran a hand through his styled hair and tugged at his immaculate uniform to straighten it. The move was unnecessary since wrinkles were something he never allowed. At the entrance to the Dauntless, he noticed a shapely woman in uniform holding a datapad. Figuring that was where to report in, and none too disappointed about the greeting party, he took a few confident steps toward her, placed his bag down, and exchanged salutes with the attractive woman. He started with the traditional, formal line.
"Lieutenant Ian Hammond reports as ordered. Permission to come aboard," he said in his customary strait-laced manner.
Crisply, she gave the standard response.
"Permission granted. Welcome to the Dauntless."
They dropped salutes, smiled, and shook hands. Ian was about to put things on a more personal level when he heard loud, hurried footfalls behind him.
Quickly approaching was a disheveled man with a rumpled uniform top and carrying a well-used satchel. Stopping in front of them, the newcomer tossed his bag down and rendered a quick, half-effort salute.
"Lieutenant Dakota Farabaugh reports. Permission to come aboard," he rattled off hurriedly.
A little taken aback by the new pilot's odd demeanor, but smiling politely, the brown-haired woman again replied.
"Permission granted. Welcome to-"
Dropping the salute, Dakota looked over his shoulder and interrupted, "Thank you kindly, Ma'am, but I'm real anxious to get started. How 'bout we go straight into a tour of the ship, eh?"
He turned to Ian and slapped him on the back.
"What'ya say, buddy?" Dakota said with a nod to Ian.
Ian exchanged a concerned glance with the woman as the two men retrieved their bags. Ian knew he had heard the other man's strong Goviths accent somewhere before but couldn't place it.
Gesturing down the corridor, the woman addressed the two new crewmen.
"Very well, if you'll follow me."
Anywhere, Ian thought.
She tucked the datapad under her arm and in a professional tone began the tour.
"I am Commander Miranda Iglesias. I assume this is your first time aboard a battlecarrier class ship?"
Dakota, gawking at the immensity of the vessel and its pristine condition answered first.
"Why yes, Ma'am," he replied with a country twang that assaulted Ian's ears. "My last assignment was on the Venture. She's like my grandmother, old and ugly as all get out but good to me, and I wouldn't trade her for the world."
Miranda closed her eyes for a moment, stifling a chuckle. Ian, less than impressed, spoke in a more refined tone.
"Thanks for sharing. Actually no, this isn't my first time. During my time with the Royal Escort Squadron, I accompanied their Majesties to the maiden launch of the Champion and was able to tour that ship."
With pride, Miranda added some information.
"Actually, the Dauntless has quite a few modifications improving performance over our late sister ship."
After a quick stop at their quarters to drop off the men's gear, the trio continued the tour by visiting the medical bay, recreation area, engineering, science labs, and a host of other sections. Finally, they reached the area the two pilots were most anxious to see, the flight deck. Full of activity, air-powered tools buzzed, the smell of grease assaulted them, and columns of starfighters lined the sides of the expansive bay.
Dakota had never seen such an open and massive room aboard a starship before.
"Whew! Git a load of this! We could fit my whole hometown in here."
"Wait a minute," Ian said in recognition of the phrase and Dakota's voice. "You were at the liberation of Theera-Enty weren't you?"
"Shor 'nuf was," Dakota bragged proudly. "Yur look'n at the pilot who destroyed the air defenses that were trying to take out the king himself."
"Yea, well, I'm the guy who flew cover and actually got him safe to the ground," Ian retorted.
"Yur lucky I was there that day. Wuddn't for me taken out those missile positions youd'a been hit by the next volley."
"I picked off that incoming missile if you'll remember," Ian quipped.
"Now that was some fancy fly'n I'll admit, but did you see how I skirted the surface on my attack run to cover you?"
Eyeing up the lines of starfighters in the bay and rubbing his palms together greedily, Dakota smiled.
"So, which one of these beauties is gonna be mine?" he asked.
"That will be up to your squadron commander and the XO," Miranda answered. Commodore Upton is on the bridge. Let's go introduce you."
Far different than what Dakota expected, the bridge didn't have the grand, picturesque viewports typical of capital class ships. Windowless, being in the deep interior of a mid-level deck, the only views were of displays showing images from cameras position
ed on the hull and throughout the ship. The newly arrived pilot glanced around, noticing numerous control stations bejeweled with colorful displays. Covering the entire front wall was the large, slightly convex main screen. Preoccupied with their duties, the bridge crew took little notice of the newcomers.
