Enter the Sandmen

by William Schlichter

  “No matter what you may believe, everything I did, I did to protect my home world.” Maxtin’s certain Thierry’s lack of accusatory disbelief means he wants reasons. “I raised a new alliance to stand against the Mokarran, who, if left unchecked, would scourge across the galaxy one solar system at a time until their rule was finite. The Zayar fleet may have held against them, but not forever. The Mokarran had to be stopped before Zayar was alone to stand against them. And then it would be too late.”

  “It’s too late now.”

  Thierry’s face materializes as an outlined blur in Maxtin’s vision. If he could gaze into the man’s eyes he’d have better understanding of his statement. He’s not yet sure how to proceed. Thierry was more than willing to meet with him and the mercenaries, but clearly for some agenda Maxtin did not factor. Thierry visits Summersun on regular intervals to purchase the Bannis Root. The question—why? Bannis Root takes on the properties of the soil it grows in. What kind of soil do the Summersun agriculturalists use? He changes the subject. “You’re sure the mercs made it out safely?”

  “Their merc uniforms are armored.”

  Maxtin detects a note of distaste in uniforms.

  “They had no ill effects. Nor did you. I injected you with a sleep serum, to have an excuse to evacuate you.”

  Maxtin recognizes Thierry’s motivations. Now to understand them.

  Something about the mercs’ uniforms bothered him? “Did the sigil on the one they called Wolfman offend you? It looked Zayar-like.”

  “I care little for Osirians or the disrespect they give to all other sentient life.”

  “The Osirians try desperately to hold onto a culture from a planet they were forcibly removed from a thousand years ago. Most of them don’t understand the significance of the symbols they wear. They just know it means home.”

  “Then why display them?”

  “Everyone needs a sense of identity. They just don’t know what theirs is.” The blurry shapes move closer into focus for the Admiral.

  “Don’t they study their own history?”

  “They do, but they don’t know their own story. They know a millennium ago the Iphigenian Civil War brought a battle fleet to their insignificant unknown world in the outer spiral arm of the galaxy. After a one-sided battle, the Osirians were enslaved and conscripted as soldiers to replace those lost during the Iphigenian Civil War. After the defeat of the Halcary traitors, the Osirians were released from servitude and left to scatter among the planetary systems. Most were soldiers and had been for generations. They knew nothing of their old way of life. They banded together mostly as mercenaries, and took a tradition from their home world of successful pilots of earning a nickname as a badge of respect. Those names came from garbled versions of their history. The Monster Squad, which we just met, were all mythical creatures used as entertainment.”

  “What possibly could entertain someone with a hairy-faced creature?”

  “Osirians would try to invoke fear into each other for pleasure,” Maxtin says.

  “Such primitives.” Thierry shakes his head in disappointment.

  “Those primitives reduced one of the greatest militaries to a clan of bounty hunters,” Maxtin affirms. “Those primitives will keep the Mokarran from controlling the known galaxy. They have come a long way in the last thousand years.”

  “They still don’t know their inception among the stars predates the Iphigenian invasion—annoying insects,” Thierry spits.

  “They are worthy of study despite how many species feel about them. I’ve pieced together what I think happened.”

  Before Thierry objects, Maxtin continues. “Osiris was a military ruler spreading his might over a large section of the galaxy. No species could stop him. He was elevated to a god status among his own people, then something toppled his throne, and those responsible executed all of his people some million years ago.”

  “Then why are there so many Osirians? Not all of them came from the Iphigenian Civil War.”

  “The few history text footnotes that spoke of Osiris said little else of the events. Interestingly, the Symballmum speaks of a denounced god who gave away his greatest power to save his people. Exiled to a fertile, but untamed prison, his people marched with most dying along the journey, forced to give up everything from the old life to embark anew. Knowledge of repairing flying craft was of no aid to these people when the only tool was the rock and the stick.”

  “That had to be some power to give away to save the scourge of the galaxy.”

  “The phrase ‘dying along the way’ could also be translated as lost.”

