Saved by the Alien Dragon

by Stella Cassy

  I stood on the observation platform of Draqqapor II, a small spaceport orbiting one of the minor moons of Thirren, the Hielsrane home world. There were a hundred other tasks I was probably supposed to be attending to in that moment – but all I could do was stare at her.

  My own ship. At last, my own command.

  I squared my chin and laced my clawed hands behind my back, keeping my stance wide and trying to look as stoic as a captain should. Inwardly, though, I was practically singing and dancing.

  The Wyvern most likely wasn't anyone's first choice as a vessel – she was one of the oldest in the Hielsrane fleet. While many of the other ships were almost lethally aerodynamic, with elongated front decks resembling snarling dragon muzzles and fearsome nacelles shaped like wings, the Wyvern was a clunky and shapeless monstrosity from a bygone era of space travel.

  Certain updates had been made, naturally, to keep her from being relegated to the scrap heap. Newer weapons systems, for example, and interstellar engines capable of traveling between systems without burning out and filling the engineering chambers with toxic green smoke.

  However, these improvements hadn't been “integrated” so much as carelessly welded on as afterthoughts. The undercarriage was bristling with jagged clusters of rotating blaster tubes and space-to-surface missiles like spears shoved into the belly of a beast, and the new lightspeed drives were ugly lumps bulging from the sides of the hull.

  Still, it was all mine.

  I hadn't interacted with many humans in my lifetime, but when I was much younger, I visited a distant cousin who kept a human slave as a storyteller. The Earther told us of a crazy old man from his home planet named “Don Kee-Ho-Tee” – an amusing dotard who, as a result of his whimsical senility (or perhaps the effects of sunstroke), saw remarkable and magical things in mundane objects. To him, a collection of battered pots and pans was a suit of armor fit for a warrior, and a windmill was a giant challenging him to combat. The tale had delighted me and had remained in my mind long after other children’s' stories from my youth had faded.

  Now, gazing proudly at the Wyvern, I felt like that old coot in his set of cookware armor. To me, this ship wasn't some decrepit pile of junk. When I tilted my head and squinted at it just so, the armaments became the deadly claws of a swooping predator, and the engines took on the shape of a raptor's wings unfurling with the thrill of the hunt.

  “I'd be squinting pretty hard too, if I'd been assigned to such a floating pile of rubbish.”

  I turned and saw the all-too-familiar form of Ranel coming down the corridor toward me – thick and muscled, with broad shoulders, ruddy scales, and hair that was just starting to go grey at the temples. His yellow eyes were tired, and the grin he wore was lopsided and jaded. He held a data tablet in one claw, and a long black blaster rifle with a crooked, two-pronged barrel in the other.

  “Then again,” he went on, “I suppose I'm even worse off. I've been assigned to the captain who's been assigned to that garbage-hauling monstrosity. Not exactly where I saw myself at this stage of my career, but here we are, I suppose.”

  I smiled. Ranel was known for his bad temper and crusty demeanor, but he'd always been a good friend and mentor to me, and I was immensely pleased to have him as my first officer.

  “Complain all you want,” I told him. “But to me, she's a thing of beauty.”

  “I'll have to make the fleet admiral aware of that at once,” he shot back. “We certainly don't need captains who are half-blind and simple-minded leading raids for us. You know what your problem is?”

  I couldn't help but sigh at this. “Ranel, if I had a credit for every time you started a sentence with 'You know what your problem is,' I could buy myself a private moon.”

  “Your problem,” Ranel continued relentlessly, “is that you're too nice. Everyone says so. You should have demanded a better ship. You should have growled and roared until they gave you one. Instead, you got down on your knees, put your forked tongue right up the commodore's scaly green ass, and said, 'Yes, sir.' And what did you get for your trouble? A scow, that's what.”

  “How could I say 'Yes, sir' with my tongue up his ass?” I took the tip of my long tongue between two claws, stretched it out as far as it could go, and gave it my best shot: “Yuh thur.” I let go of my tongue, reeling it in again. “See? Doesn't work.”