"Well, what'ya think about this Hammond?" Dakota asked.
"I think this can't possibly be the bridge," Ian answered.
"Why not?"
"Because I've been on battlecarrier's before. The bridge is on a surface deck with a beautiful bubble canopy that gives the commander a three hundred sixty-degree view of the battlespace. Look. There's not window one in here. You know why because we're practically in the center of the ship. This is-"
"This is one of our recent modifications," Miranda inserted. "Admiral Balin doesn't think having the bridge exposed on a surface deck is the best design for a warship." She then turned and started looking about the room for the ship's first officer.
"Guess she told you," Dakota whispered to Ian.
Ian rolled his eyes and sighed in frustration. Locating Commodore Upton, Miranda started toward him and motioned for the pilots to follow.
"Commodore, I'd like to introduce you to Lieutenants Farabaugh and Hammond."
The stern looking first officer turned to them.
"Welcome to the Dauntless," Commodore Upton greeted. "I trust Commander Iglesias has given you a rundown of the ship."
In unison they replied.
"Yes, Sir."
"Good." Noticing Dakota's less than stellar uniform, Upton added. "I'm not sure how they did things on your last ship, but here we follow the book, that includes dress and appearance standards."
Knowing an explanation would do nothing but irritate the man, Dakota just nodded and humbly replied, "Yes, Sir."
Before Upton could continue, there was an unpleasant sounding beep from the computer station he was assisting.
"Just a moment." He bent over and started speaking with the crewman there.
Ian turned to Dakota.
"Guess he told you," Ian whispered.
After a quick moment, Upton rose again and continued.
"I guess you're both anxious to learn who's getting the new bird?"
Each pilot looked at the other quizzically.
"New bird, Sir," Ian questioned.
"Oh, she hasn't told you yet?"
Miranda shook her head.
"I thought you should be in on that decision, Sir," Miranda inserted.
Upton nodded.
"You boys are in luck. Well, one of you is anyway. We've got two fighter squadrons, the Twenty-Second they're the Stingers and the Thirty-Sixth, they're the Fiends. You're both going to the Twenty-Second. One of you will be assigned a standard F-37 Arrowhead class, the other is getting the latest and greatest starfighter class in the fleet, an F/A-40 Dagger."
The pilots raised their eyebrows, smiled greedily then each warily eyed the other. Before they could ask, Upton added something.
"The question is who gets what? I'm going to leave that up to your squadron commander."
Before he could go on, another disgruntled beep came from the nearby computer station. The commodore grumbled in frustration.
"I'm sorry, but this is going to take a while. We'll meet tomorrow during your in-brief and discuss things."
"Very good, Sir," Miranda replied.
The group headed out of the control room and back through the ship.
"Ooh-ee a Dagger class, I can't wait to get my hands on that puppy," Dakota exclaimed as they walked.
Ian dismissed the other man's self-assurance.
"And what makes you think you're getting it?"
"Because I know squadron commanders. They're all about movin' up the chain. All I've got to do is prove to that man I'm gonna make a name for his squadron and the bird's as good as mine."
"You're going to have a hard time doing that, seeing as how I'm the one who served a tour in the most elite squadron in the fleet and I'm the one who has actually flown a Dagger class before. However, to show my generous nature I'll teach you a few of my techniques. It will be a good learning experience for you."
"Boy, you don't know what you're talking about," Dakota quipped.
"Boy?" Ian echoed in less than a friendly tone. "Don't address me that way. You best lookout. I have friends in high places."
"I think you're the one who better watch out," Dakota shot back.
"Oh, and why's that?"
"Cause I've got friends in low places," he warned.
Miranda had heard enough.
"All right cool it you two! You'll both get your chance to prove who's the best, and no pedigree or fancy talk is going to make a bit a difference."
"We'll see," Ian quipped.
Dakota agreed.
"Yea, when we gonna meet the squadron commander anyway," Dakota asked.
Annoyed, Miranda pointed down the hall, "The twenty-second's commander's office is right down there, third door to your left. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a personnel issue to work out. I'll see you two during the morning brief at o-six hundred hours tomorrow. You can meet the admiral then."
She turned and strode down the corridor in aggravation leaving the two to argue on their own. Both giving the other the silent treatment, the pair of pilots proceeded toward the door she had indicated. They didn't bother to go in or even leave a message after noticing the nameplate on the door, which read: Office of the Twenty-Second Fighter Squadron Commander: Miranda Iglesias.
