The Alphas of the Seven Galaxies

by Sloane Meyers

  Daxar glared at the faint outline of the ship as it hurtled through the atmosphere in front of them. It swung back and forth, left and right, like it was on some sort of invisible pendulum. One of the sides of the ship looked like it was missing some of its thermal shielding, and a stream of what looked like plasma fuel was coming from a leak in the back. No wonder the damn thing was sending out emergency signals, and yet…

  “It could all be a trick. They’re attempting to get us to let down our guard so they can trap us.”

  Beside him, Daxar sensed more than saw as Jarmuk stiffened. “If that is a trick, they’re awfully dedicated to the trick. That thing’s about to crash land on the surface, and it’s sustained enough damage that I’m not sure it will ever fly again.”

  A split second later, as if to prove Jarmuk’s point, the ship went into a steep dive and impacted with Zocrone’s bumpy surface. It bounced twice, like it was a pebble skipping across water rather than a spaceship crashing on a planet. The impact left the hull badly crumpled, but other than that the small hunk of metal seemed to have survived quite well—which only further convinced Daxar that this ship had been sent to them on some sort of sinister mission. “Did you see that?” he demanded, turning to glare at Jarmuk. “Cargo ships aren’t built that sturdily. Anything with that kind of reinforcement on its frame isn’t just planning to haul a bunch of trinkets around the Seven Galaxies. They were planning an attack.”

  “Well if that was their attack, they did an awful sludging job of it,” Jarmuk said drily.

  “Look!” Toryx exclaimed from the seat behind Daxar. He’d begun tapping a finger on the Rover’s window. Daxar peered out at the wreckage, trying to see what had gotten Toryx so worked up. But nothing looked that remarkable to Daxar. He saw a small puddle where some sort of liquid was still leaking from the back of the ship, and a thermal flap that had come loose during the impact was now flapping wildly in the storm’s unrelenting wind.

  “What are you pointing at?” Daxar demanded. His patience was growing thinner by the second. Jarmuk had slowed the rover to an almost imperceptible crawl now, as though he’d never seen a wrecked spaceship before. There used to be wrecked spaceships here on the regular, back when the main shipping route between Xeynus and Vositurn passed by here. Ships intending to make a quick pit stop at Zocrone would get caught up in the planet’s notorious solar storms, and meet their grisly end on the reddish-brown surface. Daxar, Jarmuk, and Toryx had all spent a good portion of their childhood sneaking out of the dome to explore spaceship wrecks.

  But then, the Seven Galaxies Free Trade Federation had decided to build wormholes between Xeynus and Vositurn. Trade was moving too slowly for their liking, and the wormhole solved all that, bypassing Zocrone in the process, which was fine by Daxar. Now, the only ships that passed this way were scheduled vessels either bringing supplies to Zocrone or hauling Zekkardite shipments away. Or ships that were up to no good that needed to avoid the Seven Galaxies’ authorities that patrolled the wormholes’ entrance and exit spaces. Since Zocrone had no arrivals scheduled, Daxar knew this ship had been involved in something questionable.

  “Look,” Toryx insisted again. “Can’t you see them?”

  Daxar squinted again, trying to see what the sludge had Toryx so excited. For a few more moments, all he could see was the thick swirls of dust around the wrecked ship. But then, a strong gust of wind cleared the dust away, and Daxar saw.

  The owners of the ship had survived the crash, and had exited the wreckage in what looked like standard survival suits. Daxar tried to see what species the aliens were, but between the poor visibility and the shapelessness of the survival suits, he couldn’t guess. Whatever they were, they were tiny. They all must have been at least a good foot shorter than your average Zocronian.

  “Three of them, I think,” Jarmuk said. The rover had come to a complete stop now as Jarmuk quit driving to squint at the small forms that had piled out of the wrecked ship. “No, wait. There’re four. Looks like one of them is injured.”

  Jarmuk was right. Daxar could see now that one of the aliens was dragging a fourth body away from the wreck. It looked like the alien was struggling quite a bit to move his or her comrade, and suddenly, Daxar realized what species had just invaded their planet.

  “Humans,” he spat out.

