Fire Flare

by Chris Ward

  ‘We might have won,’ the stranger said, ‘were it not for the de-transmission ship Overlord Climlee’s forces had. It blocked our signals, cutting off all communication except visual. My squadron was routed, and I launched into deep space to survive. However, I need to go back. General Grogood is too great a talisman to be lost. The last transmission I received was that the remnants of the force should meet at a secret location on Dynis Moon until the sky is clear.’

  ‘Only one part of me that grows good,’ Caladan said with a drunken chortle, slapping the back of his nearest fellow drinker before almost falling off his stool. ‘And it’s not my left arm.’

  The human carried on, ignoring Caladan as he slid closer and closer to the floor. ‘I need a fast ship and a crew for a rescue mission. If we can save General Grogood, we can turn the tide of the war.’

  ‘You’re a fool,’ came another voice, a Karpali with two of its six arms ending in viciously scarred stumps. ‘I survived the ground assault on Feint. Last ship out before the Helix devoured everything. We can’t beat them.’

  ‘He’s right,’ the Jeeeb with the severed arm shouted down the bar. ‘Turn away, let them go about their business, and they’ll leave you alone.’

  ‘Rolling on your belly might be part of your culture, but it’s not part of mine,’ the man shouted. ‘You’re cowards, all of you.’

  In a blur he had a blaster in his hand. The bar split into opposing factions, some standing with the pilot from Dynis Moon, others drawing against him. The bar filled with flashing lights and the crash of breaking glasses, splitting plastic, and exploding tables. With a howl, the bartender pulled his own weapon and began firing on a group of Ril who had appeared seemingly just for the fight, gunning down two as they attempted to dislodge an antique real wood ceiling beam.

  In moments the brawl was over. A dozen bodies lay scattered across the bar’s floor, some in pieces, oozing all colors of blood. Caladan, cowering beneath an overturned table, peered out to find the pilot from Dynis Moon lying nearby, his space suit now soaked with blood. As the bartender stomped among the wreckage, his metal stump kicking any injured who couldn’t move aside quickly enough, while complaining all the while about the scarcity of replacements, Caladan crawled out of his hiding place and tried to stand up.

  A hand closed over his leg, pulling him back down. He hit the side of his face on the fake wood of the bar, leaving his head spinning.

  ‘Promise me you’ll go back,’ the space pilot said as blood dribbled from his nose. ‘Promise me you’ll find General Grogood and turn the tide of this war.’

  ‘We promise,’ came a voice from behind Caladan. He looked up to see Paul’s stoic eyes looming over him, mouth set into a determined grimace. ‘We’ll find your general, and if we can’t find him, we’ll avenge him. You have my word as a Defender of the Free.’

  Caladan sighed, but the space pilot’s face changed, the bloodied anguish in his face turning to a look of peace. ‘So you do exist…. I didn’t believe it, but now … at least I can die knowing there’s hope….’

  He slumped forward over Caladan’s stomach. Something hard and round fell into Caladan’s hand. He closed his fingers over it and stuffed it into a pocket.

  ‘I thought I told you to stay in the hotel,’ he said, voice slurring, as Beth’s beaming but determined face appeared beside Paul’s. ‘You kids listen to the stupid robot. Why won’t you ever listen to me?’

  8

  Tor Al’Kanth

  ‘Round them up,’ Commodore Tor Al’Kanth said in the Shadowmen’s own tongue as the officer gave him a respectful bow. ‘The battle is won. We will clean up the mess these people left behind, and then we will feast on their remains.’

  The officer nodded again and departed.

  Tor Al’Kanth brushed one of the bugs off his shoulder, where it had climbed too high. It bounced on the ground, its eighteen legs, arranged in two front appendages of six and two rear of three each, revolving nervously until he gave it a nudge and it rolled over. Scrambling quickly back up his leg, it found a loose section of flesh on his narrow thigh and settled down to feast.

  A transmission buzzed on the dashboard in front of him. He reached out a spindly finger to press the activate button.

  ‘Commodore,’ came the voice of a lower officer. ‘We have secured the capture of a transport jettisoning from a damaged cruiser.’

  Tor Al’Kanth felt a tingle of excitement. ‘Prisoners?’

