by Chris Turner
“Hold on. I never agreed to—” My mind flashed on the post and tank in the Redemption Chamber then I clenched my teeth. “I’ll help you out.”
Volia stirred in her seat and set down her glass.
Wren gaped. “Are you sure, Rusco?”
“Not really, but—”
Wren’s eyes fluttered. Blest just gave his head a little shake and took a fish’s gulp of wine. Grild and Zan seemed indifferent, resigned to whatever fate was in for them, going whichever way the wind blew. By the look of their hollow stares, I could tell that their lives were at an impasse, governed by the toss of the die.
Conflicting thoughts poured through my mind. Not the least, Mong’s words drifting back to me, that dim time on Vulpin’s bridge, “I never retreat, Balt. Never. I win every battle I fight.” Perhaps the Vendecki ruse was the deadly hammer that would drive steel into Mong’s flesh through that chink in his armor.
And then, maybe it wasn’t.
* * *
Down in the underground hangar on Vendecki’s moon, Hedra, we oversaw the clandestine loading of boxes and assorted cases of rifles, R4s, gauge 3 power packs, land mines, shell absorbers, flamethrowers, anything we could get in the hold of Starrunner and other starships to help the rebel cause on Melinar. We wore standard grey Vendecki khakis with Vendecki logos pasted on our breast over high-grade Kevlar. Black boots, crash helms, refitted R4s at our waist, the whole shebang.
Phel approached me, wearing a moody frown. “New plans, Rusco. Forget the scheduled arms drop. We need fighters in the air at 0200.”
“Say what?” I stared at Volia who’d come by and overhead.
“Conditions on Melinar have turned for the worse,” she said in a strained voice. “Mong’s amped up his persecutions, accusing Melinarian spies of being the ones who dug up the location of Othwan and brought about the invasion of his sanctuary. I just watched the video feed.” She uttered sorrowful croak. “Slave camps, interrogations, brutal torture. Mong’s captains have examined all our technically skilled engineers and scientists. They ply them with truth-serums, discarding them like garbage once they’ve served their purpose. Their minds are fried from drugs and repeated drills. The Vendecki endure no less savage scrutiny. When will it stop? It’ll never stop! Not until that madman is put down.”
“I agree with you there, Countess. But easier said than done.” I rubbed my jaw and looked around at the smattering of ships, pilots, crew and engineers. “You expect to take down a sociopath and a well-greased war machine skilled from day one. You have largely untrained rabble here and some low-tech ships. You don’t even have fareons installed. Mong hasn’t gotten to where he is without substantial resources.”
“You underestimate yourself, Rusco—and us. You had him! We had him—we had him worried, and we escaped from his lair right under his nose.”
“A lot of luck and diversion there. With more luck to go. How many died?”
Volia sighed. “Our ratio was 4 to 5. That puts us at a 20% total fatality figure. Most of the forces escaped unscathed in that shootout. We decimated Othwan. And we’re ready to counterattack.”
My eyes could not help but gleam with temptation, unusual for even me. It was an impressive statistic. I looked to Noss and the others who’d been silent this whole time. “So what do you have? What’s your plan?”
Phel pushed closer with his teeth clacking. “Mong’s fallen for the bait. We’ve confirmed knowledge of his next attack. Nineteen brave men and women died to bring us that information. We mustn’t squander their sacrifice. We’ll use the intel for max gain to strike Mong where he least expects it!”
“All fine and nice. A motley crew of disorganized skullbashers. Angry dissidents whose friends and families have been tortured and killed by that mongrel, all fired up to fight an impossible fight.”
“Yes, that’s what we are, Rusco, you’ve summed us up all too nicely.”
I grinned. “You’re at least an honest, pushy bastard, Phel. This rabble is my kind of piss and vinegar folk.”
“Great to hear.” He brightened. “Because you’re going to lead Reaver Party 3.”
I let out an explosive breath. “What the fuck? Where did you dream up this hare-brained idea?”
“I know your type, Rusco.” Phel narrowed beady eyes on me. “I did some digging on you. You’ve got nothing else left. Your life’s worth shit now, a shambles, debt up to your ears, bounty hunters in every sector looking to cash in, with that alpha dog hounding your heels, nose up your ass.”
