by I. Christie
Merker's Outpost
Merker's Outpost has a secret that spans galaxies. Below its hostile, barren red surface, a once-thriving research complex now lies seemingly deserted, watched over by an entity called Guardian. Lieutenant Harriet Montran, a Collective Space Centurion officer, is betrayed by her shipmates and stranded on Merker's. She is rescued by Guardian, who enlists her aid to evict a group of smugglers who have set up base in one of the Outpost's underground cities. Major Zohra, an undercover operative for the secret watchdogs of the galaxy, Naboth's Vine, is also on Merker's Outpost. She has infiltrated the smugglers with the intent of ending their illegal trafficking in sentient beings. Montran and Zohra join forces with Guardian to thwart the smugglers and protect Merker's Outpost. Soon, the bond that joined them when they were cadets flares anew. Confronted by smugglers, renegade soldiers, programmed assassins, and betrayal within their own ranks, Montran and Zohra are caught in a desperate race to discover the planet's secret before it falls into the wrong hands. Can their feelings survive it? Can they?
Chapter 1
Tension in the mess hall was as thick as the goop from the freighter's shunt gate. Bets halted and silence settled uneasily in anticipation of the next move. A dozen crewmembers dressed in grubby work fatigues, pressed around one of the tables. Even the few that were there for other reasons waited, pausing in mid chew or conversation, watching the backs of their fellow members.
Within the tight stifling circle sat a human female and her opponent, a gleanean, more than twice her size. The female's eyes drifted up to look directly into the eyes of her opponent after she made her move, sliding past his weak barrier, and putting a hex on his sentries. The gleanean, hulking over her and the gaming table finished his move, and then slid his eyes to hers, to see her reaction. For a moment his golden eyes, flecked with silver, revealed uncertainty, as his gaze was held by the hard look in the unblinking eyes of the alpha female. With difficulty, the golden eyes moved back to the game board where he had moved to take one of her watchers, snipping it in half. His large hand, wrapped around the control too tightly from nervousness, moved his wizard's servant into the castle hall past her dead troll dog, on his awarded bonus move. She resisted a sigh, not sure if it was from relief or disgust. He wasted another move by taking out the dog instead of finishing her off with his wizard's crow, which was a shape-changer. Maybe he did not like pets…or maybe he did not like her troll dog that led him on false trails.
"Bleep, bleep."
The pager's tone broke the silence, causing some of the crew to jump. The female's hand was a blur as she irritably slapped the acknowledgement button on the back of her wrist communication band. Careful not to touch the board or controls she stood, letting the parting crowd direct her to the communicator on the unevenly fading two-toned gray painted hull. Her wrist communicator, as most equipment on the freighter, was old and not working to its specs so she could not give a voice response, though since she was surrounded by noncoms, she would not have done so anyway.
This had better be a 'Hello, hope you're enjoying some time off', she grumbled mentally. "Bridge, this is Lt. Montran," she reported in a low tone.
"Report to cargo bay seventeen, Lieutenant!" The order was crisp and unnecessarily loud.
She imagined a smirk on his blue face to match the tone of his voice. His fourth antenna was probably twitching too, she thought disgustedly. What really irked her was he was a freighter officer who earned his bars through the civilian ladder, based on who he knew, rather than a real officer that earned it through battle and or proper academy training. She also outranked him no matter whose space they were in. With a struggle, she held back her angry retort.
"My shift does not start for another twenty stan hours - Ensign Desoto," she reminded him in a low voice.
"Those are your orders, Lieutenant." The audible click told her it would be pointless to say more. She hit the wall communicator with more force than needed, and then took a few deep breaths to compose her face. She turned and threaded back through the restless crowd.
"I've been called back to duty." Like they don't know, Lieutenant. It was another struggle to keep her tone even and noncommittal…including withholding the caustic remarks that easily moved to the tip of her tongue. She used to be able to detach emotionally from small annoying things like this, a point that further caused her irritation.