  ‘They put up a fight in the hangar, but so far eighty-seven have been captured alive.’

  Tor Al’Kanth hardly dared to breathe. It was so rare to take prisoners in space battles, when proton cannons were firing all over the place.

  ‘Are they … human?’

  ‘Fifty-two are human. Nineteen are human-subspecies, and the remainder are reptilian or non-bipedal off-worlders.’

  Tor Al’Kanth scratched at a spot under his arm, where, perhaps encouraged by a sudden flare in his body temperature, a nest of bug eggs had begun to hatch. Fifty-two! It was beyond his wildest dreams.

  ‘Have the reptilians taken to the incinerator,’ he said, wrinkling his tiny air-pores. ‘Are there any named generals or other high-ranking officers on Overlord Climlee’s prisoner list?’

  ‘None.’

  Tor Al’Kanth flushed. ‘Perfect. Have the pure humans taken to the officers’ meeting chamber. The subspecies should be taken to the prison level and passed into the care of the orderlies.’

  ‘As you command.’

  Through the view-screens, he watched as another Trillian spacecraft exploded under a barrage of proton cannon fire. Although most had long since fled, a few continued to fight, even if most of those were little more than burning wrecks. A couple had fallen into Dynis Moon’s atmosphere, as had a couple of his own ships, where whatever didn’t burn up would crash land, most likely breaking up on impact. It would take some time to finish off any survivors, particularly now that one of the two orbiters had been fired on under Overlord Climlee’s command, but the battle was almost over. Another victory for the Overlord, and another feast for the Shadowmen.

  He watched one more Trillian ship explode, then called his senior officers together.

  ‘It is time to enjoy the spoils of war,’ he said, leading them off the flight deck.

  The mood was buoyant among his colleagues as one by one they took the suction tube down to the feasting chamber. Entering first, head held high with the lightness of victory, he surveyed their catch.

  With enough for the fifty senior officers onboard, the human captives had been strapped into the feasting apparatus in a seated position, heads held in circular vices with a clasp under the chin which both held their heads upright and prevented too much noise.

  Tor Al’Kanth, towering over the prisoners, took his place at the head of the long table, with his two most senior officers to either side, the rest arranged in two lines. The humans, in their vices, faced inwards, their eyes darting about, able to watch their fellow prisoners.

  He had often wondered what they thought about as they watched their captors sit down to eat. Unless an officer was really eager and went straight for the frontal lobes, their awareness would continue well into the feast. Did they try to say goodbye with their eyes? Did they dream of repentance for old sins?

  Tor Al’Kanth grinned from ear to tiny ear. The chef had selected well, a young male with pretty blue eyes. He leaned down to take a closer look, amused at the tears dribbling down the man’s face. He smiled, patted the man on the cheek, then climbed into his chair, which straddled over the secured prisoner’s back. A choice of spoons had been laid out. He chose one of silver from the Garrom mines in Phevius System. It gave a better aftertaste.

  Raising one hand, he hailed the orderly standing at the table’s far end. ‘Start the saw,’ he commanded.

  Moving slowly around the table from left to right, the cutting machine, a large contraption on caterpillar treads, first sprayed the humans’ skin with a strong anesthetic in
order that they would remain conscious as long as possible, before a whirring laser saw took off the top of each skull. The Shadowmen whooped and cheered as each circle of skull clattered off the floor, laughing at the wild stares in the eyes of their captives as they understood the fate that was coming to them.

  And finally, as the saw reached the head of the table and began to slice through the skull of the captive which would provide Tor Al’Kanth with the most delicious meal he’d enjoyed in some time, he stood up, tapped two spoons together, and began to chant a word in the common intergalactic tongue, not only to get his own men excited, but to make sure that the humans knew without a doubt the fate that was to befall them.

  ‘Brains! Brains! Brains, brains, brains!’

  9

  Caladan

  ‘At least we have a purpose now,’ Paul said.

  Caladan flapped his hand in Paul’s general direction, wishing the younger man was a bug he could swat. ‘Purpose? I had a purpose already. To get my ship off this rock, find my captain, and then hide under another giant rock until the war is over.’

