The Starhawk Chronicles
Book II
Rest and Wreck-reation
Joseph J. Madden
Copyright 2015 Joseph J. Madden
Cover art by Dan Lambert
www.danlambertart.com
Also by Joseph J. Madden
The Starhawk Chronicles
Other Worlds : A Collection of Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Epic Silliness
Available from Amazon.com
Dedication
For Glen A. Larson (1937-2014), whose television shows Battlestar Galactica and Buck Rogers in the 25th Century inspired endless hours of play for me as a child
And for Leonard Nimoy (1931-2015), who was one of the first to make me look to the stars.
Chapter One
Halting at the corridor junction, Cairn Mazel pressed himself up against the wall, the blood rushing through his veins making it difficult to hear if his pursuers were still on to him. The sound of footsteps was distant, but growing louder. Another few minutes and they would be on him.
Fortunately for me, they don’t have another few minutes. Two more turns of the corridor, another few hundred meters, and he would be safe and back on course for Trojuus. So what if he was going alone. Trojuus was near enough, his personal craft was fast enough and it already had Bandigraff's shipment aboard. Then and there, Mazel decided he'd save a portion of the payment in case any of his crew caught up with him. One can never be too careful among friends, less so among ex-friends, so it never hurts to keep a presumed cut on-hand. He started down the corridor again.
Whoever they were, they had bravado; the Rycan gunrunner gave them credit for that. Not only had they managed to infiltrate his base, but were able to outwit and out-fight the best of his men, coming within meters—meters―of getting their hands on him. Had his first lieutenant not been so unfortunate as to wander into their line of fire, they might have succeeded.
Of course, the fact that he had pushed old Boruus into their line of fire made no difference to Mazel. After all, that’s what he paid his people for.
Another corner, another turn, and Mazel could see the open hangar bay door and his escape craft waiting beyond. The sight gave him a burst of hope, spurring him on faster.
He reached the hangar bay doors just as they opened fire on him. Ducking around the corner, out of harm’s way, he slapped the door controls. Mazel laughed at the looks on his pursuers faces as the realization that they had lost became apparant. A desperate volley of laser fire followed just before the doors shut with a boom that shook the walls around them.
Mazel allowed himself a chuckle. He would like to see them try to blast through that door. Triple-layered cerama-steel alloy. Military-grade projectiles would be hard-pressed to dent it. He was safe.
Turning to his ship, a small but swift Harkonian freighter, he took his time strolling up the gangplank and into the cockpit. Even if the hunters decided against cutting through the doors and tried to get in another way, they would have to double back through the maze of corridors to find another route. Mazel would be long gone by then.
He fired the ship’s engines, taking solace in their strong, steady thrum. He took a moment to lean back in his chair, close his eyes, and take a few quick, cleansing breaths as the vibration of the engines soothed him.
It was a fast ship, built for speed and maneuverability. Once off planet, he could make a run for any number of alternate bases known only to himself and a few trusted others.
Once he got confirming green lights across his control boards, Mazel activated the overhead doors. They irised open, revealing clear blue sky above. Smiling to himself, he keyed in the freighter’s lift jets, and the ship began to rise.
Focused on his instruments, Mazel almost failed to notice the shadow that was blotting out the sunlight coming through the hangar opening. Peering up through the cockpit canopy, he saw a shapeless, shimmering blob forming in the sky above. As the apparition took on more definite form, he realized it was another ship, disengaging a cloaking shield, and blocking the way out of the hangar.
Mazel primed the ship’s dorsal gun turret, but in his haste, mistakenly keyed in the wrong instructions not once, but twice, before getting it right. A few quick bursts ought to scare the interloper off long enough for him to get clear. His targeting screen came to life, and he commenced tracking upwards.
With a curse, he realized that the turret would not elevate at that extreme of an angle. He tilted the freighter on its end to compensate, when he noticed, too late, that the hovering ship was descending.