"This game has been closed for further moves. It is logged as a draw," the computer run Gaming Master declared.
The sounds of outrage mixed with jubilant voices from the crew rose to a din as the lieutenant stepped through the hatch, grateful she would not have to break up the fistfights that were sure to arise. At the moment, she would not mind punching someone…like the committee member that was responsible for her being 'commandeered' back into Committee service and sticking her on this disaster waiting to happen tub. For that matter, if any of the crew wanted to step in front of her, they could easily take his place. Quickly she strode away from the raising noise, not trusting herself. Irritably she rubbed her temple to ease a weeklong headache. The thud of her new boots sent up unpleasant vibrations to her head causing her to become glummer about her situation.
Rue Despario. Damn that clause! It was supposed to be just a courtesy concession between two galactic egos. It's a typical political wormhole. No one had ever used it!
Miserably she thought of her grandfather, a voice she sought comfort from for the last three months of her solitude on the freighter.
Harry, your dearie could use any influence you may have in fortunes way to get me off this cursed ship…safely and real soon.
Yep, m'dearie ah sure will use me influence fer whatever it can get ch'ya.
She grinned, and then thought of why she was even in Committee space, quickly changing her expression to a frown. She was to rendezvous with her cousin/brother, Lord Hadrian DeMonte on Z3, a busy but small outpost near a jump gate used primarily for switching shuttles. From there, they were to travel together to their home planet aboard his private liner the Alborak, a ship that had all the protection and trappings to fight off pirates or any trouble short of a battle cruiser or a swarm.
For the umpteenth time she tried to figure out why he had sent for her. It was not a military matter or political business that would concern the Collective's Centurion Corps, her present employer, or Commander Hailbrun, head of security on the Centurion flagship Ziggy would have told her before she left…or she hoped that would be the case. The commander had agents that kept him well informed on all information, including gossip in both Committee and Collective space. She shook her head at that. She did not believe her employer for the last seven years would send her unknowingly into danger. So, what did that leave?
A family reunion? Not my cup of tea…but long over due, huh Harry? And given the choice of being here to there, I would rather be there! But, I don't think a family reunion. Not the season for one. It would be winter. Though, Harry, I do miss the winter weather there. So…what's so important that he requests me to come home, but needs to talk to me face to face before I get there? Marriage? I know he's not arranging mine. He wouldn't dare…A big grin appeared on her face at the thought.
She had sent him a brief image telepathically of her 'emergency draft' orders from the Committee's Galactic Central Command. She had to admit she was furious when she sent him her thoughts on this matter. Whatever the reason, Hadrie's return thought was puzzling.
He knows I can't figure out feeling telepathic messages. Give me an image, blast you Hadrie! Now, I'm just about dying of curiosity.
Her boots thudded solidly as they hit the lower deck, sending a jarring pain to her head and to the backs of her eyes. With a slight pause and a curse under breath, she continued towards the hat
ch, trusting the sensors to open it in time for her to pass through. The jolt brought her back to her anger at being stuck on the freighter.
This assignment was supposed to last less than one stan month or whenever they delivered the blasted cargo. By Hydra's breath, it has been three months and I'm still here along with the cursed toxic gasses I'm supposed to be watching over! At this rate, I'm ready to dump it out the tubes like a bad case of gastric upset. Images of what that would look like brought a grin to her face. What a hell of a cosmic blow-out that would cause!
She took a deep breath, trying to ease the ache in her head as it pounded with more of a vengeance than it had been. Realizing she was escalating the pain, she turned her thoughts to something else…what the call could be about.
