Merker's Outpost

by I. Christie

  "I want to see you." Even in the dark, she could see his smirk. Her internal alarm moved to a more intense level. She had never experienced fear for her life this strongly before, and so far there was no physical sign why she should, giving her all the more reason why she needed to end this meeting quickly.

  "Come on over to my place for some socializing, a drink and a bit of talk...family politics."

  It dawned on her that he was deliberately insulting her.

  "No!" she blurted that out in surprise and then annoyed that he should chose this time to bother her…and why her?

  "What - am I not good enough for you?" His voice was low and held a tone of menace…and he seemed to be drawing something else to himself like…a malevolent dark cloud.

  "I'm not interested, Alan. Period. End of conversation. Now let me by!"

  Alan remained blocking her path, his hands resting on his hips, as if to prevent her from brushing by him.

  Suddenly she realized what he was trying to do. Fear! He wants me to be frightened. Why?

  Harriet Montran felt the dark mist he was drawing towards him descend around her as if to suffocate her. It was something she had never experienced before and it had her off-balance. Her confusion delayed her from taking physical action, but the intensity of the feeling, that her life was in danger, sent her thoughts flying in all directions.

  "Get out of my way, Alan." She did not recognize it as her voice. It was coming from so far away.

  Suddenly she was aware of heat radiating from the center of her forehead. A link shot out to her Dancer…a soul…a warrior's soul…a woman with so much passion it burned her very essence to touch her. Why did the Dancer choose to bond with her?

  Images of the tall athletically built woman dancing under the moonless night came back to her in an unreal replay of what she had once witnessed. The dancing woman's eyes had been so dark and expressive. They had only once seen each other in the light. It was in the bar…over the heads of a crowd…and then she was gone.

  Harriet Montran's sleeping mind struggled to make sense of the overlap of memories.

  Alan! Her thoughts quickly flashed back to the scene with Alan.

  Don't panic, Cadet. You can get by him. Wait! He's not alone! Where did they come from?

  The other men, all bigger than her, were on either side of her blocking off any escape, should she find her feet and flee. Distracted she did not see Alan's fist as it hit her in the face. His movement was so quick and without warning, she was unprepared to defend herself. As she fell, her limbs were immobilized by a stunner's charge. Unable to defend herself, her face was slammed onto the hard ground. Partially conscious, more than one set of hands pulled at her and dragged her somewhere. She remembered no more of the attack…or of her rescue.

  ***

  *

  Harriet Montran woke briefly in a sweat and trembling. The same nightmare! Why did it keep reoccurring? What was done was done. Let it go, Montran! Mumbling something more that was unintelligible, she rolled to her other side, and quickly dropped into another dream.

  She was at a toyshop with Sharon reading a brochure on metradames. Harriet had noticed at the bottom was the name of her insurance company as one of the producers of the metradame model she was looking at. She pointed this out to her lover, curious why her insurance company would be involved with metrapeople. An angry Sharon told her that not all metradames were for sale.

  Now what did that mean? And what has a life insurance company to do with metradames?

  Harriet woke up suddenly with a familiar cramping in her stomach. Tiredly she glanced at her timepiece. She had slept only four hours. She lay back down and closed her eyes, dropping into sleep.

  Chapter 3

  Chief Decker of the freighter Spinner's Tale shifted his bulky shoulders in the AEG that ill fit his overweight shape. He stood, feet planted squarely to hold his balance in the heavy atmosphere outside of the entrance to the underground city. He was incensed and did not bother to hide it. His expletives used up air in his suit, which was fine for him because it meant he could go in for a fresh air tank sooner…and maybe just not return for a while to this post. The two 'rabbits' could relay the necessary information without his presence.

  A bleep that only the chief heard followed quickly with the loud voice of Captain Largo of the Spinner's Tale.

  "Decker! Did they find the body yet? Where are the hourly status reports! You've been at it for seven stan hours with no updates!"

  "Captain Miller has given no updates," he replied defensively, and then added, "sir." His tone was just short of being insolent.

  "Get one now or you're going to be out there for another day! Out!" The disconnect with the ship above hurt his ears.

  "Frinkin' officer," the chief muttered, "getting in a panic about a little problem. I told him her tank hasn't enough air for over a stan hour and it's already been eight stans." He did not bother to turn to his two companions, whom most of the time he felt contemptuous of. They could not hear what he was saying so he felt free to speak his mind. If the crew knew he was handing the ex-Spartan captain over to the smugglers for metralab destination, he would be risking a freeze out by them. However, they would get over it after a few weeks of extra duty. The chief glanced at his timepiece. Five stan minutes ago he had attempted to raise Captain Miller and he only got dead air in return. Decker tried the five team-leaders of the search parties and they too ignored him. Obviously, the captain did not care about updating Captain Largo, who would then relay it to Alan Fermin, who Decker guessed was heating up his feet for news. Captain Miller's curt message eight stan hours ago was that he would let Lord Chaney know if he found anything. Lord Chaney and the smuggler chief also did not seem to be concerned. Decker had approached Lord Chaney's soldiers earlier, but they ignored him. Everyone on the outpost had their attention on preparing for the auction of their latest collection of specimens. He returned his thoughts to figuring out a more important problem…how to get back into the city and out of this miserable environment he could barely move around in without causing himself to get into trouble with the Spartans …who all happened to be out looking for the 'be-dammed' exSpartan's body, and therefore angry at him, as if it was his fault.