  “Huh?” Jarmuk asked, peeling his eyes away from the scene in front of them to stare at Daxar for a moment.

  “Humans,” Daxar repeated, his tone filling with disgust. “Those are humans. See how short and small they are? And look how much trouble that one is having dragging the wounded one out. Humans are always so sludging weak.”

  “I think they need our help,” Toryx said quietly. Jarmuk looked away from Daxar’s face, no doubt knowing what was coming next.

  “No,” Daxar yelled. The anger in his veins grew stronger. “They’re unscheduled outsiders. We have strict rules on this planet requiring any visitors to clear their arrivals in advance. No exceptions.”

  Jarmuk let out an exasperated sigh. “Dax, come on. Be reasonable. They don’t look like they were exactly in a position to be requesting clearance before landing.”

  “I don’t care. No unscheduled visitors, no exceptions.” Dax glared out the window at the humans, one of whom had spotted the rover and was now wildly waving around his or her hands like one of those stupid pet monkeys Ashariz back in town insisted on keeping.

  “We’re already on the Seven Galaxies’ shit list,” Toryx said. “If you refuse to help out in an emergency situation, you’re only going to give the Feds more reasons to recommend sanctions against Zocrone and tariffs on Zekkardite exports. Besides, helping is just the right thing to do.”

  “No!” Daxar yelled. “The right thing to do is to protect our people from outside attacks. We have no way of knowing whether this is a legitimate emergency or if it’s some sort of trick to get us to let them into the city dome.”

  “Oh for sludge’s sake, Dax. It’s four humans. They don’t even look armed, and one of them is hurt. Stop seeing danger in every shadow.”

  Daxar glared at Jarmuk. “Seeing danger in every shadow is what has kept Zocrone from another invasion during my time as Chief. Safety requires vigilance.”

  Jarmuk didn’t back down. “You’re better than this, man. You know the likelihood of those four being a threat is extremely low. Do the right thing and take them into the dome for medical treatment. You can send them on their way as soon as the next supply ship comes through.”

  Daxar clenched his teeth together and looked back over at the stranded humans. Jarmuk was one of the few people in Zocrone who dared talk to him in such a casual manner. The two of them had grown up together, and Jarmuk had stood by him during the calamansi crisis two decades ago. Jarmuk had also saved Daxar’s life in the Zekkardite mines on more than one occasion. The two of them had been through hell together, and Daxar supposed Jarmuk had earned the right to speak up. Besides, Jarmuk was right. The last thing Zocrone needed right now was sanctions or tariffs from the Seven Galaxies Feds. Times were difficult enough as it was. Daxar grunted grudgingly, and a smile spread across Jarmuk’s face. Daxar wanted to punch the smile off his friend’s face, but if he knocked Jarmuk out he’d have to drive the rover home. And he hated driving this thing. It needed an alignment or something—always pulling to the left like the entire magnetic force of the planet was forcing it to go in that direction.

  “Fine. We can rescue the humans. But I want them under strict guard at all times. I also want them under quarantine for at least forty-eight hours. God only knows what kind of pathogens they might be carrying into the dome, intentionally or otherwise. I won’t have them prancing around the city infecting Zocronians at random.”

  Jarmuk’s only answer was to grin wider and turn the rover’s engines back up to full power. He started bouncing across the terrain toward the wreckage as fast as the damn thing would take them, and Daxar cursed under his breath.

  “Slow down, fool! I don’t wan
t to lose our entire load of Zekkardite over this.”

  “Sorry,” Jarmuk muttered, but he only slowed down marginally. Daxar rolled his eyes. At least they were going to get this over with quickly.

  “I’ll put on a suit and man the airlock for them,” Toryx offered, climbing toward the back of the rover where the emergency survival suits were kept. The rover and the Zekkardite mines were both pressurized, so the suits were hardly ever used. But, of course, emergencies could happen at any time, and any oxygen breathing organism definitely did not want to be caught on Zocrone’s open surface without a survival suit and an oxygen tank.

