Being one of the privileged few to remain within the command structure of the Mokarran, Nytalyan secretly investigates the disappearance of many citizens.
Her yellow blub-eyes peek around the corner into the cathedral chamber. Her dull copper skin blends with the wall shadows. Being female, she lacks the bright rainbow plumage males of her species develop to attract mates. Culturally, her people have grown beyond the environmental development of a female’s requirement to hide and incubate the eggs from predators, protecting the next generation of her species. Even with society overlooking gender, her biology won’t forget that in her gullet her body produces eggs, soon to be expelled. She will request leave and return to the spawning pools on her planet where dozens of men will compete for the privilege of spraying the eggs, allowing them to germinate.
The process brings incredible pleasure to the males, which increases the competition and better stock to improve the overall genetics of her people. She understands the experience to be painful for the females. To spawn each egg she must force it out of her while being pinned under water by a male twice her size. Other Aequipinnatus females have permanent scars from the males biting them while they hold them down.
A traumatic experience—nothing like what the Mokarran will do to her if they discover her spying on their most religious of ceremonies. Groups of young Mokarran gather in a praying lotus position before their robed spiritual leader, Shan-goroe. His peregrination among them allows a touch on each of their shoulders as he passes. Mokarran rarely wear upper-body garments. The three dorsal fins on their back make them impractical. Most of the males’ sport dyed sashes representing their place in the command structure. Some are adorned with rank metals or other representations of cultural status. Instructed in what each sash color means, she knows this robed figure has brought the Mokarran back to what he claims is their true calling. He speaks to them in the old language.
Nytalyan uses an electronic eyepiece to record the ceremony. Even with her built-in universal translator, she’s unable to comprehend the language. It’s forbidden to translate the Mokarran spiritual language, and no computerized translating program’s capable of breaking it down.
Through her appointment in the war room, she’s uncovered disturbing Mokarran practices. First, the reassignment of key positions away from non-Mokarran to only Mokarran officers appears to be species nepotism and would not be considered unremarkable on many planets. But those transferred from command are not demoted to some backward planet and forgotten—they have disappeared. Prompting her to learn the Mokarran agenda in order to comprehend what threat truly looms over Federation citizens. She must understand the Mokarran religious language. Her security position allows her access to all Mokarran texts, allowing her to acquire what she figures was a beginning reader book to learn the language as a youth. If she captures one of the prolific stories being told from the Mokarran religious texts to match word order, she’ll have a basic understanding of the language.
The lotus-positioned Mokarran chant to the ranting of Shan-goroe. He completes his proclamation. The chanting discontinues with an abrupt severing of a syllable, startling Nytalyan. She clicks her recorder off, and Shan-goroe dissolves into waves of light energy. Shan-goroe was merely a holographic image, but more advanced than she has ever used in the command and control center. This one could touch. He uses technology to speak to millions of his followers all at once.
Nytalyan hurries from her hidden location before any of the worshiping Mokarran exit. Being caught spying on such a sacred ritual would cost her her life. If they found out she recorded it, death would not be swift. They would assume her spying was an act of espionage and torture her until she confessed which government she was working for. Since she merely wants to understand her masters and what they are doing to those humanoids they are replacing, her suffering would be long and agonizing. The cruelty of the Mokarran could last for weeks. They will keep her alive.
She has no access to purchase luxuries for her person, but any translation of the secret Mokarran religious language would be priceless on the open market. There are bounties on such knowledge made even more profitable by stories such as the time the Mokarran discovered one of their scriptures was unearthed by the Fwn’jure. They mounted a full-scale invasion of the planet, quelled only by the return of the book and anyone who laid eyes upon it. If anyone alive did glance at the text, it has never been disclosed. She also fears for the rest of the Fwn’jure people if the Mokarran are eliminating species they deem unusable.
Nytalyan returns to her spartan quarters. The Mokarran don’t offer much in comfort or space. She pulls the side wall off her desk to remove a mess of circuit boards hidden behind the drawers. She opens the cobbled-together makeshift computer; it contains no wireless technology or any network connections to give away its existence. She built in three antiquated language translators containing the records of several dead languages and subcolloquial Mokarran speak. With the video and the learner Mokarran script, she hopes to decipher a few words. She connects the camera to the computer, touches the download button.
If she were to smash all this right now, the Mokarran would never know. She could remain safe. Safe until they replace her. Replacement might not be bad, but even without knowing where those humanoids are deported, she concludes, the alternative means total demise of everyone not born a Mokarran.
AMYE’S LUNGS EXPEL air as if they were balloons at a child’s party. The practice mat covering the floor provides no cushion against the impact of her physique. She bounces only once and fails to move.
“Get up or he’ll finish you.” Kymberlynn’s voice echoes into her ringing ears.
Amye knows she’s correct, but pain shoots through her body from the landing.
“You’ve got enough of your own padding. The fall shouldn’t hurt,” Kymberlynn berates her.