  "Damn Montran and her clan. Where in the bloody moon did she drop to?" he muttered. "I hope she was blown in one of those cursed wind storms right off the face of this cursed planet." Nervously, the chief looked around him, worried that the lieutenant may be nearby, waiting to take each one of them out. She used to be a captain of a recon group and they were reputed to be good at being dropped behind enemy lines and killing lonely sentries. 'Once a Spartan, always a Spartan', a small voice taunted him.

  Startled he looked towards his companions, wondering if they heard what he heard. However, they did not appear interested in what he was muttering to himself about. They were looking at their equipment, monitoring for messages. It was because of their substandard AEGs that they were not out in the desert scouring for Lt. Montran whose suit was just as ill equipped to handle this harsh environment.

  He switched his mic on. "Let's go inside," he decided suddenly. "We need to get the place ready for the broadcast. With this crappy equipment we're lucky we aren't flat out dead in that bloody desert."

  As the outside hatch swung shut and locked, clangon alarms sounded in their helmet communicators and in the small room. They could do nothing until the chamber filled with breathable air. The chief's anxiety level rose as he felt trapped in the small area, crowded with two too many people and alarms sounding. His suit kicked in as it tried to keep his bios at a safe level. Before the suit blinked red, the all-clear light came on, and the inside hatch unlocked. Decker quickly stepped into the city's corridor, unnecessarily pushing past the two men. He recessed his helmet into the suit collar when the air read safe, taking deep breaths to quiet his rapidly beating heart. He ignored the panicky voices that flooded the suits' com link. He feared Lt. Montran had been spotted and he had his side arm
out, ready to fire at the first sign of any one with orange hair. He ignored the tremors in his hand as he looked around the area nervously.

  "Shut up, all of you!" he barked into his mouthpiece. "What in bloody moon is going on?" he finally asked. "And turn off the bloody alarms!"

  "We…we don't know, chief," a hesitant voice spoke. "It…it may be one of the room's got gassed…or something," the voice faded out and the clangons stopped.

  "Where in the bloody moon is Nixon? I left him at the console!"

  "We can't find him, chief," the voice admitted.

  "Well, where did you last see him, Fletch?" Decker asked sarcastically.

  "Master Alha Bahna ordered us to help prepare the cargo in Alpha Sea for the auction," C-man Fletch reported.

  "Since when do you take orders from a smuggler? You work for Fermin, you dung patty! Who took his place at the console?" he demanded heatedly.

  "No one, chief. We were all ordered to get the merchandise ready. Everyone else is out on that search for the lieutenant, and…" Fletch's voice trailed off.

  "Damn her body to the sin trade! Trouble even in death!" he shouted angrily. He turned to the two men that waited nearby looking at each other nervously. "Well what the bloody moon are you two waiting for? Do I got to do everything myself?" Without waiting for a reply, his booted feet made clomping noises as he stomped up the corridor towards the room Nixon was supposed to be checking out.

  The two men trailed, making as much noise. Decker stopped in front of the room. The door was not opening when he pressed the controls. Both men were not happy to see him attempting to open the door when the indicator light was amber instead of green.

  "Damn! Who's got a HR?"

  Neither of the crewmembers said anything. Like Decker, they left their heavy utility belts in the command room.

  "Sams!" he barked over his shoulder. "Get your butt over to the CC and get one!"

  Minutes had passed and the amber light flickered to a bright red.

  "Blast!" His gloved fist slammed against the panel. It was the wrong thing to have done he realized almost immediately. The door beeped and the seal hissed open. Frantically, he and Edison struggled to get their faceplates back into place before the door opened a crack. The falling man's body slumped against the back of Decker's legs, knocking him forward a few steps. He got his two gloved hands out in front of him.

  Bloody hell! Decker's heart was racing wildly at how close he was to his own death. I got myself my own story to tell!

  Of course, it would be embellished …and there would be no one to refute his version. He held onto the doorsill to give himself something firm to hold onto until he was sure his voice and nerves were steady.

  "All hands, now hear this! We have a broken seal to the main passageway. Secure all hatches! I'm going to have a look inside," his voice deepened with self-import. This was going to be his moment.

  Master Alha Bahna's voice boomed in his ears, "What the tritons dung is going on there? Where's the cargo I ordered to be…?"

  Angrily the chief shut his communicator off. No one was going to steal his moment. Taking a deep breath, he held it momentarily, wondering what he was going to do now. Uncertain, he peered through the crack in the door trying to see if there was anything in the darkness. Taking a deep breath, he firmed his resolve to face whatever may be on the other side of the door, and then he gave a push on the lever to manually open the door.