“Wait a minute! I agreed to run transport, no more—arms in, soldiers out—for pay. An even 5k was our deal.”
“It was, but it’s gotten bigger than that.”
Eyes were on me. I heard the pound of my heart in my ribcage.
“You have the chance to take him down, help millions of people! Why pass that up for some lesser role, playing baggage jockey over here? You and Wren and the others are among the few rare ones in the galaxy who’ve ever defeated and escaped the Star Lord.”
“And we’d like to keep it that way.”
“We need you!” he cried, grabbing my shoulder.
I looked at his hand and he licked his lips and withdrew it, realizing he’d overstepped.
There passed a moment when a tense silence passed, when my life flashed before me—all the times I was a little shit disturber, seven, eight? breaking everything in the house, lighting things on fire, playing tricks on the neighbor’s cat. Suddenly time jumped and there were shell shots, explosions, my parents and friends fried by flash bombs—then, like the tenebrous haze in the tanks, a zap of light, illumination, I knew after all this searching that I had a real purpose…as if my life leading up to this point had been only prep, paving the way for this one desperate act. It was crazy. But then again, everything in this mad universe was crazy. A big, mixed-up, shit-for-brains soup of craziness.
“It’s 10k yols, if you pull it off,” Phel said, intruding on my thoughts, “and Mong is taken down and destroyed.”
“Well?” I looked at the others.
Wren shrugged, gave me her ‘could take it or leave it’ look. I sighed, knew they wouldn’t go for it.
“10k bonus each,” Phel said, realizing he’d have to sweeten the pot.
Wren’s and Blest’s eyes flickered. I saw a hint of interest there, and a touch of greed in Blest’s.
So they were on board. I grinned and nodded. “Okay, Phel, it’ll surely fail, badly—but what the fuck.”
Phel beamed and slapped me on the back. “Good call, Rusco. You’re a good man.”
“I keep hearing that,” I said with a frown.
Phel spoke into a com. “Team leader, move out. We have 24 hours to pull this caper off.”
Chapter 30
The camoed grey moon rock flap slid aside and Starrunner burst out of the cave on Hedra. Five convoys at our heels impulse-thrust away from the desolate lunar plains into the deepening blackness of space—older Alpha X’s, but capable of speed and looking beat-up and retro enough to pose as beleaguered rebel craft fighting for a doomed cause.
“Team leader to Sparrows,” I rasped into the com. “On my signal.”
“Roger, team leader. This is Sparrow 1. Give us the word.”
I kept an open channel. Once we escaped Hedra’s gravity and were in the safe zone, we’d make the jump to Melinar.
Phel’s voice came over the encrypted link, his grey-peppered hair tied back in a bun. “Remember, you’re bait only. When Mong’s defense guard are alerted and paralyzed by our jammers, you turn and attack them. Until then, maintain defensive positions. When jammers are at full capacity, no mercy! Blast those maggots to shit! The bulk of our fighters will warp in and join the slaughter.”
“Roger. Over.” I signed off with a grim sigh. Grim plans for grim times.
“T-7 minutes. Remember,” I told Wren and the others, “we warp in, make it look like a drop off of arms to the Melinar rebels. No land action. The risk is minimal. At the first sign of t
rouble, we zigzag then warp the fuck out of here. We hope their little jammers do the work. Then in comes their fleet to finish the job. We’re just extra change in the overall equation. Remember the payout—big payout.”
“Gift wrapped with pretty little red ribbons,” quipped Blest. “Wonder what can go wrong?”
“Nothing’ll go wrong,” I said to him. “Do your job, have your gun on the ready in case we need backup.”
“No one can pay me enough for this shit, Rusco.”
I ignored him, spoke quiet words into the com then to Wren, briefing her and the others on procedure. It seemed as if this op was all sewn up, almost too clear and clean. That queasy feeling in my gut sensed something havey-cavey and that things would not be so easy.
My hoarse whisper echoed into the com. “Now.”
