Enter the Sandmen

by William Schlichter

“The null field must subside. The variables created by the anomaly cannot be calculated.”

  “It’s launching fighters!” Amye screams.

  “Surrender. I promise the Mokarran will only imprison you,” the princess pleads.

  “I’m going to have to refuse your offer, my lady. The Mokarran don’t take prisoners.” Reynard echoes what Amye reminded him of in the palace.

  Doug pipes up, “Incoming transmissions from the Mokarran. They demand immediate surrender and return of Princess Michelle Aroura. You want it on the view screen?”

  “Another monster’s advising me to give up…No.”

  Thrusters emerge from under the skin swimming over the Dragon’s hull as Reynard jerks the joystick controller to turn the craft away from the oncoming fighter.

  “Aus, how long?”

  “Null field dissipation…”

  The Dragon’s violent rocking distracts Australia from her explanation.

  “A hell of a warning shot. Only twenty-five percent power.” Amye slides her fingers over a touch pad on the control console. “The deflector shields absorbed most.”

  “Mokarran still demanding we surrender the princess unharmed,” Doug reports.

  “Procedure. They’ll fire a second blast at fifty percent,” Amye says.

  “How dare they fire on this ship,” the princess snaps, forgetting for a moment she’s a prisoner.

  “What happens when you aren’t returned to your wedding?” Amye asks.

  “My mother retains her throne, until I am returned to wed.”

  Reynard swivels the joystick controller so the Dragon barrel rolls from the fighters and the next plasma beam.

  The artificial gravity on the ship adjusts slightly to compensate for the maneuver, but only the princess notices. “What just happened?”

  “You’ll get used to those little grav shifts the longer you’re on the ship.”

  The princess returns to her indignant manner, “I won’t be on your ship for much longer.”

  “Tri-Wing fighters in targeting range,” Amye reports.

  “They won’t fire yet. They’ve got to make their rescue attempt look smerth’n authentic,” Doug adds.

  “I have calculated new jump coordinates into the hyperdrive computer. The null field has nearly dissipated.”

  Reynard spins the Dragon on its current axis and charges the Tri-Wings. The crafts scatter from the main view screen. He dives under the battle cruiser. Moving for him would be down if they were on a planet.

  He pushes the engines to full throttle.

  “Clear of the null interference,” Australia reports.

  The folding of space/time/reality sends bile into the back of Reynard’s throat. He seems to be the only one who even notices when they slip from perceived reality through a new one. He finds ignoring the sickness impossible, but if he loses control the Dragon will atomize.

  Hyperspace—the subdimension just under what humanoids perceive as reality that allows a ship to circumvent normal space—permits for faster-than-light-travel, making spacefaring possible in a realistic timeframe. The concern emanates from entering the first, most dangerous phase of hyperspace when crossing the two realities. Once hyperspace engines engage, the entry course must be completed without deviation, or the exit will end in atomization.

  Reynard memorized the textbook paragraph when he first learned to fly. He swallows the bile. His understanding of the two phases of hyperspace travel are like using an on-ramp to enter the interstate. That limited view was not quite the reality of the metaphor. To get off the on-ramp one must maintain constant speed while staying within concrete barriers and avoid course changes due to speed bumps and potholes.

  Of all the dangers involved with space travel, hyperspace is the number one killer, yet the only way to travel. Under conventional thrusters it could still take months for a spacecraft to reach another planet within its own solar system. Months of travel through hyperspace, and a ship reaches a destination a quarter of the way across the galaxy.

  “We have reached the point of null disruption dissipation,” Australia repeats.

  “The Tri-Wings have activated all targeting computers,” Amye says.

  Reynard pushes the thrusters to gain distance away from the fighters.

  “Hyperspace coordinates locked in,” Australia reports.

  He activates the hyperdrive.

  The main engine shimmies. A reverberating wave emits from the hyperspace engines. The elongated cartoon distortion forms as she breaks with the physics of reality. An energy envelopes the Dragon from the hyperspace engines. She scrunches up radically distorted, then straightens into a tear in space.

  The Silver Dragon slips into a pocket reality of the first phase of hyperspace travel. The ship speeds faster than light through a tunnel. Star specks stretch into lines. The Silver Dragon reaches the end of the tunnel bursting into infinity.

  Waves of ever-changing patterns of light flash past the Silver Dragon. They shift and twist and reform new patterns as the ship traverses a new dimension.

  Reynard eases back on the joystick controller as the Dragon slips into the second phase of hyperspace. His stomach pulsates from the hydrochloric acid returning to normal. Every time he crosses dimensions, his gastric system churns into overload. None of his fellow crewmates seem bothered by the smooth transition from one dimension to another, but he always feels sick for those few moments, making him wish he didn’t have to give his next order.