  “Go ahead. Goof around. The Pax will love that. Speaking of which, shouldn't you be studying these scouting reports and formulating an invasion plan, instead of standing here fondling yourself over your new command?”

  “I've already gone over them.”

  “And?”

  I took a deep breath, regretfully tearing my eyes away from the ship to give him my full attention. “There are nine mining camps on Nort, and according to our data, the N-7 camp is the weakest link in the chain by far in terms of planetary defenses. Their surface-to-orbit cannons are outdated models, with shorter ranges and lower ammunition capacities than those installed in the other camps. Even better, its location is ideal for fending off surface-to-surface attacks due to the mountain ranges surrounding it. Any battalions coming in will be spotted immediately, giving us plenty of time to prepare our defenses.”

  “Good. So you can read, instead of just preen and joke. What's your plan, then?”

  “N-7's workers and refineries operate day and night, just like the other camps. Needless to say, they have the slaves, overseers, and guards working in shifts. Based on the report, the shift change occurs at the same time each solar cycle. At that precise moment, we'll hit N-7 with the Wyvern, knocking out their communications array and deploying landing parties. Once we've seized control, we'll release the drop-shuttles to fan out and attack the other mining camps before they have a chance to get organized.”

  Ranel nodded sagely. “Glad to hear you've thought this through. But what happens next?”

  I frowned, confused. “Well, it'll be a close battle at first, but once we send word that we've completed our initial raid and the reinforcements from the Hielsrane fleet arrive, taking and holding the rest of the planet shouldn't be a problem...”

  “There won't be any reinforcements. At least, not until you send word that you've taken the entirety of Nort, and that you're in a position to hold it on your own for the foreseeable future.”

  “That's—I don't—what are you talking about?” I stammered. “Surely the Wyvern's just meant to be the vanguard of this raid, not the whole thing?”

  Ranel put his heavy claw on my shoulder, looking into my eyes intently. “Dashel, do you know why I was assigned as your second on this mission?”

  “Certainly. You're the logical choice, given our history together. Plus, you're more seasoned, you have more combat experience...”

  “You're talking around yourself in circles,” Ranel rumbled impatiently. “The Hielsrane fleet is stretched so thin that I should have my own command right now. The reason I don't is that for all intents and purposes, this is the command they gave me. The admirals are in no way convinced that you're up to the task. They believe you'll choke, and they've installed me so that when you do, the transition will be smooth when I take over. They felt that when it came down to it, you'd put up less of a fight if it was me relieving you of command instead of someone else. But they won't be sending any other ships to back us up – not until we've entrenched ourselves so thoroughly that we can expect the Pax Alliance to send reinforcements to re-take the planet. And by then, it'll be too late for them to remove us. Now do you understand?”

  I couldn't help but feel hurt by this. Still, given my recent personal issues, I supposed I shouldn't have been too surprised that the admirals would cover their bases this way. It was just a shock to hear it confirmed aloud. “Ranel, you've told me how they feel...what about you? Do you believe I'm ready for this mission?”

  “Honestly?” Ranel considered this for a moment. “I'm not entirely certain that I would be ready for it, if I'd been through what you have. But the needs of our people can't wa
it for your readiness. This needs to be done, you've been selected to do it for better or worse, and that's all there is to it. You have a stout heart, and even if you've got a somewhat softer temperament than most Hielsrane,” he said diplomatically, “you're a damn good warrior when it counts. I've seen that firsthand. All I can do is be there for you in any way I can. And be prepared to assume your duties, if it comes to that.”

  “Well, let's hope it doesn't.” I drew myself up to my full height, trying to pretend his uncertainty didn't affect me. “Have we received authorization to disembark and begin our mission?”

  “At your discretion, captain.” He lifted his claw jauntily, giving me a mocking salute.

  “Then I suppose you'd better assemble the crew and make sure they're ready to depart in fifteen cleks, commander,” I teased back. “And be quick about it, or I'll order you blown out of the first airlock I can find. I'll even push the button myself.”