  ‘I never took you for a coward.’

  ‘There’s a difference between being a coward and being reckless. I’m somewhere in the middle, but it’s pretty clear where you are on the scale. We’re not going to Dynis Moon and that’s the end of it.’

  ‘If I pulled a blaster on you would you change your mind?’

  ‘No! Shoot me, I don’t care. If we go to Dynis Moon we’re going to die anyway, so we might as well get on with it.’

  ‘We promised that man.’

  ‘So? He’s dead. What does he care?’

  Paul puffed out his chest, his face solemn. ‘I care.’

  ‘How nice for you.’

  ‘I kept you alive on Cable—’

  ‘You kept me alive?’

  ‘And I kept you alive in that bar. I told Beth you were a risk—’

  ‘What are you, my dad?’

  Paul stopped walking. After a couple of steps, Caladan stopped too. He turned and looked back at Paul, who was standing in the middle of the street, arms folded, eyes hard, the beard making him look far older than his years. He glared at Caladan like a gunslinger about to offer a duel, completely unaware of a rambling parts wagon about to run him down.

  ‘Curse me that I would fall in with someone so devoid of morality,’ Paul said. ‘Damn you to Vantar’s Seven Hells.’

  ‘Too late,’ Caladan said. ‘I’ve already been there. I got to level three before they’d had enough of me and threw out what was left.’ He took a step forward, prepared to drag the fool to safety if necessary. ‘Now will you get out of the way of that thing!’

  Paul glanced back, gave a little gasp of fright, then jumped aside as the lumbering wagon trundled past, overloaded with recyclable machine parts, a group of catlike Ween hanging from the sides hissing and scratching at the air in Paul’s general direction.

  Satisfied Paul was set to survive a little longer, Caladan turned and marched off up the street, only for Beth to step out of a doorway up ahead. Behind her came an auto-cart, laden with packaged supplies. She lifted a hand and smiled as he reached her.

  ‘I think I got everything we need,’ she said. ‘There should be enough here to get us to Dynis Moon and get out, even if we have to lie low for a while.’

  Caladan sighed. ‘We’re not….’

  ‘What?’ Beth gave him a smile sweet enough to make his hair frizz. Caladan shook his head.

  Caladan closed his eyes. ‘All right, I give up. But if we can’t find him within one Earth-week, we get out of there and head into deep space,’ he said. ‘One week.’

  He nearly fell as Paul clapped him on the stump of his left shoulder, then gave it a shake as though hoping the rest of the arm might fall out.

  ‘Said like the legendary pilot I keep hearing that you are,’ Paul said. ‘One day the GMP Academy textbooks will bear your name.’

  Caladan sighed again. ‘A day I dream about,’ he said.

  Beth, who was a lot more organised than Caladan and far more level-headed than Paul, had made a list. Caladan, his feet and head aching simultaneously, followed her through the calamitous mess of trading posts and travel suppliers that crowded the streets around Docrem2’s eponymous spaceport like a fungus that had spread out of control, trying not to swipe at every heroic comment that burst from Paul’s mouth as Beth assembled everything they needed. Food packages, medical supplies, spare parts for the recuperation tanks, parts for the robot, parts for the parts of the ship that had a tendency to keep breaking. Parts, parts, and more parts, spare clothing, respirators, temperature controlled skin-moulded spacesuits, blaster charges, and even secret wormhole codes. As Caladan followed, he wondered when she was going to stock up on whisky.

  They had reached the end of the main drag and were about to turn back when Paul pointed out a commotion up ahead.

  In front of a tall fence bordering a private shipyard, a rabble of off-worlders had assembled. As Caladan watched, a blast of proton fire sparked off the ground and the crowd parted to reveal an Evattlan warrior standing beside two towering, terrifying Shadowmen. Proton cannons had been fitted to a metal frame around its exoskeleton, but it was the Shadowmen, nine Earth-feet tall and so thin it was hard to focus on them against the background of the shipyard, that drew all the eyes.

  ‘Good heavens, they’re hideous,’ Paul said. ‘And in this hellhole, that’s saying something.’

  For once Caladan could agree. He had never before seen them face to face, and they were worse than the ship’s computers said. His skin crawled at the sight of them, invoking some irrational, evolutionary fear.