  “We drop out after an hour of travel and slip back into hyperspace along a new trajectory and lose the dozens of Mokarran craft searching for us.”

  “You need to return me to Aurora,” the princess demands in a calm, orderly tone.

  Reynard unclasps his seatbelt harness. He glides toward the princess. “Not against your mother’s wishes.”

  “Speak not of my mother. She will be the first queen to reinstitute placing your entire crew on pikes in the royal gardens.

  “Doubtful. Your mother hired us to remove you from your wedding.”

  “Lies!”

  Reynard unfurls a necklace from between his finger allowing a silver pendant to dangle before the princess’s face. “She said you would know who gave her this.”

  The princess allows tears to roll from her eyes. “How did you get my father’s...”

  “He presented it on their wedding night. Alone. Only he, the queen, and you, which she informed you about it this morning, knew of its origin.”

  “You stole it from her when you attacked my wedding.”

  Reynard drops to his hams to be eye level with the princess, removing any possible threatening posture toward her. He drops the pendant into her palm and rolls her fingers over the top of it, squeezing her hands tight around the metal.

  “Even if true, how would I know who gave it to her?”

  “You forced it from her.”

  “Now you’re just grasping at anything to cling to the truth you want to believe. Believe this. Your mother sent you with us to protect you from the Mokarran.”

  “Why would she do this? My wedding assured no Mokarran invasion of Aurora.”

  “Your mother felt the wedding assured only your death and the Mokarran would seize the throne without actually invading. Now they must make a show of tracking down your kidnappers and rescuing you.”

  Amye comprehends the greater danger. She wonders how Kymberlynn would assess this.

  “What we will do is lock you in your new quarters and give you some time to acclimate yourself to your surroundings. Your mother sent some of your personal effects. Once you accept this ship as your new home, we’ll let you out, but you won’t be allowed to leave the Dragon for a long time.”

  “Even if my mother did desire this, I’ll see your head on that spike for your ill treatment of me.”

  “Amye, ill-treat her all the way to her quarters. Make sure the door’s secure.” Reynard smiles at her once he turns his face away from the princess’s. He wonders if a little good cop/bad
cop might help, then wonders if these people even have the good cop/bad cop scenario.

  Amye releases Michelle’s seatbelt latch. “Come, my lady. Let’s put away your dress. You’ll still be able to wear it when you return to Aurora.”

  Michelle understands her current situation could become worse. Terror of being violated by this man melts into her face.

  “No one will touch you, for any reason, other than your own protection,” Amye assures her.

  Reynard fails to mention the final restriction conveyed by the queen upon him. He waits until Amye has removed Michelle. “Doug, open communications to Admiral Maxtin.”

  After a few moments of entering commands at his station, Doug glances at his captain. “I sent a request. He’s currently unavailable.”

  Reynard laughs to himself.

  “May I inquire as to what is humorous about the Admiral not being available?” Australia asks.

  “Popular entertainment on my home world was fake shows about other people’s lives you could view on a monitor. Our culture was built around these programs. And no matter what, when the main character had to speak with someone, they always answered the communication device immediately.”

  “No one was ever indisposed?”

  “Never. In fact, when they did not answer, it was a plot point that the person being contacted was in immediate peril. People were just expected to be sitting by the phone waiting for the hero to call.”

  “I understand the humor. Anyone wanting to keep secret operations private could not just run to the comm at any moment when an agent calls.”

  “In the television programs, waiting for someone to complete a mundane household chore before returning the call would slow down the action.”

  “I must witness some of these programs as part of my cultural study of old-Earth Osirians.”

  “I’ve collected quite a few,” Doug offers.

  Athena chirps, “Incoming transmission from Admiral Maxtin.”

  “On screen,” Reynard orders.

  “Commander, were you able to assist Queen Aurora?” Maxtin’s white-haired face fills the entire main view screen.

  “She asked us to Shanghai her daughter on her wedding day to prevent the Mokarran from using her in their political takeover of the Aurora star system. Funny thing, Maxtin, she told me she hasn’t had contact with you in decades,” Reynard remarks with no hint of an accusation in his tone.

  “The queen fought under an assumed identity at the Battle of the Twin Suns. No one, not even the royal court, knew what she was doing. Only I, and she, knew of her birthright. The lieutenant she was impersonating received a death citation for valor. Before you criticize, she earned it for distinguished action during the battle saving many who should have died. She just could not accept it as a future queen. I doubt she will admit to anyone what she did.”