CHAPTER 23
"… the Lord is my helper, and I will not fear what man shall do unto me." – Hebrews 13:6
(1,000 years ago)
Pipaluk shivered from a combination of cold and fear. As the servants entered the Ramillie Citadel that morning, they were herded into a large empty room and locked inside without explanation. No one dared speak because they knew the extreme consequences of such an infraction, but minds raced with awful speculations of what awaited them. Noticing Pipaluk was trembling, Shania reached out and gently took the girl's hand. The frightened girl looked to the woman, giving a shy smile of appreciation.
Shania, battlestaff, and pistol concealed within her borrowed cloak, considered her options. Before she could develop a viable option, the door of the wide balcony overlooking the room opened. Stepping out onto the veranda was the Dridmor overlord, Koraden. The distance, and six Ramillie guards serving as protection, made Shania discount any possibility of getting to him at present. Sneering in contempt, Koraden glared down on the huddled mass.
"Last night, someone entered the lower levels, killed a guard, and injured another," Koraden fumed. "This infiltrator was trying to free the Elderite worms, and I want to know who it was!"
The shuddering crowd remained silent.
"There's no way someone breached the Citadel without one of you knowing about it. I warn you, step forward now and receive mercy; make me wait, and you'll suffer greatly!"
No one dared move. Koraden bared his teeth wanting to have the entire collection of puny mortals ripped to shreds before his eyes, but restrained himself. He drew satisfaction knowing there were only twenty-seven more days to wait.
"SOMEONE IS TRYING TO HELP THOSE WRETCHED ELDERITES," Koraden screamed. "THEY'RE FOOLS! THEY THINK THERE'S AN ELDER WHO CAN SAVE HIM FROM THE CRUSHING AND BURNING OF THE VORTEX. NO ONE WILL SAVE YOU! NO ONE CAN SAVE YOU! I HOLD THE POWER OVER YOU! I AM YOUR LORD AND MASTER, AND I ALONE DECIDE WHO IS CRUSHED AND WHO IS BURNED!"
With no one stepping forward, Koraden issued his final warning.
"You cannot hide anything from us! Sooner or later someone will inform on this infiltrator. If those who know come forward, they will see mercy, if you are found to have information and said nothing, you will spend the rest of your life in agony, feeling every delicious pain we can imagine!"
Despite the ultimatum, no one spoke up.
"So be it," Koraden growled. "We have a seer; he will tell us who the infiltrator is... and their accom
plices."
With that Koraden stormed off the balcony, the Ramillie guards followed him. Pipaluk turned to Shania and buried her head in the cradle of the Guardian's shoulder. Shania placed protective arms around the frightened girl to comfort her.
"Don't be afraid, Little One," Shania consoled. "I'm going to get you away from this horrible place. I know someone who can help, someone who can take you somewhere the Ramillie will never find you."
Tears streaming down her face, Pipaluk looked up at Shania.
"No, no there is nowhere we can go; they know everything."
"They're lying, Pipaluk. They are not all-knowing; only the Elder is. There is a place you can go; it's a safe port where the riches of ages are stowed."
"The… The Vault?"
"You've heard of it?" Shania asked, a little surprised at the revelation.
"Only stories. I've heard some of the Ramillie talking about it in the Citadel. They're trying to find the Vault Ke…"
"Vault Keeper, yes, I know him, and I'll have him take you where the Ramillie will never find you."
"But you heard the master, they have a seer, they'll use him to find out about me and about… about you, right? You told me you went back in the Citadel last night. It's you they're after isn't it?"
"Yes, Little One, but no one knows about that, and there is no one to inform on you. You're safe."
"But… but the seer… he will-"
"He will be safe before the next dawn. I'm going to get him tonight. I'll sneak in the same way I did last night; no one knows about it. I need you to be strong. It's more important than you realize. There's much more going on here than you could ever know. It's vital you stay strong, just one day more, Pipaluk. Will you do that for me?"
Wiping her eyes, Pipaluk nodded.
"I'll t-try," she quivered.
Suspended by wires fastened to the ceiling, which cut deep into his wrists, Seer Demetrius Rew squinted as the door of his cell opened and two silhouetted forms entered. When the door closed and his vision readjusted, Demetrius looked through swollen eyes and recognized one of the visitors as his chief tormentor, the Dridmor called Chiranjiv.
