by GARY DARBY
“It’s not porpoise blood, too thick and the wrong color,” he stated.
“There’s only one thing that looks and smells like this. The technical name is Dioxyscopolamine, but most folks know it by its more common names, slaver’s spit, juju juice, or zombie blood, to name a few.”
Granger spat out, “Slaver’s spit! The Imperium outlawed that years ago.”
“That it has,” Baier replied.
“And it’s highly doubtful that you’ll find any being manufactured anywhere in the inner worlds, but out here where the law is loose and easy, I’m afraid it’s still used to enslave the unwary or the unlucky.”
Brant asked sharply, “Are you certain, doctor?”
Baier eyed the flask. “I could probably run an analysis on your sci-station lab if you wanted me to, but there’s no doubt in my mind.
“You see, in another life, I worked in a research lab as a molecular toxicologist before I finally figured out that looking at chemical equations and determining moles of this and moles of that were not how I wanted to earn my beans and cornbread.
“Nevertheless, over the years I kept in contact with several of my former colleagues. A few years ago, one of them mentioned that a new, more potent form of Dioxyscopolamine had emerged, and the authorities were asking for help in determining who was manufacturing the horrible stuff and how.
“He said that there was an unknown hemoglobin component that they had never seen previously, and the thinking was that this element intensified the hypnotic effects of the drug.
“Oddly enough, within a few days of talking with my colleague, a man stumbled into the clinic. He was delusional and rambling, but I managed to get out of him that he had been exposed to slaver’s spit in its raw form, meaning during the production stage.”
“Excuse me,” Dason interjected, “I’m not familiar with this ‘juju juice’ you’re talking about.”
Baier turned to Dason. “It’s a powerful hallucinogenic that also degrades a person’s willpower. It’s similar to extremely deep hypnosis, and the victim’s handler can have an individual do anything he or she wants, literally.
“It’s called ‘slaver’s spit’ because they use it to enslave their captives, make them docile and easily manipulated. Criminals use it on unsuspecting victims and have the victim commit the crime for the criminal.”
“That’s utterly hideous,” Shanon declared.
“I wholeheartedly agree, young lady,” Baier replied. “And that’s why if you’re caught manufacturing or using it, the mandatory sentence is life on a penal moon. And if you use it to commit a capital crime, such as murder, you will atone with your life.”
Baier slapped at his knees as if to get everyone’s attention. “Anyway, back to this fella that came into the clinic. Once I got him somewhat stabilized, I told him that to reverse the effects I needed to know the full chemical makeup of his exposure.”
Brushing back his whiskers, he smiled. “Which was mostly true. He was scared enough that he began rattling off the ingredients so fast that I almost couldn’t keep up. When he mentioned the Aal toxin, it all fell into place.”
He turned to Brant. “That’s why your Faction thug had those Aals. Get a supply of the toxin, mix it with human blood, add certain chemical agents, and you come up with an even more potent form of the filthy stuff.”
“So that’s why he took the Aal.” Dason stated. “It was engorged on Sami’s blood.”
Brant scowled in response. “And why he kept putting us off in getting it out of Sami, he wanted it to feed for as long as possible. But why—”
Over the comms, Lia’s voice crashed into the conversation. “Brant, we’ve got three bogeys inbound. They’re running hot and headed right at us!”
Brant slapped at his communicator. “Understood. All Zephyrs prepare for immediate boost-out.”
He turned to Baier. “Well sir, your choice, either get out or cinch those acceleration bars tight, this could be a rough ride, we’ve got bad guys inbound.”
In answer, Doctor Baier snapped the acceleration bars firmly across his stout body.
“Welcome aboard then,” Brant replied.
As Granger bolted for the airlock, Brant fired off his orders, “Dason, get us ready to punch out of here. The rest of you go help TJ get Sami into a crash cocoon. Move!”
Dason slammed his body into the pilot’s chair and ran his fingers over the control board. In seconds, he had the Zephyr powered up for flight.
He was about to unlock the weapons board when Brant jumped into the copilot’s seat and brought the weapons program online.
“What do we have?” he demanded.
Dason waved at the moving target indicator. “Three inbound at mark one ninety. They haven’t fired yet, two minutes out.”
“Got it,” Brant grunted as his fingers flew over the tactical weapons board. “Okay, ion cannon is charged and ready, torpedoes primed and set for launch.”
Shanon’s voice came over the comms, “We’re set back here.”
“Roger,” Brant replied and then said, “Granger, Lia, status?”
“Green board,” Granger replied.
“Same here,” Lia answered.
“Roger, execute lift-off, go to hyper as soon as you can, we’ll meet up at the rendezvous site.”
Granger and Lia responded in the affirmative and seconds later, two nearby white-hot streaks of light marked their departure.
“Take us out, pilot,” Brant ordered. “Don’t worry about breaking any speed laws around here; I don’t think anyone is going to mind.”
“We running?” Dason questioned.
“For the time being, yes,” Brant replied. “Punch it, pilot.”
“Aye, aye,” Dason replied.
With a soft whine, the Zephyr’s main engines powered up, Dason kicked in his belly thrusters, lifted the little ship’s nose up, and ran his fingertips over the accelerator controls.