  Daxar glanced back to watch Toryx suit up, mostly so that he didn’t have to look at the humans any longer. Assuming they were humans, anyway. That was his best guess. He supposed he’d know soon enough. He fingered the small plasma gun holstered on his hip and relaxed slightly. He always carried that gun with him. It was small, but it packed a punch. And he was always ready to punch anyone who crossed him or his fellow Zocronians.

  Toryx had the survival suit completely on now, and was pulling on his helmet. The survival suits in the rover weren’t as heavy-duty as most full-blown survival suits, but they were plenty sturdy enough for a quick exit from a rover if there was a problem with the rover itself and you needed to get back to the city dome. The suits were all black, and they were made of a stretchy material that could accommodate a wide range of body shapes and sizes. Daxar hated the constrictive feeling of the suits, but he had to admit that they looked pretty badass. Toryx had the appearance of some sort of space superhero right now.

  By the time Toryx signaled that he was ready to head into the airlock, Jarmuk’s crazy driving had already taken them right up to the wreckage of the ship. Daxar peered at the twisted, torn metal, trying to see any identifying marks that might tell him where the thing came from, but there was nothing to see. No ship name or call sign was painted onto the sides anywhere, and what was left of the thing looked as generic as a ship could possibly be. Daxar felt an uneasy feeling pass over him. Whoever owned this ship didn’t want to stand out in any way. That meant they had something to hide.

  Toryx slid into the airlock chamber and closed the glass door behind him. The whishing sound seemed unnaturally loud in the tense main cabin of the rover. Jarmuk must have known that Daxar had been pushed to the limit, and that any more comments on the situation would probably result in punches being thrown. Both of them silently watched as Toryx exited the airlock into the open air of stormy Zocrone.

  The storm was growing worse by the second, but that had been expected. Storms on Zocrone were like that, which was another reason Daxar would have rather skipped this whole ridiculous rescue operation. He’d wanted to be back in the city dome before things went from bad to worse. Behind the rover, the long flatbed trailer of Zekkardite they’d been towing was rocking back and forth in the wind—and that thing was heavy. Toryx was going to have a difficult time getting the ship’s stranded survivors into the airlock without them blowing away. Right now, all of the survivors were clinging to the side of the ship for dear life. Two of them were holding onto the limp body of the wounded one. Daxar frowned. Wounded, or dead? He didn’t want a dead alien on his rover, or in his city dome. But he knew better than to expect the other aliens to leave their comrade behind. The fight wouldn’t be worth it.

  Even though the survival suit and wind made verbal communication impossible, Toryx somehow managed to get all of the survivors to link arms. He put the wounded—hopefully not dead—survivor on one of his arms, and used the other arm to drag along the other three survivors. His strength was vastly superior to theirs, which made Daxar almost certain that these were humans. It had been a long time since Daxar had seen a human in person, but he’d met quite a few of them as a boy. He remembered how weak they always were. Even the strongest of them would not have been strong enough to beat him in hand-to-hand combat, and that had been when he was a child.

  Toryx was already squeezing the survivors into the airlock. There was only enough room for the four of them, so Toryx sent them on first and waited outside. As soon as they had cycled through the airlock, he would take his turn. Daxar saw him checking on the rover’s trailer hitch as he waited. Good man. Always making good use of his time. Daxar could almost forgive him for siding with Jarmuk and insisting on saving the alien humans. Almost.

  And they were definitely humans. As they tumbled into the rover through the airlock, the first one pulled her helmet off. Her dark black hair cascaded around her shoulders, and her steel blue eyes nervously looked back and forth between Daxar and Jarmuk. Before she addressed them, though, she turned back to the others.

  “Get her helmet off so she can breathe.” The other two pulled off their helmets and then pulled off the helmet of the wounded human. Daxar was surprised to see that all of them were female.

  A crew of all women? Interesting. I’ve never seen that before.

  “She’s not responding,” one of the other women said.

  “You need to do CPR, I think,” the first woman said. “She’ll be fine. She hasn’t been truly unconscious for very long. We’re really lucky that the rescue rover came so quickly.”

  Daxar wanted to laugh and tell her that this wasn’t a rescue rover. It was an industrial rover hauling Zekkardite, but yes, they were lucky it had come along just then. They were also lucky that Jarmuk and Toryx had been on board. Daxar himself would never have stopped to save them. But Daxar held his tongue. He wanted these women to speak first. He wanted them to be forced to put their cards on the table first. He didn’t trust them, and despite the fact that they appeared weak, he knew better than to let his guard down.