He fired a round from the cannon, hoping to forestall this lunatic. The shot went wide, striking only clear sky. The phantom ship, now fully decloaked, continued its descent, landing gear locking into position.
The impact of the two ships colliding rocked Mazel in his seat. The ship above rose a few meters, and dropped again, striking with even more force. It repeated the maneuver a third time, and now Mazel’s freighter began to lose ground. Warning sirens sounded throughout the cockpit. The aggressor was now pressing steadily downward atop the freighter, forcing it toward the hangar floor. Mazel hurried to cycle his own ship’s landing gear back into place, knowing full-well that there was no way his smaller craft could win this contest.
The shriek of tearing metal sounded throughout the ship, and Mazel knew it to be the landing struts being forced back into the hull as the ship above came to rest atop it. Something from the rear exploded, shaking the ship further, and Mazel could hear the hiss of escaping steam or coolant somewhere in the living section. Several panels flared and shorted out filling the cockpit with smoke.
A clatter against the canopy made Mazel look up, and he saw that a thermite charge had adhered itself to the window. With a blinding flare, the charge blew a neat meter-wide hole in the clearsteel viewport.
As the smoke lifted, Mazel saw two figures standing atop what was left of the cockpit canopy, weapons pointed at him through the gap. The smaller of the two, a brown and white furred Warwick, was unfamiliar to him, but Mazel had seen the taller human too many times before on the news circuits. The shaggy mop of sandy hair, piercing blue eyes, and weary, yet boyish good looks were a little too familiar to the galaxy’s criminal element as of late.
Of all the bounty hunters in the galaxy, Mazel thought, a nasty ache beginning to pound inside his skull, I have to get the celebrity.
The human pointed matching Colt Seventy-Seven laser pistols through the shattered viewport and favored Mazel with a grin that the Rycan could almost have found disarming under other circumstances.
“Cairn Mazel,” Jesse Forster addressed him with a hint of humor in his voice. “As a duly appointed representative of the Corinthal Hunters Guild, I hereby place you under arrest. Anything you say can be used against you, and ain’t gonna be worth squat anyway, so just keep your trap shut.”
Chapter Two
“I need a vacation.”
Stepping through the hatch onto the bridge of his ship Starhawk, Jesse Forster turned to look at the man that had spoken those words. K’Tran Pasker, tall, with silver-white hair tied back in a pony tail, was slowly rolling his head from side to side, accompanied by an audible series of pops and crunches.
“A vacation. Yeah, I hear you,” This from the brown and white furred Warwick trailing behind them. Podo Forster offered a grunt of his own as he tossed his weapons satchel into the nearest seat.
K’Tran turned and shot him an annoyed glance through weary gray eyes. “Don’t know what you’re complaining about. You had the easy part. Me and Morogo had to chase that bastard through that damned labyrinth, fighting off his guards, and still mi
ssed out on catching him. All you had to do was land on him, and you didn’t even do that.”
“I’ve got something to say about that,” another voice came from the engineering console off to the side of the bridge. Kym Tirannis turned in her seat, shooting a deathly look at the trio. She rose, brushing strands of flame red hair from her brown eyes as she stalked towards them. K’Tran and Podo each took two steps back, effectively putting Jesse between them and the Starhawk’s engineer. Though usually reserved to the point of shyness, when Kym’s ire was raised, few escaped unscathed. “I didn’t spend three weeks reinforcing the landing struts so that you could use the ship as a giant pogo stick.”
“And your sacrifice was well worth it,” Jesse said, holding his hands before him in a placating manner. Daring to break eye contact, he removed his twin-holster rig and hung it across the back of his command chair. He tried to sound nonchalant as he continued, “We got Mazel, and had a pretty successful first test of our new cloaking device in the process.”
