by Tripp Ellis
Walker’s wrists were burning from the reaction to the handcuffs. He hoped the oil from his skin had weakened the hinges enough, because it was now or never.
The yellow guard lowered his weapon and got into a heated discussion with the cook. Walker didn’t understand a word of it. But that was just fine, he didn’t need to. The guard was distracted just enough for Walker to make his move.
He twisted and torqued his wrists, snapping the hinge. With lightning speed he jabbed an elbow into the blue guard’s nose. He could hear the bones crumple. Green blood oozed down the Decluvian’s blue skin.
Walker snatched the rifle away from the dazed guard and blasted away before the yellow guard could react.
A brilliant glowing blue projectile launched from the barrel like a tracer round. It was some type of ionized thermal plasma projectile. It smacked into the yellow guard, spraying chunks of yellow body parts everywhere. Green blood scattered the galley. The cook had a conniption fit and took cover.
Walker spun the weapon around and blasted the other guard. The blue bastard erupted into a sloppy mess. Walker was covered in green slimy Decluvian blood.
Then he took aim at the cook, unloading a torrent of bullets in his direction. It was pure chaos. Pots and pans and utensils were blasted to pieces. Appetizers, soups, and entrées splattered the walls.
A bullet ripped through the cook’s skull, scattering his brains. Other culinary specialists streaked from the galley in terror.
The Emperor wasn’t going to have his victory feast after all.
28
ZOEY
“We’ve got a little problem,” Violet said. She hunched over the display on the command station.
“What is it?” Zoey asked.
“Our orbit is decaying faster than I thought. We’re going to spiral into the planet within the next 6 hours. We need to either find a way off the ship, or get it operational.” Violet surveyed the grim faces of Zoey and 8-Ball.
“We’ll head down to the reactor room. See if we can figure anything out,” Zoey said.
“I’m going to find Declan,” Violet said. “I think I know what’s causing this.”
In the captain’s quarters, Declan was mesmerized by the glass of scotch. It looked so inviting. He picked it up and brought it to his lips once again. But he couldn’t bring himself to slug it down. He moved to the sink and poured it out. He grabbed the bottle and poured the rest of it down the drain.
He felt nauseous. It was a priceless bottle of scotch. There were maybe a handful left in the galaxy, if any at all.
He reached into his pocket and thumbed his recovery chip. He felt the raised lettering that read one moment at a time. This was certainly a moment.
A knock on the hatch shattered the silence.
“Come in.”
Declan waited a moment, but no one entered.
“I said, come in.”
Still nothing.
He marched to the hatch and opened it—there was no one there.
He peered down the hallway, first to the left, and then to the right. He caught a glimpse of someone turning the corner. It looked a lot like…
“Brody?”
The figure was gone in an instant.
Declan stepped into the corridor and called out for his brother again. “Brody, is that you?”
Declan jogged to the end of the hallway.
He knew Brody had been on the Zephyr when it was destroyed. But maybe he’d come back to the Revenant before the explosion?
Declan turned the corner and caught a glimpse of Brody again at the end of the hallway. There he was, plain as day, staring back at him.
Brody disappeared down another passageway.
Declan ran after him.
He kept chasing the ghostly figure through the maze of passageways, until he found himself standing on the precipice of a hundred foot drop. He was in the cooling tower over the primary heat exchanger.
Brody was on the other side of the chasm. There is no way he could have gotten over there. It wasn’t humanly possible.
Declan was about to take a mindless step forward when Violet called his name. He caught his balance just in time, clinging on to a protrusion on the bulkhead.
“What are you doing?”
Declan was dazed. “Nothing. I thought I saw… Brody.”
“That’s not possible.”
“I’m telling you, he was right here.” Declan looked back across the cooling tower. The apparition was gone.
“It wasn’t Brody. I’ve seen visions too. Impossible things.”
“What if Brody wasn’t on the Zephyr when it was destroyed?” Declan was clinging on to hope.
“You and I both know he was.”
“You’re not going to start in on me with that Numarian curse crap, are you?”
“I know it sounds ridiculous. But I’m telling you, as long as that treasure is on the ship, we’re doomed.”
“I think you’re letting your imagination get carried away.”
“You were about to step off a cliff chasing your nonexistent brother.” Her eyes burned into him.
Declan grimaced, not wanting to admit she was right.
“You know me. I’m not superstitious. I don’t believe in hokey religions, or magic, or any of that supernatural nonsense.”
“You’re not really suggesting we flush 3 trillion credits worth of trilontium out into space, are you?”
“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”
Declan’s face tensed.
“You know something’s not right here.”
He sighed. He had to agree with her. “That wasn’t the first time I’ve hallucinated on this ship.”
“I think we all have.”
“Let’s get everybody together,” Declan said. “We need to make this decision as a team.”
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Make a command decision.”
“You really think the ship is going to magically start working once you get rid of the treasure?”
“Anyone in possession of the treasure will meet with their doom.”
“Folklore and legend.”
“Well, when we all end up in a pile of twisted debris on the planet, you tell me how much of a myth it was.”