Amye rolls onto her stomach. “Remind me I’m fat, Sis. Helps motivate me to move.” She crawls on her elbows, dragging her lower body behind her.
A vice grip secures her ankle before dragging her back to the center of the mat. Her fingers claw at the fabric, but her chewed nails find no hold on the smooth surface. Upon the release of her ankle, Amye scissors her legs in order to spin to her back, allowing her to kick-flip to her feet. Her frame flops back to the mat in her failed attempt. She needs more practice to maneuver in such a smooth motion. Pushing up onto all fours leaves her vulnerable to a kick to the abdomen. She tightens her stomach in anticipation of the impact, but the blow never comes.
Her opponent shuffles his feet like a boxer keeping his body moving while waiting for the referee to count down his challenger. The shirtless man towers over seven feet, drawing his four arms into an attack stance.
“It’s not impossible to defeat a Calthos warrior,” Kymberlynn shouts in support.
“Easy to say if you’re not in the ring with one.” Amye huffs, raising her arms to defend herself.
Pounce.
He snags her wrist, but this time she won’t let Joenerbrawl send her to the floor. She twists away from his pull, forcing him to glide underneath her form and allowing her to roll across his back and snapping his arm tight. Amye holds him off-guard for a tenth of a second before the inked flesh of his back meets with her face, knocking her back. She sinks into the mat this time, her brain unable to convince her body to move.
“Get your ass up! You had him,” Kymberlynn shouts.
Amye slides her face up off the mat to glare at Kymberlynn. “Half-second advantage on a Calthos warrior’s not having them.”
“Do you know what kind of skill it takes to gain an advantage on one of these guys?” Kymberlynn scolds her sister.
Amye flips her eyes back on her instructor. The master warrior slides into his training jacket, covering the second-greatest honor bestowed on a Calthosion—the permanent placement of the clan’s sigil on the warrior. Tattooed across his entire back is an Ouroboros involving an eagle snatching a viper in his talons while the reptile
sinks its fangs into the eagle. A white wolf waiting on a rocky outcropping as the full moon rises over all of them. He wraps the robes of his clan around himself and ties the ebony sash around his waist.
“Your skill has improved,” Joenerbrawl compliments. He adjusts the cloth manacles covering each arm under his training uniform.
“I don’t know if I can do this anymore.” Amye collapses onto her back in labored breaths.
“Choice. You asked me to train you in the path of the warrior. There’s more difficult paths to achieving enlightenment than physical perfection.”
“If I quit?”
Kymberlynn and Joenerbrawl respond to her in choral voices: “You only hurt yourself.”
“I measure myself only by my own failures. Your failure to complete the training doesn’t reflect upon me.” Joe nods.
“But it’s so hard,” she whimpers.
“Lower standards won’t make a better warrior. You’ve chosen to train. I will instruct as I would any Calthos warrior.”
“But I’m not from Calthos,” Amye waves Kymberlynn away, wanting no help from her in getting up.
“You want to learn how to fight as if you were, so you must train as if you were.”
“Right now I want my spine…” Amye’s back thunder-cracks as she straightens up. “It hurts.”
“I educated you in several meditative rituals. Perform those to restrict your pain and prevent future trauma.”
“Reynard trained under you for a year. How did he survive such intense exercises to earn your clan tattoo?”
“He was accepted as a pupil by our clan’s Old Maestro, our most experienced teacher. Through his wisdom Reynard trained as an accomplished swordsman. His skill with a blade earned him honor.”
“Swords and mysticism aren’t effective against a good blaster.” Amye raises each shoulder. Her vertebrae pop, and the pain relinquishes.
“Then why did he request to be trained in the skills of such an antiquated weapon?”
Amye realizes the question is only for her to ponder over. Joe already understands the answer. “And you won’t tell me.”
“Giving you the answers won’t help you to learn in the same way as figuring it out for yourself. When you understand why the Commander chose the path he did, you may better understand yourself as a warrior.”
Polemic, Amye again reiterates, “I don’t know.”
“Even if you learn to fight in order to avoid confrontation, the skills you must acquire come from within. When they are released, it becomes the moment you understand who you truly are.”
“What if I don’t want to know who I truly am?”
“Many people become lost. When you are ready to find the path again, I will help you.” Joe bows to her in a sign of respect.
“No insistence.”
“You cannot help someone who’s not ready to be helped.”
She returns the bow. “I’ve got to help Reynard with his Mecat pilot training.”
ONE HUNDRED AND twenty seconds.
Two minutes—the average life expectancy of a Mecat pilot during their first battle is less than two minutes. Survival probability quadruples if they make it to a second battle campaign. Not many do. The Mechanized Electronic Combat Attack Tanks have become a staple in ground warfare, even in orbital combat. The two-legged walkers traverse most every terrain, and larger Cats outfitted with orbital buster rockets allow for more missile casements or larger cannons operating like portable howitzers.