For an instant, a small dust storm surrounded the vessel, then, like a laser shot from an L-gun pistol the ship leaped into the air to hurtle over the barren setting, reaching for the dark turquoise sky.
Without looking, Dason asked, “They still following?”
“They’re trying,” Brant replied. “But I don’t think they can pull the gravities we can, they’re falling behind.”
Outside, the sky had turned from the dusky orange-white of Pegasi’s atmosphere to the galactic night’s inky blackness punctuated by the staccato sight of billions of star diamonds.
A minute into their flight, Brant said, “That’s it, they’re turning back.”
Powering down his weapons console. Brant asked, “I take it that you didn’t appreciate the fact that we jumped out of there without a fight?”
Dason wet his lips, keeping his eyes on his pilot board. “I guess I didn’t,” he replied.
“Thought we should give a little payback for Sami’s sake?” Brant inquired.
With his hands over the compu board adjusting their flight path, Dason nodded grimly. “Yes sir, I guess that’s exactly what I was thinking.”
Brant finished locking down the weapons control board. “Believe me, I know how you feel, but right now, I can’t afford to waste any of our resources, nor can I afford to jeopardize this force.”
With a set look he said, “It may well be that we could have blasted those vermin out of the sky easily enough. Then again, they might have gotten a lucky shot off and taken one of us out.”
He leaned a little closer. “So I ask you, what is more important, slicing and dicing a couple of supposed Faction spacers, or finding Tor’al?”
Dason hesitated and then let out a breath. “You’re right, sir. Finding Tor’al is much more important.”
A corner of Brant’s mouth lifted up and he asked, “ETA to rendezvous?”
Dason glanced at the chronometer. “Fifty-seven minutes.”
“Good,” he replied and rose to give Dason a quick pat on the shoulder. “I’m going aft to check on Sami.
I’ll send Shanon up to keep you company.”
Dason let his eyes take in the universe’s brilliant splendor even as he thought about Brant’s comments.
He was right, or course. And Dason had to admit to himself that he had been thinking with his heart instead of his head. There was a time and place for the heart to lead—this hadn’t been that time.
He also had to admit that if he had been in command and ordered the scouts to attack, and they had been beaten, they could have lost their whole force, and with it their chance to find Tor’al and head off the Sha’anay attack.
After a few minutes, Shanon slid into the copilot’s chair. “Star gazing, again?”
“What?” Dason stammered. “Uh, no, just thinking.”
Shanon waved a slender hand toward the glorious view. “Starlight will do that to you.”
She ran her eyes over the board. “How are we doing?”
“As they say, in the groove, ma’am, and green across the board,” Dason answered. “How about you? Doctor check you over?”
She nodded in response. “Yep. Peeled the InstaHeal pad off, poked at my belly a couple of times, slathered on some more InstaHeal and pronounced his diagnosis–‘fit as a fiddle and prettier than an Arturian Rose’.”
Dason smiled at her. “I like his diagnosis.”
Shanon dimpled in response. “Thanks, I did too.”
Staring at the galactic splendor, they both grew quiet. “I don’t think I’ll ever grow tired of looking at the stars,” Shanon whispered.
“Me either,” Dason replied. “Where I grew up on Randor, after I finished my chores in the evening, I would lie in the grass on a nearby hill and spend hours staring at the night sky.”
He glanced over at her and asked, “Want to know a secret?”
She smiled back and nodded. “On Earth,” Dason began, “at school, I would sometimes sneak away at night from the dorms and climb Zuma Peak to watch the stars.”
“You did?” Shanon questioned. “I never knew that.”
“Well, it wasn’t something that I advertised and I didn’t do it very often, too afraid that I’d get caught and add to my demerit list. ‘Course, the night sky you see on Earth can’t compare to Randor’s, but—”
Dason stopped and his eyes took on a blank look as if he stared at nothingness. With a sudden start, he snapped straight up in his chair. “On Earth . . . On Earth. Of course!” he exclaimed. “Of course!”
“What?” Shanon blurted out.
Dason scrambled out of the pilot’s seat. “Take over,” he ordered, “I’m going aft to find Brant. I know where Tor’al is and why the Faction had that flask of slaver’s spit.”
Chapter Eighteen
Star date: 2443.097
Faction Base, Rogue Planet
Climbing up the short stairwell into the SlipShip’s control room, Teng Rhee followed behind the pilot closely, his hand firmly clutching his L-gun and his eyes never leaving his captor for an instant.
Once inside the circular and domed room, the craft’s pilot slipped into his chair. Federov stood close by with his own L-gun weapon aimed at the Faction mercenary.
While the pilot settled in, Teng muttered to Federov, “So what’s your chief engineer saying? Can he do it?”
“Well,” Federov began, “I won’t repeat the, shall we say, ‘colorful’ language he used in describing your request.
“But yes, he thinks he can, though, like me, he doesn’t understand why you don’t just fly this thing back to Imperium space instead of transporting it in the Intrepid’s hangar bay.”