  “This ship is so old and decrepit, I'll be surprised if the airlocks aren't crank-operated, not to mention rusted shut. I'll meet you on the command deck.”

  Ranel went to gather the rest of our crewmen, and I walked the perimeter of the observation ring, never taking my eyes off the Wyvern until I reached the docking bridge. As I crossed it, I thought about what Ranel had said about my so-called “temperament.”

  He was right, of course. It wasn't the first time I'd heard it, or even the hundredth. Ever since I was a hatchling, my peers had chastised me for being more soft-spoken and introspective than others of my race. Most Hielsrane barked and growled and challenged each other for dominance – we were an aggressively warlike species, after all. It was how we'd survived for so long in the harsh and dangerous conditions of space.

  Qumarah hadn't thought of me as “soft,” though. She'd admired my quieter and more gentle nature, even as others sneered at it. She appreciated the fact that I'd been able to let my guard down around her, instead of constantly snarling and posturing.

  Oh, but it still hurt to think about Qumarah.

  After she died, I tried so hard to keep a tight grip on all the wonderful things about her – her beauty, her love for me, the way her smile would brighten any room she was in. I desperately wanted to cling to the happy memories we had together. When I was alone in my quarters, I'd shut my eyes as tight as I could, wishing, wishing, wishing I could conjure recollections of her warmth in my arms, her breath against my neck as she slept, the sound of her laughter.

  My curse was that such memories were always just out of reach. In their place, I found nothing but nightmarish images of how she was at the very end – her once-lovely scales sloughing off to reveal the scabby tissue underneath, her gorgeous green eyes dull and unfocused, unable to take on the full dragon form that once gave her such a feeling of freedom. She had writhed in agony in her medical cot, shrieking, babbling, begging the healers to end her suffering. And worst of all, there was nothing I could do for her. I'd been in the cot next to hers, ailing from the same terrifying illness that had her in its grip.

  The dreaded Giliu Syndrome had been all but eradicated on Thirren. A vaccine had been developed several generations ago – one which, unfortunately, Qumarah and I were not eligible for, due to rare conditions from birth which lowered our bodies' abilities to process it. When we first met, we both laughed at the coincidence...one of many things we'd had in common.

  But when the disease hit – me first, then my beloved Qumarah – we didn't joke about it anymore. We lived each moment in pain and terror, wondering which of us would expire from Giliu, or if we both would. We prayed for the latter, if only so neither of us would have to know the horror of living without the other.

  If the universe had heard our prayers, though, it gave no sign. Death claimed Qumarah and spared me, though I was left with neurological damage that took over a year to fully recover from, and a cold, black hole inside of me that it seemed I would never be able to fill again.

  This was why the fleet admirals had been so hesitant about giving me my own command. They were worried that in my grief and loneliness, I still maintained a death wish – not a welcome trait in a captain, with so many other crewmembers depending on him for their very survival. In truth, though, I had come to feel that only a command of my own would allow me to embrace life again. And now, at last, I had it.

  Recently, I'd learned of a small but steadily growing movement on Thirren – parents who were deliberately choosing to have the vaccine withheld from their offspring, in the name of paranoia and ancient superstitions which had long ceased to be relevant. I cursed them bitterly, thinking of the countless other innocents who would suffer as a result of such foolishness, just as Qumarah had.

  I hated those people with a fiery intensity that dwarfed my hostility toward the Pax. Indeed, once the battle for Nort was underway, I had every intention of picturing each Pax in my crosshairs as a Hielsrane who endangered their child in such a way.

  But first things first.

  I reached the airlock and stared at the access panel, my claw poised over the buttons. I tried not to think about how many others had used the panel that day and more specifically, how many of them had sanitized their claws before doing so. How many germs might be swarming on it, invisible to my eyes? How many strains of bacteria, wriggling and copulating and multiplying by the second?

  I shook my head. The healers at the facility where I recovered had told me such thoughts were natural in the aftermath of the loss I'd suffered. They said I simply had to learn to overcome them, rather than giving in to the fear they provoked.