Well, it isn't about docking preparations. There are no docking possibilities around here. Hmmm, no incoming and outgoing freight movement, unless some passing ship is real suicidal and wants to link for supply transfers. On the other hand, maybe they've dropped their load and ran before Spinner's Tale got too close to mate-up with them. Naw. Helm would probably run the packets down either knocking them into the nearby jump gateway, way out into another part of the galaxy, or smashing the load open. Oh, Goddess! They would then have to send some fool out there in a suit to recover each floating load. That fool would undoubtedly be me…so, no more of those silly thoughts, lieutenant. No tempting the Fates, huh? So, what could this call be about? What service compartment needs me to be squirming into to fix that my reactivation of the ship's diags found? Or what other virus is running through the systems that their own officers could not nail and purge? I'm learnin' way too much about a freighter's maintenance, Harry. This is not the direction I had in mind for a career move. And definitely nothing in this part of space!
The hatch to her destination swished open.
There was a small party dressed in their airless environment garb, AEGs, assembled around stacked covered crates. She nearly tripped over a heap of someone's gear at the entranceway. A moment of irritation flickered as she thought that that was no way to treat gear one's life depended on. She had been drilling into the crew since her arrival on the proper maintenance and storage of equipment someone's life depended on. However, after three months with her own health deteriorating, she was no longer that interested in saving the crew from themselves. And that was an old story she had thought she left behind.
No more helping those that don't want to help themselves. Didn't I say I was turning over a new leaf, Harry? Look at me! I get back into Committee space and back to old habits.
Ya do have this magnetic quality about ch'ya, ma'dearie that seems to attract the lead heads in this part of the galaxy.
Commander Martinez, the only one not dressed for outside work, looked her way for a moment, long enough to gesture towards the heap. "Dress up, Lieutenant." By the time he finished the order his back was towards her.
Picking up the upper part of the AEG suit, she read her name across the back. So, they had gone into her quarters and snagged her suit. That was too considerate. She was hoping the joints and pacs were not damaged the way it was laying on the deck. The AEGs were the oldest version the ship's owners could legally get by with, and therefore, needed more maintenance and careful handling.
Commander Martinez's attention was on the group that was moving unmarked crates onto the transport and lining it up with the markers. If they were at a legal toxic dumpsite, she would be hopping up and down with joy that her pseudo official duty was completed. In her peripheral vision, she studied the commander's body language. Harriet wished she could hear the conversation because he looked more irritated than normal. The conversation was too low for her to hear and at the same time to concentrate on checking out her gear carefully.
"How 'bout hurrying it up, Lieutenant," Commander Martinez raised his voice.
He had turned back towards her; intending to see where she was, her suspicious nature warned her. In Lt. Harriet Montran's head, her alarms had increased in their intensity along with her headache.
By now, she was used to suiting up without assistance, using the hull to balance on one leg as she climbed into the suit. Ordinarily, if not a fellow crewmember, she would have had a bot assist her; however, the bots on the freighter were outdated, limiting their capabilities to lifting, moving and setting down containers. She snapped the fasteners, ran her sensitive fingers over the lips, cinches, and holvens to ensure the suit was secured, tapped the gauges, more as a habit then for any remedial reason, all while covertly studying the crew in the room.
"When the lieutenant is ready, chief, you can move out. I don't have all day so you can explain to her what her duty is." He turned on his heels and stepped past her without a glance.
Harry, I should return the attitude, undo all the fixes I did on this junk heap, and then make sure I'm in another galaxy when she blows. They're lucky I have better scruples than that. Helgas Moon! This situation is the abysmal of all abysmals.
She snapped her utility belt in place and pulled a sidearm from the secured weapons locker nearby, paused and then also lifted a HR, all the while keeping her hands steady and movements smooth to belie her inner feelings. The foreboding feeling was growing. Another sore point. The feelings about this situation reminded her of the other time...a time that she had been spending seven long years trying to forget. It did not bode well to her already upset stomach and headache.