  “We know the fate of the people. What of the weapon he gave up?”

  “It wasn’t a weapon. It was something else,” Maxtin says.

  “How do you know that?”

  Thierry’s interest in the subject has created the dialogue Maxtin hoped for.

  “He would’ve used a weapon. In the end, as your kingdom fell and your people were slaughtered, even the kindest of rulers would launch their deadliest of weapons to eliminate their enemies. He gave up something else.”

  “Even for a cryptic Zayar explanation, it makes no sense.”

  “My exordium to the Symballmum has many stumbles over many translations. Most of the tome takes place in what we considered the unknown sectors of our galaxy. A few constellation descriptions only seem to line up if you view them from the far side of the galaxy.”

  “They were sent to a planet beyond the reach of any species wanting Osirians extinct, and with no tools they would not be able to construct a return,” Thierry says.

  “I speculate many more died just achieving basic shelter and food.”

  “It took a species who once ruled the galaxy a million years to return.”

  “The Osirians had only begun to return to their planet’s moon when the Iphigenians invaded,” Maxtin says.

  “It makes for a good bedtime story, but why are you so interested in it?”

  “As a religious tome, the Symballmum ends with the destruction of the entire universe—annihilation will be marked by the return of Osiris’s children.”

  “They returned a thousand years ago, and we’re still here.”

  “Measured units of time don’t exist within the infinite range composed in such documents.”

  “God doesn’t own a watch,” Thierry translates.

  “Or need a spaceship, but one forgotten child of Osiris will face a malevolent form beyond the confines of reality.”

  “Prophecies are written so vague they could fit anyone, Admiral.”

  “I use the research of the text as a distraction. Osirians call it a hobby. It releases stress. What I found interesting is the oldest version of the text is a copy of a copy. At least dozen copies of the Symballmum is even found on many planets with altered translations. I’ll spare you the boring details of linguist work, but I uncovered a copy where the root word for forgotten shifted. Some changed the translation accidently, or on purpose, because they didn’t understand the meaning. Why ever they did it we’ll never know, but this version became the one copied from then on, and the new word changed ‘one forgotten child of Osiris’ will face a malevolent form beyond the confines of reality to ‘frozen child of the Osirian.’”

  “The significance’s lost on me,” Thierry admits.

  “During the Iphigenian invasion of Osirian, a planet the people called Earth and themselves human, the Iphigenians collected every last person, tested them and took billions of those they deemed viable to fight for them on their home world. For some reason, a select few Osirians were cryogenically frozen and found five years ago.”

  “You’re reaching, Admiral. You’ve worked so diligently on translating the parts you want to find it to be true.”

  “Your logic, sound as it may be, doesn’t account for the fact Commander Reynard was one of those recovered from the derelict Iphigenian ship.”

  “You have too much faith in a simple species. They’ve lost their identity,”
Thierry snaps at Maxtin.

  “Even having traveled far from Zayous VI, you’ve learned nothing about the species you interact with.”

  “I don’t want your stigma of being universally contaminated by off-worlders.”

  “I am only contaminated by understanding and acceptance of others.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You have no home world to return to.”

  “TELL ME HOW you got out of parading yourself half-naked in the wedding precession.” Amye slips off the jumpsuit portion of her uniform.

  “You’re used to parading yourself completely naked before the male population of Tartarus, so half-dressed will be a step up for you.” Kymberlynn dangles her legs from atop Amye’s dresser.

  Amye keeps her response calm. “You keep harping on my life choices—I didn’t realize you find me so interesting; maybe your life is just that boring.”

  “I’ll pilot the Dragon while you abduct the princess and steal her dowry.”

  “Important work if you can get it. My contribution to this play is slightly more significant, especially since I’m the one stealing the princess.” Amye slips on snowy silk robes.

  “I wouldn’t want to be you—if you smerth up.”

  “I’ve proven myself useful to Reynard. I haven’t seen you perform any fancy flying of yours for him.” Amye applies mascara to her eyes.