Declan looked back across the cooling tower one more time. There was still no sign of Brody. He peered over the edge at the machinery below. He’d be a grease spot on the deck if it weren’t for Violet. Maybe he should listen to her?
“Where’s Jaxon and Mitch?” Declan asked.
“They’re working on the hull.”
“They’re not going to be happy about this.”
“Tough shit.”
“Find them,” Declan said. “I’m going to go up to the airlock.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Toss out the trilontium, I guess.”
Violet smiled at him. “You know, you might be a decent human being after all.” Her doe-eyes gleamed at him.
He chuckled. “Careful. Don’t go ruining my reputation.”
29
ZOEY
Mitch was still trapped in the passageway between section 167 and 174. Both of the hatches remained shut. It was clear Jaxon wasn’t coming back to release him.
The oxygen meter on his heads-up display read 22 minutes. If he had to guess, it was probably more like 15.
Mitch tried to squeeze his head through the gaping wound in the exterior hull. Despite its size, he could only fit his head and shoulders through. There wasn’t enough room to get the center locking ring of his suit through the opening. It didn’t matter how he twisted or contorted. He just wasn’t going to fit. And he didn’t want to get too aggressive about trying. One of the jagged edges could easily catch and rip the material of the suit. Then he’d be in a whole new world of trouble.
He wiggled his head and shoulders back into the corridor. Then he marched to the toolbox at the opposite end of the hallway. He rummaged through the container and found a laser cut
ter.
For a moment, he thought about cutting his way through one of the sealed hatches. But that could compromise the integrity of the entire ship.
Mitch walked back along the damaged bulkhead until he found the widest gap. He pressed the tip of the laser torch against the bulkhead and began cutting a wide arc. Sparks showered out into space. The beam melted the thick composite alloy with ease. Droplets of molten metal wafted out into space and cooled almost instantly.
After a few minutes, he had carved out a nice sized opening. The semicircular piece of metal was hanging by a thread. He kicked it loose, and it tumbled off into space.
Mitch activated his magnetic boots, then shimmied through the opening in the hull. He took the laser cutter with him, just in case.
He held on for dear life until he could affix his boots to the outer hull. If he lost his grip, he’d be tumbling into space for the rest of eternity.
His boots clamped tight against the outer hull, and he stood tall. He took in the wondrous view once again. It was quite a sight. He started marching forward toward the next airlock. He would try them all until one of them opened.
The metallic boots made his feet feel like they weighed 50 pounds each. It was like walking through knee-deep mud. You’d lift your feet and they’d clanked right back down again. It was better than drifting away into space. But it didn’t take long for your legs to start burning.
Mitch was heaving for breath. He wasn’t exactly in the best shape. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He was down to 17 minutes of oxygen left.
He kept plodding toward the next airlock, stepping over the ridges and valleys in the ship’s design.
Mitch had made it about 20 yards when another meteor shower hit. Small golf ball sized rocks pelted the hull. They were hard to see coming through the foggy haze of the nebula. They would appear at the last minute, and Mitch would try to dodge out of the way. They clinked and clamored against the hull.
The magnetic boots kept him from being as nimble as he could’ve been. He did his best impression of a run, zigging and zagging and dodging and weaving.
His heart was about to punch through his chest. He swore if he made it out of this alive he was going to get back into the gym. Hit the treadmill, ride the bike, do the elliptical. Whatever it took to get himself back into shape. He had let himself go and he wasn’t happy about it.
He took shelter behind a ridge.
Meteors were pouring down now.
He crammed into the enclave, hoping the shower of rocks would pass soon. The ridge just barely gave him enough cover.
The space rocks slammed into the hull, pulverizing into dust and tiny pebbles. Even a small one could kill you, traveling faster than a bullet.
Mitch started to contemplate where the best place to get hit would be. A shot to the head would kill you instantly. That would probably be best. If you were going to die, might as well get it over with quick. A shot to the chest might prolong things, unless you were lucky enough to get hit directly in the heart. A shot in the arms and legs would drag things out too much. You’d probably live for another 10 or 15 minutes while you bled out.
The gonads!
That would be the worst place to get hit by a meteor, Mitch thought. Excruciatingly painful and embarrassing. He’d be the butt of endless jokes if he went out that way. Did you hear about old Mitch? Yeah, he took one in the nads.
Yup, Old Meteor Mitch, they’d call him.
He glanced at his HUD. 15 minutes of oxygen left—which probably meant 10.
30
ZOEY
Declan dragged the crates into the airlock. He grunted and groaned and damn near threw his back out pulling them across the deck and over the lip of the inner airlock hatch.
He stood up and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.
“What you planning on doing there, Chief?” Jaxon scowled at him. He stood in the corridor about 20 feet away. He was a towering hulk of a man.
“Just doing a little housecleaning, that’s all.”
“You wouldn’t be planning on throwing those out, would you?” Jaxon’s menacing eyes fixed on Declan.
“I know, on the surface, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. But I think there’s a good reason for it.”
“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, Skipper.”
“You planning on stopping me?”
