Enter the Sandmen

by William Schlichter

  The neck belt of the uniform chafes his naked, freshly shorn skin. He hates shaving even more than dressing up. In a thousand years someone would invent a better method than dragging a life-ending razor across two of the most important veins and arteries in the Osirian body.

  Osirian.

  One term he’s forced to adopt.

  Human.

  Apparently his species are actually known to the galaxy as Osirians. Osiris, a mythical god on Reynard’s planet, was actually the leader of humans with a similar genetic makeup. He found Earth while in exile. For what reasons are still debated, but whatever caused Osiris’s banishment a few hundred-thousand years ago also caused every species of intelligent design to detest humans. It was in their exile that his branch of the species avoided extinction. Reynard figures they had to surrender all technology and promise to never return to the stars as well, but this promise was forgotten after a few dozen generations, and people began to reinvent technology on Earth.

  Two fully armored warriors escort him down the long corridor. They’ve allowed him to keep both the magnum holstered low on his right hip in the quick-draw gunslinger holster and the Calthos sword of honor he wears on his left.

  The universal translator defines the blade as a katana, a sword favored by the warrior class in feudal Japan. Those skilled samurai wielded it with such precision people believe they are the perfect sword. Hundreds of years later, entertainment—in the form of movies—deluded romantic view, also leading laymen to believe the katana works for every sword battle. This blade, not quite a katana, but similar in style, withstands blows as effectively as a longsword. He has found the translator frequently mislabels objects to words he understands instead of an actual designation.

  The sword is not just the centerpiece decoration of his dress uniform. He earned the right to carry this weapon, something few not born of Calthos parents have ever received. Admittedly, he revered the warrior’s blade as a display of his honor more than his proficiency, but according to Joe, his untested skill is not to be scoffed at.

  Reynard keeps his left hand cupped on the end of the hilt. An impossible tactic to draw the blade swiftly, but he wishes to show he doesn’t intend to use the weapon. He should have shined his boots or put on a new pair. They are clean, but well-worn. At least in this getup his feet are comfortable. Dress uniforms usually require a lot of standing and erect posture. Comfortable footwear is preferable.

  This new mission of Maxtin’s should weigh on him more heavily than the past one. Delivering weapons, even deep into Mokarran space, lacks the diplomatic tact dealing with royalty will require. Never in his entire childhood had Reynard ever envisioned meeting someone of royal blood, let alone having a private audience with the ruler of an entire planet.

  Even at Maxtin’s behest he’s not sure why the queen of Aurora desires to meet him alone. The request would be less bizarre if his crew were a better-known mercenary group, but they’ve done little more than smuggle weapons, which will get them in the graces of less-than-scrupulous individuals, or at least those the Mokarran felt were criminals. Most of them were revolutionaries or insurgents just protecting their species from oppression, but none renowned enough to draw the attention of a queen, even with the added deaths of a few dozen Mokarran.

  Somehow eliminating giant fish with legs…Scratch that. His high school biology teacher would have pointed out sharks aren’t exactly fish. He has no moral dilemma about ending them. It could be their committed atrocities or just their multiple attempts on his life.

  The queen of Aurora allowed only Reynard to transport to the planet. Not wanting to reveal his advanced transporter system, he allowed the palace transporter system to move his molecules to the surface.

  They reach the end of the paper wall corridor. Wafts of perfume or soap lather hang in the air. Tufts of steam and other noises behind the opaque paper door hint at bathing pools.

  The soap hides drafts of sulfur. Behind the paper door beyond pillars of steam about eye level, water bubbles in a volcanic rock creator.

  Naked women lounge in the pool, but what catches Reynard’s attention first is the female nearly in a parade rest stance covered in a chain-mail bra and double-slit dress. Protruding over her shoulders, ink stains reveal a tattoo. He doesn’t know her name, but she’s Calthos in blood. The women of his sword brother’s species only have two arms, but that doesn’t stop them from training and learning a fighting style to subdue their male counterparts. The queen’s personal bodyguard—only the stupid would dare attack and face this deadly temptress.