Unlike aircraft or even treaded ground tanks, Mecats take a great deal more skill, coordination, and reflexes to pilot. The driver has to move arms, legs, aim, shoot, and avoid all in the same moment. Osirians’ reflexes are slower compared to many other humanoid species; only the naturally capable make it past the first battle. The majority of Osirians who become expert pilots and collect enough Confirmed Kill Notches end up working in mercenary Lances and hire out to the highest bidder.
It’s a short life span for even the superlative pilots. And despite the high payroll, most earned funds funnel back into outfitting the Mecat for the next job. Considering death expectancy of pilots, reaching quick wealth means they must eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow they die.
Reynard has no intention of dying today or tomorrow. Attempting to procure his place in this war smuggling weapons remains a precursor to his goals. Admiral Maxtin envisions the crew as espionage agents or even counterintelligence operatives. Reynard fathoms stylish involvement as a James Bond type to be fantasy. Work as a mercenary with any clout requires he must learn to pilot a Mecat.
“Commander.” Amye’s voice crackles through the comm unit. “When I open the shield doors, fire your thrusters. Whatever enemy you face will have targeted the launch bay in an attempt to destroy Mecats as they release.”
Amye, a natural pilot, secured the five hundred hours of simulator time faster than any Osirian possibly could. Piloting skills must run through her blood since her sister scored even higher. He read in Amye’s IMC file she’s qualified to pilot a Blackweb Hypershuttle, a craft not designed for Osirians due to their short arms. Her tutelage should help him improve his own piloting skills.
“Shouldn’t I know what battle scenario I’m attempting?” he asks.
“Doesn’t matter. An intelligent brief means little in Mecat combat. Unlike troops in battle armor, who may need cold-weather units opposed to desert armor, Mecats travel in any environment. You may be told your landing to defend a jungle city and find the battle has moved to a glacier. Everything in this kind of battle changes in less than a second.”
The launch bay depressurizes.
“Time on your training clock starts as soon as the doors crack. Be ready to move, pilot.” Amye forgoes rank.
The deep guttural order tenses his muscles. His whole arm jams forward on the thruster controls as the launch bay doors open.
The Mecat lurches into space. Low-orbit combat. First catching his attention is the beauty of the bluish star looming over the horizon of the planet. Next, plasma beams in space explode in such brilliance that, if somehow one was unaware each burst was extinguishing a life, this would be stunning.
Targeting computers demand response with constant beeping.
Maneuver, aim, fire, avoid.
Reynard depresses the trigger. Streams of plasma burst from the cannons built into the forward section of his Cat. The bolts merely bounce off the armor of the closest Mecat.
“That’s a Mammoth Class Cat. Nothing short of armor-piercing rockets will dent it. You’re wasting valuable energy reserves and precious seconds.”
Amye’s enlightening evaluation of his target does little good. Before he corrects his mistake and fires missiles, the Mammoth Class Cat incinerates him.
Electricity surges through Reynard—biting—reminding him he failed.
The cockpit canopy cracks with a hiss. As it raises Amye awaits him like a mother catching her son after curfew.
“Thirteen seconds. You lasted thirteen seconds.”
“Better than most days.” Reynard unclasps the seatbelt harnesses.
“How did you ever collect two-hundred hours with thirteen-second attempts?”
“It doesn’t start out on the hardest level. I blew through easy and medium like a Sega game, but now I’m stuck on level impossible without a Game Genie.”
“Your first issue is you don’t know your Mecats. You need to study the designs. Know what weapons class it takes to damage what armor—a basic skill. Then you have to understand mercenaries, buy one class of Cat and refit it with different armor and weapons to confuse Battle Analyst Computers.”
“Mercs custom-fit their Mecats. Got it.”
“Mokarran usually don’t. They get the standard assembly-line models, and they are armored well,” she informs him.
“I want to try again.”
“The training shock when you fail will be more intense this time. I don’t recommend it. Besides, you need to study Mecat designs before you lose another thi
rteen seconds. You could have blown through the Mammoth with your rockets if you chose them over plasma cannons.”
“Then I need to use what I’ve just learned and go again.”
“The simulator has an artificial intelligent program designed to anticipate your movements as you train. There won’t be a single Mammoth Class Mecat in the next combat round. We need to report to the bridge. Australia called while you were in the simulator,” she adds.
He shoots her an annoyed glance.
“There are no alarms going off, so it won’t hurt her to wait. What’s the perk of being the captain if you can’t take your time answering a communication transmission?” Amye smiles.
••••••
REYNARD HOLDS HIS thumb and forefinger about a half-inch apart. “I came this close to giving you a simulator to repair.”
Amye pauses before the elevator. Her right hand brushes over the top of her blaster on instinct as Reynard eases close to her in order to step inside the lift.
“Bridge,” he instructs the computer.
“Piloting a Mecat is not as easy as a fighter,” Amye says.
“I’m never going to make the five hundred hours needed in the simulator to get in the seat of a real one.”
“Not everyone qualifies. And considering the life expectancy of Mecat pilots, you may want to stick to the captain’s chair.”
Enter the Sandmen Page 4