  ‘Let’s get back to the ship,’ he said.

  ‘Harlan killed two of those mothers,’ Paul said. ‘That bucket of bolts deserves a medal.’

  ‘We’ll sort one out when we get back to the ship,’ Caladan said, leaning across Beth and setting a control on the auto-cart to turn it around.

  ‘What are they doing over there?’ Beth said, as other heavily-armed Evattlan warriors began to herd the rabble into a rough line in front of the Shadowmen standing by the gate. One appeared to be inspecting each off-worlder, turning to the other who gave a final nod or shake of its head.

  ‘I’d guess it’s one of their recruitment drives,’ Caladan said, as a heavily scarred Karpali was waved through the gate. ‘They’re offering people a way off this rock if they go and fight for Raylan.’

  Paul pulled his blaster. ‘Let’s turn the tide,’ he growled. ‘The Defenders of the Free are back in town.’

  ‘Put that thing away!’ Caladan snapped. He reached for Paul’s arm, but could only knock it downwards as the blast went off, sending up a cloud of dust, the blast blowing a small crater in the rock at Paul’s feet.

  A hundred heads turned in their direction.

  ‘Nice one,’ Paul said, rolling his eyes. ‘Now they know we’re here and I didn’t even get a hit.’

  ‘We’d better run,’ Beth said.

  Caladan felt the blood drain out of his face. The crowd in front of the Shadowmen had parted as the off-worlders dived for cover, expecting a firefight. A hundred metres separated them from the cluster of Evattlan warriors and two spindly monsters out of his darkest nightmares.

  ‘You kids will be the death of me,’ he muttered, drawing his own blaster and firing before he could even gain control of his senses. One of the Shadowmen buckled, hit in the chest, toppling over like a falling tree.

  ‘Nice shooting, deadeye!’ Paul hollered, lifting his own blaster and firing at the group of Evattlans. Two fell before the others started to return fire. As proton fire blasted past Caladan’s face, he pulled Paul aside.

  ‘I agree with Beth,’ he growled. ‘Run!’

  ‘The Defenders of the Free live!’ Paul roared, then turned and fired at the steel beams supporting a ramshackle traders’ merchant looming over the street. As they gave way, the building collapsed, spewing a wave of masonry and machine parts into the r
oad. Dust plumed, blinding them.

  ‘Get the cart moving,’ Caladan said to Beth. ‘We’ll need that gear.’

  ‘The Defenders of the Free!’ Paul roared again, firing indiscriminately into the fog, catching a leaping Evattlan with a lucky shot as it clambered over the rubble. Nearby, onlookers cheered, while other off-worlders pulled their own weapons to join the fight.

  ‘Revolut—’ Paul’s war cry was cut off as Caladan punched him in the stomach, then pulled him backwards as Beth struggled to move the cart through chaotic streets made worse by people running everywhere, while others overturned wagons and gurneys to make roadblocks and barricades. They got to within a couple of streets of Teer Flint’s shipyard before a stray blaster shot ricocheted off a steel door nearby and hit the cart’s floatation controls. With a hiss of escaping gas, it crashed to the ground.

  ‘It’s useless now,’ Caladan said, glancing over his shoulder at where a howling mob had taken control of the street. ‘Grab what you can.’

  ‘Get away from there, villain!’ Paul growled as a Ween darted out of the shadows, tore a box from the cart and then dashed away, narrowly avoiding Paul’s attempted kick.

  ‘The food and the weapons,’ Caladan said. ‘Don’t worry about the robot’s parts; he’s never worked properly anyway. Come on.’

  Lugging what they could and leaving the rest to scavengers, at last they made it to Flint’s shipyard, a pair of automatic doors closing behind them, cutting out the cacophony of the street outside.

  ‘Where’s the ship?’ Paul said.

  ‘Over there,’ Beth said. ‘Someone’s moved it.’

  They had left the Matilda on a creaking, rubbish-strewn landing pad rising off the ground, but now it stood outside Flint’s main hangar. Caladan smiled, considering the spiderlike ship as close as any friend. Then, with a sudden frown, his smile dropped.