  “Good thing my loins don’t get all juicy when I’m near the commander, because once I fancy pilot the Dragon for him he won’t even remember your successes.”

  “I think we both scored low on the ‘plays-well-with-others’ exam.”

  “I’m just telling you how you feel about yourself, Little Sis.”

  “I don’t need to be constantly reminded about my poor life choices. I thought us joining the Dragon’s crew was our chance to reinvent ourselves.”

  “It is,” Kymberlynn says.

  “Then why do you have to constantly remind me how messed up I used to be?” The well fills behind Amye’s eyes.

  “Don’t cry, Little Sis, it will ruin the makeup.”

  “That’s what concerns you?” Amye disquiets her distemper toward Kymberlynn to prevent those tears from escaping.

  “Don’t give me none of that ‘what about my feelings’ smerth. You want anything but to be treated soft,” Kymberlynn reminds her.

  “I don’t want to be coddled, but you don’t have to drive stakes into my heart.”

  “Just get your butt down there. Once again, your actions are pivotal in the Commander’s plan. If he only knew you have no confidence in yourself.”

  ••••••

  THE TRANSPORTER’S BLINDING white light subsides as Amye materializes in a stone chamber. Secured in a chair, a diminutive brunette sporting the same snowy silk dress as Amye pleads for help with her tear-filled eyes. Amye hears Kymberlynn pointing out that if she had cried, her makeup would have been in the same ruined state as the poor girl’s.

  A short-haired blonde with three tear-drop tattoos below her left eye removes the sable glove running up the length of her arm to the middle of her bicep. “You know I’m about to break fifteen laws on over a thousand worlds, all of which result in my death, if I’m lucky. I don’t want the alternative.”

  “What’s worse than death, JC?” Doug asks.

  “For a telepath, the equivalent of a lobotomy. Only they turn your mind in on itself and feed you through a tube for the remainder of your existence.” JC waves her hand over the girl’s forehead, never touching her sweating temples.

  “Smerth me.” Doug takes the girl’s left hand from the binders and inserts it into a slot built into the briefcase he carries.

  JC touches the girl’s temple. Her mind drifts into the terrified thoughts of the flower maiden. “She knows nothing. Just how to bear the flowers for the wedding. Security has cleared her twice, and procedures say she has one more check once she’s placed in the wedding precession.”

  “I’ll copy her DNA card with her security clearance to allow Amye to take her place in the precession,” Doug announces with pride.

  “It’s impossible to duplicate those,” Amye chimes in.

  Doug lifts a lid on the top of the case. He removes what looks like raw flesh. He dangles the skin before Amye. “I’ve created a way around it. Using synthoid tech and some computer genius, I’ve duplicated her unduplicatable DNA implant, only like synthoids it’s unstable and won’t last.”

  “It’s a trick. It’s impossible to duplicate the implant—only fool it,” Amye scolds him.

  “For one or two scans maximum. DNA card readers use a form of radiation to prevent exactly what I’m attempting.”

  “You’ll guarantee I’ll fool the scanners.” Amye points out, “If I get caught the Mokarran will serve me as part of the wedding feast.”

  “This maiden was to take her place in the precession line. Once she’s scanned in, they shouldn’t have a reason to check again,” JC assures her.

  “Just don’t get out of line to pee,” Doug suggests.

  “So I should go now.” Amye rolls her eyes at Doug.

  KI-TON UNPACKS FUEL cylinders for a portable cutting torch. “We just beam out the treasure from the vault instead of wasting time faking a robbery.”

  “In all your travels, have you ever encountered another transporter system with the capacity to transport objects without the limitation of two transporter pads? I want to keep that secret a bit longer,” Reynard adds.

  “Your tactic has certain logic to it.” Ki-Ton snaps together the cutting torch.

  “We don’t actually have to move the treasure—just appear we have.” Reynard hovers behind Ki-Ton. “We cut the hole and transport out the wealth.”

  “It’s convenient the vault is directly next to a transporter room.”