The flare in her eyes told Jesse that he should have left that sore subject out of the conversation. “I wouldn’t advise using it on a full-time basis. Why I agreed to installing that third-hand piece of junk is beyond me. Do you have any idea the power drain that thing caused?” Jesse opened his mouth to reply, but shut it when she began answering her own question. “Nearly seventy-five percent of our systems were compromised by that thing! Seventy-five percent! If we had left it on five minutes longer, we wouldn’t have willingly landed on top of Mazel’s ship. We’d have crashed straight down on top of it.”
Jesse wondered if he looked as sheepish as he felt. He tried to make light of it. “The price was right, and—”
“Stealing already stolen equipment from those Felinian slavers and installing it on our own ship without even field testing it was one of the dumbest ideas you’ve had yet!”
Ouch. Jesse glanced to the side, hoping that K’Tran or Podo would step in, but they suddenly appeared very interested in examining a months-old stain on one of the lounge couches in the rear.
The hatch slid open at that same moment, and the distraction Jesse had been praying for stepped onto the bridge. So tall that it had to duck to fit through the hatch, the Vor’na’cik just missed scraping the top of its head on the ceiling as it straightened back to full height. Small red eyes set deep in its porcine face favored the two as he entered. Those red eyes squinted briefly, a sign that he had taken notice of the confrontation and found it amusing.
“Glad you could join us, Morogo.” And I am glad. Anything to draw Kym’s fire away. “Would you like to bite my head off too?”
Morogo considered the question before replying with a smile; a smile revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth.
“Figure of speech, big guy,” Jesse was quick to add, relieved when the Vor’na’cik stopped smiling at him. His relief was added to as Kym had apparently tired of the confrontation and returned to her seat, plunking down in the chair a little harder than normal to show that, while the verbal part of the conversation was over, she was still stewing over it on the inside.
My whole damn crew’s coming apart at the seams, Jesse thought, looking around at his companions. Can’t say that I blame them either. After six straight months of chasing bounties non-stop, tempers are bound to wear thin.
A sudden beep issued from the communication console, where the message screen was flashing. Podo looked over, eyes rolling. “We’ve got incoming.”
K’Tran groaned again and threw himself onto the lounge couch they had just finished examining. “Want to take odds on who that might be?”
“No bet there, old friend,” Jesse replied as he sank into his own command chair, craning his head to look over at the gunmetal-colored drone standing at the comm station.
Bokschh, the Starhawk’s procurement officer, stood with a slight list to its left, the result of having a sub-standard replacement limb attached after an incident earlier in his career as second-in-command to Jesse’s father, Thom. The drone turned, no doubt prepared to inform him as to the caller’s lack of patience at being kept waiting. To Jesse’s surprise, the drone kept the remark to itself, replying only with a slight nod. “Guildmaster Nord is holding.”
“How does Nord always seem to know the exact moment we get off a hunt?” Kym asked.
“Probably because the Guild always gets the bill for damages,” Podo deadpanned as he took a seat on the couch next to K’Tran, draping one leg over the armrest, swinging his stubby padded foot lazily back and forth.
“All right everyone, settle it,” Jesse said, straightening in his seat. “Let’s hear what the old man has to say.”
The image of Guildmaster Ianoo Nord stuttered to life in the center of the bridge as Bokschh activated the holo-projector. The Drassian full-body holo materialized in mid air in the center of the bridge, his pear-shaped body changing color erratically until Bokschh stabilized the transmission. His six bloated tentacles were crossed over his “chest” in a look of undisguised impatience. He glared quietly at Jesse for several long seconds.
“Good afternoon, Guildmaster,” Jesse said, voice full of false cheerfulness, hoping to break the odd silence. “You called at an opportune time. We just finished with the Cairn Mazel job.”
Nord silenced him by unfolding one set of tentacles and stabbing them at Jesse. Despite his knowledge that Nord was a holo-projection, the violence of the move still caused Jesse to jerk back involuntarily. “I’m getting quite tired of your antics, Captain. It seems that each time the guild sends you out on a hunt, you have to demolish everything in sight just to make a simple capture. One of these days our insurance brokers are going to refuse us coverage because of your exploits. If you weren’t one of the most proficient hunters in the guild, I’d personally see to it that your license be revoked.”