In a blast of brilliant light, Starrunner arched through the Varwol tunnel into Melinarian space. We materialized outside the grav danger zone. Melinar hung below us, a distant turquoise disc, its twin moons bright on the far side of their orbits. The five other convoys materialized beside us, dim grey craft, looking very ragged and wary. I loosed a breath of pent up exhaustion. Word had been dropped to Mong’s spies that Vendecki sympathizers were planning a run to grant aid to the demoralized rebels in the Jezuan hills. I didn’t doubt Mong’s watchdogs would be arriving soon. Very soon. Noss readied Starrunner and we set a course for Targan, the square continent in the middle of the vast ocean Praxeus on Melinar’s far side where the conquered city Jezuan lay on a jagged coastline.
Hulking shapes were suddenly all around us. Fifty Warhawks—dark gunmetal grey predators, cannons locked on us.
Black-hearted Mong had fallen for the bait, faster than I thought, incensed at the piercing thorn in his side at another Melinarian uprising.
The Star Lord himself was there. His ginormous flagship Vulpin loomed into view. I’d recognize that bloated hunk of scrap metal anywhere. Its twisted control towers and bullfrog midsection, rear radial boosters and energy thrusters gave me the shakes. Some hundred or more cannons sprawled fore and aft from every angle of its prickly hide. Didn’t surprise me. The bigger they are the harder they fall…Well, wonder if they leaked the news that Jet Rusco was on board leading the expedition. Likely, the fuckers.
Fareons arched out at us almost instantaneously in green and violet menace. Our shields dipped to an appalling low. One of our convoys rippled in red, then exploded in ruin, her shields weak or malfunctioning.
I grimaced in astonishment. “Jesus, Noss. What’s going on? Now, Phel! Fucker, get those jammers working!”
It seemed Phel wanted to draw out the Warhawks more, lengthen the charade. Perhaps the jammers were fucked? What was one sacrifice? For a second, I thought we’d been had.
But Vulpin’s fareons did go haywire and stray fire lashed out from her cannons and ignited one of Mong’s own lead craft that was firing on us. I smacked my fist in my palm. Wren locked fareons on the nearest ship in the enemy line. Noss kept Starrunner on a sweeping tangent over the warcraft’s hulls—a risk, even if we avoided their haywire beams, yet maximizing the damage we could inflict on them at such close range. We rained destruction on their hulls, penetrating their mega shields with repeated bursts. I waited for the rest of the Melinarian fleet to show up with their Vendecki scrabblers.
But they did not come. Or at least not too soon. I saw a hundred Warhawks blitz into existence from various parts of the galaxy and they sent flash bombs after us—salvos that had not been affected by the jammers. Our shields would not hold out for long. The rebel fleet materialized at last. The fireworks began. But this was a different type of fireworks. Little glowbugs on the underdog side burning and biting the big blackbirds. From grey, tiny fuselages pricks of red light lashed out and slammed into the larger Warhawks.
Enemy craft lit in orange and yellow and foundered as their shields gave way.
“There!” I cried in triumph. “Target Mong’s shitty flagship! Spare nothing! We have no better chance than now. Do it, Wren!”
She opened full fareons on Vulpin. The superstructure rippled, a complex metalworks of folds and dark, twisted cannons and com towers. Rebel craft from all angles opened fire on Mong’s mother ship along with others of the fleet. We pelted them with all our megavolts could give, and the enormous craft started to list and fall in orbit toward Melinar.
“Hot damn!” I cried. Vulpin flared, pitched and rolled and continued her descent toward Melinar and we raced after her.
Phel’s voice came rasping over the com, “Do not go in, Rusco!”
“Bring your ships over!” I cried. “Mong is falling. We’ve got him. We’ve already got our weapons locked on his rude bastard hide!”
“Can’t. We’re too busy fighting Warhawks and having a hell of a time of it.”
I could see on the ship’s holo tactical that the Vendecki craft were taking heavy losses from flash bombs and were prey to Mong’s superior numbers. Sparrow 1 ignited to starboard; the last two of our team lay heavily taxed by enemy fire.
“The warbirds have no com,” Phel shrilled, “but their limited reserve weapons are still wreaking havoc on us.”
Flash bombs and convention torps. I gave a miserable sigh.
Wren hit the override switch for reserve fareon power. “That bastard Mong’s going to get away. Too many slimy tricks up his sleeve.”
“Not if we can help it,” I growled. I peered over at Noss. “Can you bring us in close enough?”
Noss grinned.