“Simple, I don’t want anyone eyeballing this thing and asking questions just yet,” Teng answered. “If this ship can go in and out of hyperfolds, do you realize how many people will want to get their hands on it?”
“Sure,” Federov quipped. “Me, for starters.”
“Uh huh,” Teng replied. “At least yours would be friendly hands.”
“Are you sure?” Federov responded with a wicked grin. “I sure can think of some wild possibilities with me at the helm of this baby.”
“In that case,” Teng answered dryly, “remind me to keep a close watch on both you and our pilot from now on.”
The pilot turned and motioned toward the weapons that Teng and Federov held leveled at him. “Are those really necessary?”
Federov gave him a silky smile in response. “We just want you to keep being persuaded in your cooperation.”
The pilot met Federov’s gaze. “I have no problem staying convinced staring down the business end of a disruptor.”
He jabbed a finger at Federov. “You just remember that things in here don’t take kindly to big holes.”
Federov response was instant. “Don’t worry, if I shoot, there’s only one thing that’ll have a hole in it and it won’t be an inanimate object, either.”
The pilot glared and then waved a hand toward two nearby acceleration chairs. “Take those and lock down your c-bars.”
The pilot’s chair was inside a horseshoe-shaped console well that faced a large convex vu-screen. He started to reach out to the control board when Teng stopped him. “Before you do anything, I want to know what you’re doing first and why.”
Federov leaned forward and waved his L-gun in a small circular motion. “As do I.”
“What do you want to know?” the Faction mercenary asked.
“For starters, the flight profile,” Teng said.
“Fairly simple,” the man replied. “We use the nucleonic engines to clear the planetary mass, and then we go to hyperlight for approximately one-half light-year.
“I engage the hyperfold matrix program and it places the ship into the congruent fold points. If I’ve aligned the ship correctly, I activate the hyperfold drive, and it punches us through the fold.
“If all goes per the flight program, we’ll drop out of hyperfold space at approximately thirty light-years. We repeat the process and come home, hopefully.”
“Why go out so far?” Teng asked.
“Technically,” the pilot replied, “we don’t have to. However, from my understanding, you don’t want to be close to a large mass, such as a star, because of how a star curves space. What you want is flat space, or as flat as you can get before going in or coming out of a fold matrix.”
He eyed his piloting console. “All I know is that for testing purposes, the eggheads wanted me to go out at least a half light-year and then engage the drive.
“The big thinkers explained it to me this way: think of two panes of wet plas-glass. Put’em together, and they’ll slip and slide until the tension in the water molecules causes the panes to bond together, and you can’t pull them apart without really tugging.
“Same thing with a hyperfold, the two folds slide until the matrix aligns them perfectly, you slip through and then the energy release pulls them apart so that you’re left on the other side.”
Federov leaned forward, his eyes meeting the man’s eyes without blinking. “If this ship can do the things you claim, how do we know that you’re not going to make a run for your buddies and dump us right into a Faction nest?” he asked pointedly.
“Because,” the man explained patiently, “even though I’ve done this particular run six times now, and haven’t missed my points, still, driving this thing could turn into the equivalent of tossing a ball into a hurricane.
“Once it takes off, you know it’s going to stop somewhere, but you’re never quite sure where. Why do you think we’ve done our tests way out here with a hundred light-years of practically nothing around but empty space?
“The brainy ones on this rock have told me that, theoretically, the ship should always come out only in a hyperfold; still—”
“You have a healthy dose of skepticism,” Teng said.
“That and a healthy dose for living,” the man responded. “They did the first flights using robotic drones. They never did find the first two after they went into the fold, could be clear across the galaxy for all I know.
“Have they tried anything beyond that?” Teng asked.
“With me?” the pilot answered. “No, but from the buzz I hear I think they might be close to figuring out how to do longer jumps.”
“Longer jumps as in—” Teng prompted.
“Hundreds of light-years,” the man simply stated.
Teng gave Federov a questioning glance. Federov nodded in response. “Pilot,” Teng ordered the Faction hireling, “begin your run.” The two took their seats and pushed down their acceleration bars.
The pilot turned back to his board and activated a communications link. “We’re ready here,” he intoned, “open the hangar doors.”
He touched his board, and the vu-screen lighted up, showing the massive horizontal metal doors recessing into what seemed to be solid rock.
The pilot pressed on several inset discs. A muted whine, low in pitch increased in volume until it changed to a deep rumble, and Teng felt a slight vibration under his feet.
“I’ve activated the nucleonic engines,” the pilot said. He let his fingers play across his board until he leaned forward, and spoke into the communicator, “Stand by for egress.”
The ship seemed to sway and rock before it became still and began to move toward the now open hangar door. Teng watched the portal slide past and then they were in the open, with the ship’s angle pitched upward.
The low rumble deepened and grew louder as the pilot accelerated the ship up and away from the dead planet. For a moment, the stars in the vu-screen seemed to slide to one side as the pilot brought them about on a new heading.
The ship steadied down on its new course, and the pilot turned to Teng and Federov. Gesturing toward the vu-screen, he said, “See that magnitude three star just to center left? That’s Deneb Cyan. Put your thumb up and center it between Deneb and those two twin stars just to the right.”