The two squared off for a moment.
Jaxon charged Declan. He looked like a ferocious beast. His angry face twisted up, and he snarled. He was like a freight train barreling down the hallway. He slammed into Declan, knocking him from his feet.
Jaxon crashed down on top of Declan. His cinder block of a fist reared back, and he hammered Declan in the jaw.
Declan’s molars carved into his cheek. Blood spewed from his mouth, splattering across the deck. That was just the first hit. Several more followed in rapid succession.
Each hit was like two—first was Jaxon's fist, and second was the back of Declan’s skull mashing against the deck. Jaxon kept pummeling him with brain jarring, skull crushing blows.
Pinned to the ground, Declan reached up and dug his fingers into Jaxon’s eyes. The big oaf screamed in agony. It gave Declan enough leverage to worm out from underneath Jaxon.
Declan grabbed the lid from one of the crates and ripped it from its hinges. He smacked the plank over Jaxon’s head as he stood. Wood snapped and splintered.
Jaxon staggered for a moment. But it only seemed to piss him off. He was seething now and breathing through his mouth. His teeth were like the fangs of a ravenous beast. His head was down, and his dark eyes were partially occluded by his brow. He looked utterly, and completely, insane.
He charged at Declan once again.
The skipper dropped down and ducked under just as Jaxon swung a right cross. He felt Jaxon's fist graze the top of his head. Declan knelt down and scooped up a sharp shard of wood. It was the closest thing to a knife he was going to get.
Jaxon spun around to face Declan. The two squared off again. Jaxon almost seemed like he was enjoying this.
Declan’s eyes surveyed the big hunk of muscle. He had fought side-by-side with Jaxon in plenty of bar fights. He’d never seen the man lose.
“Jaxon, just calm down. There’s a reasonable explanation why—“
Jaxon had no intention of listening. He charged Declan again.
The skipper sidestepped.
Jaxon clotheslined him. His arm was like concrete. It caught Declan right in the throat.
The skipper felt his windpipe collapse. His back smacked the deck, knocking the wind out of him.
Jaxon wound up and planted his boot right in Declan’s ribs. He heard them snap. The pain shot through Declan’s torso. Each breath was agonizing.
Jaxon kicked him again in the gut.
Declan squirmed in pain, still gasping for breath.
The big meathead towered over Declan’s helpless body. Jaxon was an ex Special Forces killer. Operational detachment X-ray. X Force, as they were often called. A good way to start a fight was to ask who was tougher, Reapers or X Force. Each outfit had their own reasons why they were the most elite combat force. They were both the crème de la crème of special warfare, each with their own particular specialties. Declan didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of winning this fight.
Jaxon knelt down and snatched the wooden shard. His deranged gaze surveyed the pointed fragment.
Declan tried to climb to his feet.
Jaxon reached down and grabbed Declan by the throat, and slammed him against the bulkhead.
“Hey, buddy. I can see you’re a little upset.” The words came out harsh and raspy as Jaxon squeezed Declan’s throat.
Jaxon’s soulless eyes blazed into Declan. Jaxon was never a particularly warm or friendly person, but the man Declan had once known was gone. This wasn’t Jaxon anymore. His mind was unhinged. There was no compassion. No remorse. No empathy whatsoever.
Was it the ship that caused him to snap? Was it the c
urse of the Numarian treasure? Had he just spent too long in space?
Declan knew the answer. It was all the more confirmation he needed to get the treasure off the ship. How long would it be before the others went batshit crazy as well, he thought? How long before he lost his own mind? He was already hallucinating.
“Look, why don’t we just take a minute and sort this whole thing out like reasonable adults?” Declan said, trying to smile.
Jaxon's empty eyes stayed fixed. There was going to be no reasoning with him. There was going to be no negotiation.
31
WALKER
Walker pilfered every magazine and thermal grenade he could find on the two Decluvian guards. He took a tactical vest from one of the guards to store the extra ammunition.
Stripped of the Saarkturian battle armor, Walker was wearing nothing but his skivvies. He stole a pair of pants from the guard. But the boots were useless. Decluvian feet, with their three toes and an opposable digit, weren’t even close to human feet.
Walker pulled on the pants and stepped into the corridor. He shot out the security camera that loomed overhead. He continued down the hall, heading toward the detention center.
The Decluvian crew seemed unprepared to deal with a situation like this. Walker advanced down the corridor, blasting out security cameras and putting holes in any crew members that threatened him. Most turned tail and ran.
Unlike a conventional weapon with a magazine that held 30 rounds, the plasma rifles fired projectiles the size of toothpicks. Each magazine held 500 rounds. It was a hell of an advancement over the weaponry the UPDF possessed.
Soon the hallways would be flooded with security personnel. Walker stormed through the corridors as fast as he could, hoping to beat the security details that were most likely being dispatched.
It was complete pandemonium as Walker blasted his way through the hallways. As he approached the detention center, he rolled a thermal grenade around the corner. The two guards in front of the detention center tried to dive out of the way, but the blast incinerated them. The hatch was blown to shreds.