Sure enough, Vulpin jettisoned an escape craft from the starboard port as she hurtled planetside. I boomed at Noss, “There!”
Wren targeted the shuttle.
Phel grunted in amazement. “A blip has appeared on our scanners. Wait…No, we do not see him anymore. Mong must have curled around the shadow side of the planet.”
“No, we’re tracking the bogie jettisoned from Vulpin.”
“Rusco, I forbid you to go down there—”
I cut the channel. Enough of meister Phel for one day. “Fire every volt of fareon juice we have into that bastard’s ass, Wren!”
She unleashed full fareons. We streaked after the fleeing shuttle, a dark bottle-green shape with bulbed prow and twin fins. Straight to the dimming planetside the shuttle spiraled. We entered Melinar’s atmosphere. Glowering scarlet hue of early evening fell on the rich landscape. We skimmed over the featureless plains in pursuit of the shuttle.
Vulpin nosedived several miles in front of us then smashed into a large paddy field. A bright blue explosion marked the crater of her entry. The shuttle cut through the smoldering cloud and roared skyward, barely saving its hide. Wren’s continued blasts hit it square on, shearing off the rear fins and sending the fuselage spinning out of control. Corkscrewing, it crashed at the side of a hill at the edge of an arid field, smoke trailing from its crumpled fuselage.
As the haze cleared, we saw three figures emerge dazedly from the blackened husk. Magnified resolution revealed one hulking shape, garbed in half-scorched leather and furs, staggering out with two of his henchmen. All were disoriented, blood streaming from their faces and arms. Wren’s holo screen showed higher resolution and her fingers twitched over the fareon blaster.
I reached over and grabbed her hand. “Wait!” I rasped. “As much as I want to nuke that bastard’s ass right now, we can take him alive! To suffer a thousand deaths for the ones he has given to so many others.”
She exhaled an exasperated breath, but the others nodded in agreement.
“Give us air coverage, Noss. An eagle-eye’s view. We’re going in on foot. Keep us apprised of any unpleasant surprises. We don’t want any predators biting us in the ass.”
“Roger that.”
Starrunner settled beside Mong’s broken escape craft, at the rising hill to our right. Noss checked shields and disengaged the rear cargo door. We glimpsed the crash survivors struggling up the hillside on the holo display.
“Zan, you stay behind and help Noss with weap
ons and nav. Your back wounds are still not healed enough to do a land op. Wren, Blest, Grild—come with me. We go in on foot.”
We had no need for masks. Intrepid pioneers had terraformed Melinar centuries ago, with big air generators, water synthesizers, and feeding crops and flora liquid nutrients once transplanted from earth-like worlds.
The four of us stepped out, fully equipped, with R4s, Kevlar vests, coms, helms. The air had a dry distinct tang of slightly tart fecundity, but not unpleasant. Bird song was nonexistent here. The smoke from the escape shuttle had frightened off any animal life. A sudden rank, burning waft of melted metal and gas fumes hit us head on. I motioned Wren and the others up the slope.
Mong and his surviving crew had stumbled up the hill into a grove of weird, strangle-branched trees. Though the word ‘grove’ was a misnomer. Alien flora at best—a petrified forest. Large tracts of thick-boled trees rose up the crumbling slopes, creating a perfect haven for ambush. I weaved among the tan-colored trunks of the broken landscape, urging the others along through the unyielding limbs.
Almost immediately I hunched under the heavier weight of the planet’s gravity. I didn’t have the same spring and jump in my legs at all.
My boots crunched on the gravel-like soil. I heard the distant shuffle and crunch of boot heels and heavy breathing up ahead. Fugitives, not far away.
I gave the signal. We split up to flank them. Wren and Blest took the east, Grild and I took the west, up a steeper, rougher tract with strange flakes of shattered, mars-red rocks. At one time these trees had been living things, but now they were dead, only dry spiky, spidery remnants of a forgotten past.
The runaways had split up too, judging from the scuffling echo coming back through the alien flora. A shrewd tactic, to limit the chance of getting tagged.
I wanted Mong badly. I rasped into the com. “Noss! Do you have a read on them?”
“Negative. We lost air coverage... Wait. Two pulses. Lifeforms at A23.61. Sending location…”