  Reynard bows to her, folding his right hand over his left fist in the symbol of respect Joe’s clan offers. She ignores his gesture. Clearly beneath her dignity to acknowledge, Reynard knows how to correctly bow. If he were Calthos born, this insult would require a violent response.

  Maybe he should prove that he earned the sword on his hip and understood her customs when he became a member of Joe’s clan through honorable means. Joe explained it was better for off-worlders to avoid engaging in a test of wills with the Calthos-born.

  Reynard ignores the woman, hoping his sword brother advised him correctly, and addresses the naked queen using all his mental faculties to view her eyes over her exposed plump, wet, breasts.

  “Admiral Maxtin informed me you require the assistance of my crew.”

  “I haven’t spoken to the good Admiral in decades. Only a select few even know of my connection to a Zayar.”

  “I was only recently made aware of it, Your Majesty.” Reynard wishes he would have checked with Australia on the proper way to address the ruler of Aurora.

  “The Mokarran insisted on making all security arrangements for the royal wedding since they support the prince about to unite with my daughter. I don’t need a private security force.”

  “Then the Admiral was misinformed.” If that was indeed his intentions?

  “Or you are here in guise.” She waves her arms. The two escorts swing partisans. Reynard only avoids one blow as he leaps the lower-swung poleaxe, accepting the shock across the chest of the second. The leather jacket has interwoven Kevlar threads in the lining that absorb enough of the impact to prevent all of the air from being forced from his lungs. He flips sideways, his right hand dancing above his magnum, unsure if he should draw.

  Admiral Maxtin sent him here to be in the queen’s charge. Now his actions will determine his employer’s standing reputation as well as his own. The armored men stab the curved axe heads at his abdomen. Reynard flinches. His quick spin between them allows him to draw the blade on his left side, and in three perfect swift movements he severs the end of one pole arm and embeds the blade in the chest of the second guard.

  The man melts into a pile of gray gelatinous goop, dragging the sword from Reynard’s hand. Before he has time to be shocked by the melting humanoid, he draws his magnum and fires into the chest of the second attacker. He joins the pile of slop congealing on the ground. Before he twists the barrel toward the queen, a hand fan tears the weapon free from his finger, securing it to the wall by the trigger guard.

  The Calthos female flashes her finger, and two more folded hand fans spread open. The beautiful landscape images decorate the fabric and the bladed spokes. Reynard stands a chance to match her speed if he reaches his katana.

  “Enough!” The queen stands. Servants rush to cover her dripping wet body with dry robes.

  Reynard notices, despite her age, the queen still has a magnificent frame. Along her right hip he spots a red inked tattoo of vertical and horizontal lines. He pulls himself into a parade rest stature, but keeps one eye on the Calthos female while wondering why a woman of such status would have such a faded tattoo.

  “You are quite skilled,” she compliments.

  “Synthoids aren’t designed for combat. It wasn’t a valid test of my skill.”

  Synthoids—cloned forms of humanoids made of congealed cytoplasm to create an unstable life form able to accept programming.

  “I don’
t pander the ego of Osirians. Your warrior skills and Maxtin’s trust are what concerns me.” She waves all her servants, except the Calthos female, from the chamber. “My old friend knows I would need assistance with the Mokarran actually trying a diplomatic approach to conquering my planet.”

  “The wedding of your daughter?”

  “My full-blooded daughter will assume control of the throne once married. Her husband becomes ruler as our law states. Since he’s a Mokarran puppet, my planet will fall under their control.” Before he inquires, she answers the question he wanted to ask: “If I don’t allow the wedding, a military occupation will devastate my people. It took generations to unite the planet’s constant warring countries. I won’t see that undone.”

  “I’m not sure what assistance I’ll provide.”