  Easier said than done.

  I steeled myself and punched the button, trying to ignore the imagined sensation of millions of grubby little foreign cells squirming on the tip of my claw. Nevertheless, I couldn't stop myself from pausing at the first sani-station I found and cleaning it three times before proceeding to the command deck.

  I hoped none of my crewmembers saw such a display. Ships were small communities, and word of a commanding officer's severe germaphobia would spread quickly. No doubt everyone on board had already heard about my recent troubles and gossiped about them among themselves.

  Well, nothing to be done about it now. I'd simply have to earn their respect, just like any other captain.

  I stepped onto the command deck and looked around, surprised. Ranel was already standing at his post, and so were all of the other officers. They looked at me expectantly.

  “Didn't waste any time, did you?” I asked Ranel, glancing at the chronometer. I'd ordered him to assemble the crew in fifteen cleks, and he'd done it in less than ten.

  “You give the orders, sir. We're standing by to follow them.” Ranel's previous mocking tone was gone, replaced with the flat and simple inflection of an officer awaiting his next task. It was one thing to tease me privately, but he knew better than to start us off by undermining me in front of the others – that would be a certain recipe for dissension and, ultimately, failure.

  “Very well.” I nodded to the navigator. “What's your name, Lieutenant?”

  “Krelgir, sir.” He looked quite young for his rank. His scales shone an iridescent lavender, and his eyes matched, shimmering fearlessly.

  “Mr. Krelgir, as I'm sure you're aware, there are two routes from here to Nort: One which will take us past Coovoo, and one which will take us past the Moset home world, both of which are part of the Pax Alliance.”

  “I'm well aware, sir.” There was a hint of a smirk on Krelgir's face.

  “Then perhaps you'd like to let us know your plan for getting us past their sensor arrays, so they won't be able to let Nort know we're coming.”

  “Certainly, sir.” From the sound of his voice, Krelgir had been eagerly awaiting this line of questioning. “By dampening the vibrational output of our engines, I can trick their sensors into classifying us as a chunk of space debris putting out low-level solar radiation.”

  “Not such a difficult trick,” Ranel muttered under his breath, “since this ship can e
asily be classified as space debris to begin with.”

  “And what if the scientists of the Pax Alliance decide it's worth their time to scrutinize such a phenomenon more closely?” I pressed, ignoring Ranel's comment.

  Krelgir gave me a lopsided grin. “Have you ever known the Pax to take an active interest in anything that didn't involve the immediate acquisition of slaves or natural resources? Sir,” he added quickly.

  “You make a valid point, Lieutenant. And now, if all crew are present and accounted for, you may chart a course for Nort and engage.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He punched in a series of commands on his console, and the Wyvern lurched forward, the sound of its engines building to a steady hum. I took my seat in the captain's chair, smiling broadly. I'd felt the gentle rumble of a starship's drive beneath me many times before.

  But never from the command deck of my own vessel.

  It was every bit as exciting as I'd always hoped.

  3

  Natalie

  Every time I closed my eyes after a shift in the mines, my dreams were always the same.

  The Pax Alliance had long since perfected a surgical procedure that would rob their slaves of the need for sleep, so they could be forced to work longer shifts. Such surgeries were frequently ordered as punishment for perceived laziness. Afterward, the patients were able to labor almost indefinitely, propped up by artificially restorative injections that recharged their muscle tissue and marginally stabilized the chemistry of their brains though a vast majority of them still went incurably insane within the first few months, deprived of their ability to work out their inner turmoil through the natural process of dreaming.

  I had begged Gohak to submit me for the surgery on multiple occasions. I did everything I could to convince him I would rather dedicate myself to maintaining Nort's output levels around the clock.

  His response was always the same: He'd listen politely, thank me for my willingness to sacrifice my sleep requirements for the good of the mine, remind me that there was a waiting list for the procedure, and promise to add my name to the list and let me know when the procedure would be available to me.