  He’d already learned something about them in the few moments they’d been on board. They had been speaking English with each other, with a distinct Earth accent. They were from Galaxy Two, then. Here in Galaxy Four, almost no one spoke English, but it was the major trade language back in Galaxies Two and Three. Daxar’s father had made sure he learned all the major trade languages as a boy, and even though Daxar rarely left Zocrone, he made sure to practice enough to stay fresh on all the languages.

  Toryx stepped back into the rover at that moment, and peered down at the woman who had fallen. He raised an eyebrow, then shrugged, which Daxar took to mean that the woman looked a little rough but would be okay. From where Daxar sat, he couldn’t actually see her. That didn’t bother him one bit. The only reason he cared whether she lived or not was because if she died inside of the city dome, there would be a heck of a lot of paperwork to fill out to appease the Seven Galaxies Feds.

  The first woman turned back toward Daxar now, her eyes looking even more nervous than before.

  “I’m Evie. Thank you so much for your help. We had quite a bit of trouble up there, as you can tell.” She shifted from one foot to the other, looking up at him and then down at her feet. Now and then she stole a glance at Jarmuk. She was speaking Universal now, and she spoke it quite well, other than a slight Earth accent. But Daxar hadn’t seen anyone this skittish for years. Surely, she wasn’t the one in charge of that wrecked ship out there. Then again, maybe she was. It would explain why the sludging thing had crashed. He narrowed his eyes at her.

  “Are you the captain of that ship?” he asked in perfect Universal.

  Evie’s eyes widened, and then she actually laughed. “Oh, god no. I’m the navigator. Nova’s the captain, but she’s a bit indisposed at the moment, as you can see.”

  Evie gestured toward the woman on the floor, who still hadn’t responded.

  Great. I can’t even talk to the clown officially in charge of this group.

  Daxar turned to glare at Jarmuk, still angry that the fool had made him rescue this bunch. “Back to the dome, Jarmuk. Why are we still sitting around here?”

  But Daxar’s snappy attitude couldn’t get under Jarmuk’s skin. The rover started heading toward the dome again, and Jarmuk started whistling as he manned the controls.

  Daxar turned to
glare at Evie. “I’m Daxar, Chief of Zocrone. Listen up. Since your captain is unconscious at the moment, I’m going to relay this message to you. Here in Zocrone, we don’t take kindly to unexpected arrivals. Given the fact that your ship crashed, we’ll give you lodging for a short amount of time until you can figure out how to either fix your ship or get a ride out. But you’ll all need to remain under guard, and under quarantine.”

  “Quarantine?” Evie clearly didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Yes, quarantine. We’ve had unpleasant experiences in the past with destructive germs being brought in, so we don’t take any chances anymore.”

  Evie opened her mouth as though she was going to protest, but then she thought better of it and shut it again. “Of course. We understand.”

  “You all might want to hold on,” Jarmuk called back to them. “This last portion before the city is quite bumpy.”

  Evie and the two other women sat down, one next to Toryx’s seat and the other two behind Toryx and Evie. The unconscious girl was laid out on the floor in the small aisle between the seats. Daxar glanced back as the rover started bouncing along more severely, and got his first look at the captain. He did a double take at the sight of her.

  Well, sludge me.

  The woman was gorgeous. Not just beautiful or good-looking, as the other three women in the group admittedly were. No, the captain was drop dead gorgeous. Her face was pale right now, probably from lack of oxygen. But he could see just a flush of healthy pink starting to creep back into her cheeks. Her skin was smooth and almost dewy looking, and her face formed a perfect oval. Her lips, full and thick, were turned up just a slight bit, as though she were trying to hold back a smile. Her chestnut brown hair was spread across the floor in thick, unruly waves.

  Something inside of Daxar’s chest leapt at the sight of her. He felt like his protective instincts were kicking in, and he quickly turned away to look out the front window again. He could not be having any sort of feelings for this woman. What had the other human called her? Nova?