  “You work for Maxtin. Only one other and now you know I was a pilot during the Battle of the Twin Suns. My father felt time off-world at university would improve my ability to rule. Little did he know I joined the Osirian Coalition military for a term of service. I watched the fall of millions. Not on Aurora. Maxtin knows this and sent you to assist. Since there are no transmissions between the UCP and Aurora, no one will know what I’m about to ask of you.”

  Reynard’s instinct to flee fights to take over his actions.

  “Kidnap my daughter, unannounced to her, during her wedding, and protect her until she returns to rule Aurora without Mokarran influences.”

  “Mokarran security—and I assume your own palace guards—won’t be too obliging.”

  “They will do everything to kill you,” the queen assures him. “You’ll be well compensated along with securing a portion of the royal treasury, which I want you to steal as well, for Maxtin to hold in trust for my daughter.”

  Trust.

  This woman claims not to have requested Maxtin’s help and knows nothing of me and my crew. Yet, she freely hands over her daughter’s life and fortune. The security code transmitted in order to land must have contained something personal to give her reason to trust us.

  “A tall order to expect from someone you know little about.”

  “You carry a sword from a Calthos warrior clan. An honor many Calthos warriors have failed to earn.”

  “I’ll need some information on the palace.”

  “Harbuu will provide you with any such information, but not door codes, or other security measures. You must learn, confound and defeat those yourself. This must be a kidnapping, or the Mokarran will know of my involvement and assume control. I’ve a final demand.”

  Not surprised, Reynard thinks.

  “No matter what, the princess must remain pure in your custody. She must not know the flesh of a man until she’s queen.”

  Reynard’s not sure how to respond to that request. Keeping the princess safe will be enough of a chore. The princess’s not privy to this kidnapping, and stealing away a woman from her dream wedding will cost him dearly. Most women believe their weddings are a royal affair. This one just happens to be correct.

  “I’ll protect her with my life.”

  “And your balls, Commander. If she returns to me impure, I will have Harbuu castrate you.”

  The Calthos woman acknowledges him with a bow.

  ••••••

  REYNARD JUMPS FROM the cubical section of the transporter room. An all-over body shiver chills his frame as his molecules tighten back into place. He races to the bridge.

  “Australia, how quick can we organize a two-pronged criminal operation?”

  “I thought you were turning us into a criminal operation with weapons smuggling. A task yet to become popular among the law-abiding, even if the weapons are for killing Mokarran.”

  “Add kidnapping and theft of royal treasury to the list of our felonious infractions.”

  “Commander, to what have you agreed? I understand the necessary to paint us as criminals to work many of the Admiral’s missions, but you must not destroy credibility if you expect to have any chance at maintaining—”

  “Consider what the Admiral needs from us—we’ll always be on the cusp of legality.”

  “As your first officer, I recommend you consider the ramifications of this operation.”

  “I have. The queen requested—a kidnapping—to prevent the death of her daughter. The heir to the throne.”

  “She requested?” Australia’s sapphire eyes grow large.

  “Yes. She claims she’s not been in contact with Maxtin and no one knows she fought in the Battle of the Twin Suns.”

  “I have read every document from the battle. There is no record of her ever being in the Osirian Coalition.”

  “She claimed only her and Maxtin knew of her lineage. What bothers you about it, Aus?”

  “I took this assignment at Maxtin’s behest and the opportunity it afforded me to interact with many alien species in the hopes of encountering some of my own people. I knew this path would lead me into questionable circumstances. But since the Tibbar ravaged my home world and drove my people to possible extinction, the chance to search for them was overwhelming.”

  “We could run into some of your people hiding among smugglers.”

  “I am a pacifist by nature. Outlaw I cannot be.”

  MAXTIN REMEMBERS HEARING “We’ve got to get the admiral out of here!” after he felt the impact of the explosion. He doesn’t remember much else. Someone tugs on the seatbelt harness to make sure it’s secure.

  Strange.