  No response.

  He took a step back as if to leave, relief giving him a rush of energy; but, suddenly, with a sickening high-pitched whine, the door opened further…enough for him to fit through. There before him was an inky blackness with the light from the hall going no further than the length of his boot. He had to do this. He was committed. The smugglers and Spartans would know if he did not do what he said he was going to do. He forced one foot to step into the room. He had to do this, he said to himself. He dragged his leadened leg beside the first one. He had to do this, he again said. He was now completely out of the light. Thankfully, a part of him detached. He had to do this; again, his silent mantra from a self, watching far enough away from the AEG figure that there would be no danger of being hurt. He dispassionately watched as a physical body that he did not even identify as himself, stood frozen in the darkness. Then suddenly, he was back in his body, betrayed by some unknown curse that he had, to witness his own fear, intimately. He not only could see blackness before him and to the sides, but worst of all he could feel it crowding him and pushing against him!

  What if I bump into something? There is no telling what is in this room. They might be out of their cages and…something is in here!

  He quickly took two steps back into the corridor, bumping past the partially opened hatch in his haste. As he stood there shaking, he realized that if he had moved further into the room and the hatch closed behind him, he would have been in complete darkness with whatever else was in there. He pressed his back against the wall desperate for something solid to connect to. The AEG made small sounds as it worked hard to keep up with his run-away bios and the faceplate fogged up, giving him no view of what was outside. Jerkily, he somehow managed to get up the hall to safety, using the wall to guide him. Salvation was before him: the command room. The gripping around his chest eased. It took him a few moments to register that the hatch was not opening.

  By the bitch's blood moon! The damn hatch isn't going to open until the firkin' contaminating room is sealed off!

  He could only see the inside of his faceplate covered with condensation from his rapid breathing and that only increased his heart rate and panic. He flattened himself against the wall as the flashbacks started. Once again, as his almost nightly dreams recounted it, he stood in front of the tall dark haired, lean muscled Black Rose Spartan, ready to stun her into submission when the room went dark. Just as he had staged it. However, the face before him was not that of a frightened woman, but of one that was laughing at him! She said she knew of his plan, and she found him incredibly stupid and a pitiful example of his species. But he had the upper hand…he had the weapons and he had the goggles to see in the dark! He was the smart one! However, once the treacherous darkness engulfed them, he felt the agonizing pain of each strike her hands and feet delivered to him before he could reach his goggles and weapons, his salvation was the lights that came back on. Bile rose in his throat and then rage filled his thoughts.

  Black Rose bitch! He screamed silently at the cocky grin his nightmares kept replaying, and now, even his waking hours were being taken over with her face.

  "Captain Miller here, Decker. What did you find?" The cool voice broke through his darkness replacing it with a different type of fear.

  "No...light…to...see…anything," he said, struggling unsuccessfully to keep fear out of his voice. This was Captain Miller's undisputed territory. The Black Rose captain did not take carelessness lightly, especially when a life was lost. If the captain knew, he was responsible for unsealing the door to the contaminated room he would find himself abandoned surface side, and his last moments of life on his back looking through a visor crusted over with the shimmering dirt that he had been introduced to on his first transportation down onto the surface. As memories of his humiliation on his arrival overlapped his fear of abandonment, his knees shook so hard he began to slide down the wall.

  "We've sealed the room from the other side of the maintenance panels," the voice went on. "The corridor should be breathable in about twenty minutes. How's your air?" he asked in a mild voice.

  The chief bumped to the floor, jarring him to alertness. He lifted his arm quickly to look at his gauges. He could not read out of the fogged faceplate.

  The captain did not wait for an answer, but continued. "As soon as we get the corridor secured, we'll send a team to you. Out."

  The captain could have sent a team over to him with a fresh tank. Well, he knew how to slow his system down to reduce his need for air, so that meant he had the upper hand still.

  When
the hatch finally opened, Captain Miller, accompanied by a small group from security, found him lying on his back. By his gauges, he was still alive.

  "Get him back to Spinner's sick bay, Sarg. Cpl. Anders, help him out. Lance, Cpl. Drewer, call the teams in. We have some damage control to do before the auction."

  "Yes, Sir. Sir, Commander Martinez is on his way down for a conference with Lord Chaney."

  "Thanks for the information, soldier." Captain Miller nodded and walked back into the Com-C to look over the control room one last time. A smug smile formed on the captain's lips. The way things were developing; they were fitting nicely into his plans.

  ***

  Chapter 4

  The cold stiff breeze from the direction of the tall mountain spires blanketed under snow sent Alexandra's long orange tresses that were not weighted with beads and ribbons, into her face as she turned her head to listen to the faint sounds of chanting. With practiced skill, she caught the wayward strands of hair with one hand while holding her position on the rock with the other. Again changing her position, ignoring the long bright orange tendrils that stretched out before her, she strained to find the origin of the chanting that grew louder. Her grandfather sat next to her.