  “Beam in the wedding guests, and they would want to immediately secure any lavish gifts brought for the nuptials,” Reynard says.

  “We’re now smugglers, thieves, and abductors of women. And certainly the prevention of this wedding will leave no doubt we’re terrorists against the Mokarran.”

  “That’s the plan.” Reynard flashes a cocky smile.

  “This will only add to the list of people who wish to eliminate you from existence.”

  “It can’t be that long of a line.”

  “It’s longer than you think, Commander.” Ki-Ton ignites the torch.

  Reynard turns away. His eyes need protection from the intense plasma burning through the wall. Ki-Ton seems unaffected by the intensity of the beam. Despite how he appears almost Osirian, it’s a subtle reminder he’s not.

  Sparks fly. The wall panel crashes to the floor.

  “Smerth. That will bring the guards,” Reynard exclaims.

  “There’s to be no one in this section of the palace,” Ki-Ton reminds his captain.

  “So the intelligence reports read. You worked with Admiral Maxtin for nine years. Tell me, have you ever had inaccurate intelligence information?”

  “Most of my job was gathering intelligence, Commander.” Ki-Ton easies through the makeshift doorway.

  Reynard follows through the hole, avoiding cooling metal. Inside the chamber are lavish gifts from dozens of worlds. Art, statues encrusted with jewels, ornamental weapons, woven tapestries, and items only royalty would receive as gifts fill half the vault.

  Ki-Ton opens one of the chests. Inside are gold coins. Another box contains paper money. Reynard scoops a handful of diamonds from the third crate. “Our fee. The rest we keep in trust for the princess.”

  “You could buy a small moon with all this.”

  “Let’s keep how much there is under wraps, just in case anyone in the crew wants to prematurely retire.”

  “A captain has to trust his crew,” Ki-Ton says.

  “I trust them, but I still don’t know them.” Reynard opens a silver case and removes a device.

  “You put a lot of faith in a drunk girl.”

  “Amye’s got issues, but so do the rest of them. I’v
e a pretty good idea what they all are except for yours.” Reynard places four sensors in each corner of the room.

  “I’ve been in Maxtin’s employ and share many of his confidences. In nine years, I may share some with you. The only way to maintain secrets is to keep to yourself.”

  “The Admiral doesn’t share much.”

  “Once you are proved to be the value he believes you to be. He takes on a lot of mercenaries, but never have I seen him give any of them the support he gives you.”

  “Is that what all these seemingly petty jobs are about?” Reynard presses his watch. The room fills with blinding white light. He lowers his arm from shielding his eyes to find he stands alongside Ki-Ton in an empty room.

  “Maxtin demands the Mokarran defeat more than anyone, but not at the expense of the UCP. The Throgen Empire poses a greater threat than the Tri-Star Federation. The UCP isn’t ready. So for now he wants to keep the Mokarran as a buffer, but to do that millions must suffer under their rule.”

  “Tough choice.”

  “Zayars live a long time, maybe three hundred years, and Maxtin’s a young one at age sixty. If it takes him twenty more years to build a fleet worthy of combating Throgen, he thinks little of those suffering for those twenty years.”

  “I doubt he will take their suffering lightly, but to rush too fast and be defeated will ensure enslavement,” Reynard says.

  “The Mokarran don’t enslave, and the Throgen Empire does much worse. I’ve become entangled in enough secret missions to have dealt with more than you’ll see in a hundred years.”

  “I never thought I’d leave the surface of my home world, let alone see this much of the galaxy a thousand years from when I was born.”

  “Maxtin assigned myself and Australia to help you. He said you were taken by the Iphigenians during their civil war with the Halcary.”

  “You believe that?” Reynard’s shocked. Most never postulate his story so easily.

  “Many have been frozen in cryostats. You are the first I’ve met that was kept alive for so long.”

  “I’m still piecing a lot of that together from historical records, but some kind of botched hyperspace jump brought the Iphigenian invasion to my world and they conscripted my people into their war, scattering Osirians across the galaxy.”