We didn’t even break anything that didn’t belong to Mazel. Jesse only half listened to the rebuke, having heard it a dozen times before. He was running through the speech, anticipating what the Guildmaster would say next, and glancing around at his crew.
The looks in their eyes; the sullen resolution at the thought of jumping right into another hunt struck him like a slap to the face. Every one of them was hoping beyond hope for a break, some sort of respite from the grueling reality of their day to day lives. K’Tran looked to have aged years in the past few months. Morogo’s gray-green scales seemed more on the gray side. Kym just looked tired. And despite the recent rash of complaints and verbal jabbing at one another, Jesse knew that if he accepted the next hunt, they would follow his lead, to Hell even, if that was where it took them.
K’Tran’s comment came back to him. I need a vacation.
If Nord saw the smile forming at the corners of Jesse’s mouth, he did not let it show. He continued with his speech. “Now this next bounty I have for you will be—”
“Sorry, Sir, but we’re not taking any more bounties at this time.”
Nord’s spiel sputtered to a stop, his eyes went wide. All six tentacles drooped to his side.
Jesse could feel the stares of his crew around him, all wide-eyed in astonishment. Behind him, he heard K’Tran mutter, “We’re not?”
Nord found his voice, opened his mouth to speak, but Jesse cut him off again. “My crew needs a break. It’s been six months since we took down the Nexus Gang. Since then we’ve been on every client’s wish list, contracted to one hunt after another. There are other teams just as good out there that are being passed over for jobs simply because they aren’t us.”
“B-but Jesse,” Nord stammered, tentacles flailing in an uncharacteristic display of emotion other than anger. “The guild needs you right now. We’ve never been so busy.”
Jesse resisted the urge to openly laugh in the guildmaster’s face. Watching Nord get flustered like this is funny enough, but the fact that he’s so desperate as to call me by my first name is even better. Six years and he’s never called me Jesse.
“I’m sorry, Ianoo,” he replied, smiling
at the holo-image and getting soft chuckles from the others as he used Nord’s first name. “Effective immediately, my crew and I are on leave until further notice.”
Another flurry of tentacles. “Wait!”
“You have a nice day now,” Jesse said, gesturing at Bokschh, who cut the transmission. Nord’s image sputtered and faded out.
Jesse knew that he did not have long to wait before the bridge erupted with a flurry of questions, and was not disappointed when the first one hit the second the holo-comm had died out.
“We’re going on vacation?”
“Where are we going?”
“Why didn’t I hear about this? Am I always the last one to hear news like this?”
For once, Jesse was glad that Morogo was sworn to a vow of silence, however, the look in the Vor’na’cik’s eyes was speaking volumes. He let the others assail him for another few seconds before holding up his hands and calling for some quiet.
They gathered around, expectant, hopeful looks in their eyes. “First off,” Jesse said. “I didn’t let anyone know about this because, in all honesty, I just decided on the idea about two minutes ago, although I had been kicking it around for the last few weeks.”
He gave a quick gesture with one hand at K’Tran. “Actually, you can all thank Mr. Pasker for causing me to finalize my decision.”
Jesse was amused to see his friend’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and he gave them all a proud, if mostly confused, grin.
“So where exactly are we going?” Kym voiced the question that was on everyone’s mind.
“Denelia?” Podo chimed in, then with a mischievous light coming to his eyes, said, “Or how about Talasia? I bet Karson could get us a discount.”
Jesse bristled at the comment and shot his brother a withering glare. After six months, the crew was still chattering on about Kayla Karson, the independent hunter that had teamed with them during the Nexus Gang affair, leaving before Jesse could make her an offer to formally join the crew. As heir to her family’s fortune, getting set up at one of the posh resort planets they owned would be child’s play.
The Starhawk Chronicles: Rest and Wreck-reation Page 1