  Why didn’t I see whoever yanked on the buckle? Why can’t I open my eyes? Maxtin reviews the events in his mind. The maintenance tunnel. He had to run hunched over to move fast enough to escape.

  Bright.

  It got so bright in the tunnel and the heat wave that followed. His eyes could have experienced a flash burn, and now he must allow them to remain in darkness to heal.

  He remembers nothing but a voice. “We’ve got to get the Admiral out of here!” It was the other Zayar, Thierry. Nearly seventy-five, the only Zayar allowed off-world who trades for Bannis Root. Why Bannis Root? Grown as a food additive, but if grown in select soil it maintains some of the properties of the soil.

  He needs to test whatever Thierry has stored in his cargo bay to understand why the Zayar desires it. It grows wild on Zayar so no need to import it.

  Sensation returns to his body. Maxtin is secured to a seat an inch too small for his frame. Some kind of shuttle not built for comfort. He adjusts himself to fit better.

  “Your eyesight back yet?” Thierry’s voice rings in Maxtin’s ears.

  “They still don’t design these things for comfort.”

  “Work’s not supposed to be comfortable, Admiral,” Thierry says.

  “You hold onto the more traditional Zayar values.”

  “It’s all we have left,” Thierry says.

  Maxtin raises one of his bushy eyebrows. “The Osirians would disagree. They cushion every chair.”

  “I saw part of a report where the Zayar economical council calculated the billions they saved on vehicle production if they made everything one inch shorter or smaller.”

  “An acceptable fact.”

  “Their efficiency still scares even the Mokarran.”

  “The Bannis Root isn’t for food,” Maxtin observes.

  “You’re as intelligent as they say.”

  “Maybe I just guess well.”

  “You haven’t asked about the mercenaries you hired or your eyesight.”

  “I haven’t asked why I’m secured to a chair, either.”

  “I was warned you have mastered mental manipulation without actually controlling another’s thoughts.”

  “If you want to tell me what this is all about.”

  “The mercenaries escaped as well. They’ll follow your plan and hire your army. I agreed to help you meet them because of the Bannis Root.”

  Now we’re getting to the heart of the deception, Maxtin realizes. “I know I’m not popular among our people.”

  “Where do I beg
in? You are despised for falling in with the ranks of the Osirian.”

  “So, you’re returning me to Zayar to face trial for my offense?” Maxtin asks.

  “I’m returning you to Zayar against all orders I have not to involve you.”

  If you keep people talking long enough, eventually the truth shines through. “Then you commit a crime.”

  Maxtin strikes a nerve.

  “The only crime is with our people.”

  Maxtin’s eyes twinge as the ship’s internal gravity shifts to that of the planet’s natural gravitational pull.

  “We’re lifting off. You got clearance to leave, even after such an explosion? The Mokarran would shut down space ports until they are sure it wasn’t an act of terrorism to prevent the perpetrators from escaping.”

  “The ISN reported the explosions were due to refugees tampering with a sealed fuel line to access cooking apparatuses. If they detain me they would have to admit to being in pursuit of a Zayar or they had another terror attack. I know why you asked for my assistance.”

  “My planetary exile is not as self-imposed as most believe. The Mokarran would shoot you down if they knew I was aboard.”

  “Shooting us down would be an action against Zayar itself. I’m not part of your Confederation, and we’re the lone planet to stand against the Mokarran and strike fear into them.”

  “After the Battle of the Twin Suns the Mokarran purged many worlds they felt were threats, but the Zayar home world fleet repelled them.” Maxtin makes out groups of flashes within the growing field of white light.

  “I took your eyesight, and you remain calm. Were you this calm when they forbade you to return to Zayar after you accepted the post of vice-presidential admiral?”

  Maxtin admits, in a moment of truth, “I was too preoccupied with building a new government from the ashes of the Osirian Coalition. I thought little of my home planet.”

  “That was painful. A Zayar with feelings of regret.”