"First group, prepare for descent!" PO 3rd Class Decker barked in his helmet's mouthpiece; as usual ignoring the chain of command. As the ranking officer, after Lt. Montran was briefed, she was to decide if everything was in order to transport to the surface. Since she had not been briefed, she would have not allowed the order to 'descend' to have been given, which went on without her input. Ignoring the insubordination that Lt. Montran had become accustomed to on the freighter; she continued to look for something that was out of place. Though it was not possible, she hoped it was the cursed toxic canisters they were removing - and then quickly changed her mind when she realized her aging AEG suit might not be able to withstand exposure. In addition to that, she had not been present when they had moved the canisters, which, by their past behaviors could have been mishandled. Then she worried that if they were doing an illegal dump, she would be legally involved just by being present.
They can't possibly be that stupid!
M'dearie, those sireens goin' off'en yer head aren't there just ta be keepin' ya company.
"Where and what are we transporting, chief?" Harriet asked. By the tic reaction in the chief's shoulder, she knew he heard her, but he continued to order the next group to their positions along with more unmarked packing boxes and canisters. The second group was ready and assembled on the pads waiting, but Harriet remained off to the side letting her irritation bleed off.
"We're taking supplies to an outpost," the chief finally replied in a churlish voice.
Harriet noticed he did not name the outpost or address her, but it appeared her presence was required because they waited for her.
Best have yer sidearm ready and check to see if yer got the ol' lucky charm on ya, m'dearie. This has the scent of an over ripe fruit.
What do they need me for? They have their own officers for this…and for ship systems repairs, maintenance, etcetera etcetera, and etcetera. Bloody moon! Is this another dippety-do ass job?
Suddenly it dawned on her where they were dropping.
"Merker's Outpost?" Curiosity replaced irritation. On her chart, it was marked as private and closed to public, military or any other type of visits or activity. It was also marked as deserted. Whatever the planet had been used for was no longer in use. The owner or owners maintained their own security and upkeep on the planet. According to the coding of the planet, it was inhospitable to every species she knew, and by the number next to its code, it was hard on AEGs. That increased her worry about the equipment they were wearing. Mentally she let a long list of curses loose before returning to the immediate…h
er safety, and the crew that was dropping to the planet's surface. Since the maps were updated each stan year, it meant the planet had been cleared in keeping their emergency monitoring equipment in workable condition. That was little comfort.
So, what is Spinner's Tale doing taking supplies down to a supposedly deserted planet? And what kind of supplies?
The chief's lips almost curled up in contempt, giving him a rather comical and grotesque look when viewed through the helmet visor. The chief did not have a pleasant face to begin with.
"That's right, lieutenant," a sarcastic voice came over her speaker.
"Why are we taking supplies down to a closed and deserted outpost?" she asked ignoring his tone of voice.
"I only obey orders, lieu-ten-ant."
If she had not already abandoned any kind feelings for the deadbeat crew by now, his taunting voice would have been the final deciding point. Her old habit of rescuing hopeless lost causes, due to a flaw in her own character, she thought disgustedly, obviously was no longer a compelling need.
Ma'dearie, seems that seven years of self-imposed exile have done yer a sense of good.
It seems. Bloody damn way to find out. Some less extreme and closer to home, type experience would have done the job. And I don't mean closer to my birth home.
As was her habit with anything this crew did that involved her life, Lt. Montran checked the work. She moved to the transporter console to verify the settings and made one minor adjustment unnoticed by the console operator or those on the transporter dais. C-man J'wtms was busy at the shimm monitor. Stepping on the remaining available dais, she noted her warning alarms lessened. She attributed it to her transportation adjustment.
The usual disquieting sensation of being moved in molecular form from one space to another paused in the midst of the transportation process. It was disorientating. Harriet felt a momentary fright that something had gone wrong, but the restructuring continued…all within moments. When the transportation sequence finished she found herself surrounded by open space, alone, and with nothing to grab onto as a heavy blanket of weight settled over her body, causing her to bend her knees to keep her balance. She could hear the suit kick in to compensate for her out-of-kilter bios. She choked on the first deep breath of air, burning her lungs. If the gravity were not so dense and difficult to move in, she would have fallen.