  “She was none too happy with me knowing about it.”

  “She had a personal audience with you?” Maxtin asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “She did need your assistance. And you have the princess with you?”

  “She’s safely aboard.”

  “Excellent. I have your next task. Return to Tri-Star Federation space.”

  “Not a problem. The thing they least expect.”

  “This will be difficult for you, Commander. You’ve put together a highly skilled crew and have smuggled weapons deep into enemy territory, but this next task will determine if you’re ready to enter the war against the Mokarran.”

  “Enough of these beginner-level missions. What do you have for us?”

  “Shalenotun VII is in the heart of Tri-Star Federation space, but with your cloaking technology you should have no issue arriving undetected.”

  Australia programs the coordinates into the computer, calculating the travel time in her head before Athena confirms a course.

  “The planet exports a great deal of raw material to the Mokarran fleet yards, which are constructing a new class of battle cruiser.”

  “Disrupting supply lines will only delay the building, not stop it,” Australia brings up.

  Maxtin won’t waste time offsetting a shipment. He’d disrupt the entire operation, Reynard considers.

  “There are many Shalenotun who want to stop providing the Mokarran with their natural resources. The political leader, Micah Donkor, keeps funneling the Mokarran whatever they need.”

  Australia searches her memory for that familiar name.

  “Assassinating him will send the government into a chaotic uproar, stop the shipments, and allow a leader not willing to bend to Mokarran demands to be elected.”

  “Is this the same Micah Donkor who signed the UCP charter?” Australia inquires.

  “Donkor served with me during the Battle of the Twin Suns. I don’t know why he has chosen to ally himself with the Federation now. This request is not a light one, Commander.”

  “We’ll follow orders, Admiral.”

  Reynard listens carefully to the Admiral’s instructions and kills the transmission.

  “I don’t like this.”

  “Nor do I. You are not an assassin.”

  “Australia, dig up everything on Micah Donkor. What happened after he left the UCP space thirty years ago? I want to know more about the friendship he and Maxtin had before we complete this mission.”

  WATER BEADS COLLECT on her skin. No condensation should take place since she has no pores to perspire from. Sweating would cool her, but not in unnatural heat. The maintenance conduits extend throughout the complex are designed for smaller humanoids to travel through for any repairs. She’s convinced the Mokarran only keep so many humanoids assigned to the command base to fit in these spaces. They have removed many top-level non-Mokarran species from key positions, but not here.

  ISN reports a Brillian General has retired from Command, opening more promotions for Mokarran. She believes it was for pomp and circumstance. To fool those foolish enough to believe everything heard on the ISN. If they don’t move too fast, no one will notice the replacement troops for leadership positions in the Tri-Star military will all be Mokarran. She noticed from processing the transfers.

  Fear suspends her in the maintenance tube. She recorded the Mokarran’s religious ceremony in her attempt to learn the ancient forbidden language. Forced to hide from the clergy in the darkened chamber, she had no idea the heat had been elevated to uncomfortable levels. Nytalyan’s choice to survive ensures her suffering. Her discovery means her death and the end of the egg sacs within her abdomen. She has to escape soon not knowing how this temperature will affect her.

  Able to learn and uncover the meaning of a few Mokarran words, she’s convinced only a select few understand what’s contained in their religious texts. Those meditating during prayer ceremony only know what the Mokarran priest’s translations demands of them. They are forbidden to read the book for themselves and not allowed to conclude if the actions the priest demand of them are the actions they would morally want to pursue.

  Her colleagues would scoff at the idea Mokarran are capable of making moral choices, but it’s part of what makes sentient life intelligent—knowing how to choose the correct path. Something in the manuscript must deviate from what the priests now teach, or they would allow the plebes to read for themselves. They give out a pamphlet of edited typescripts. Once she knows the language she’ll prove it. Knowing how to speak will be key to understanding their plans.

  Her bulbous eyes dry in the heat. Glancing at her watch, the ceremonial gathering completes in three minutes. So far in all her secret detecting of the ceremony, they end and commence exactly on time. The Shan-goroe transmits a hologram of himself to all his temples and never fails to be punctual.

  She leans back, touching the wall. Nytalyan jerks forward, forgetting the heat should scald her, but it doesn’t. The metal, even the pipes, are not warm when she touches them. Something in the air causes the immense warmth. As she contemplates what could be so broiling, she wants to jump from the conduit
knowing that her life could be in more danger from whatever warms her. The Mokarran exit within a minute, and she would live the longest part of her life under torture until they understood what she was doing. And that may not just be her life. The Mokarran would never believe she works alone, and their inquisitions would lead to the deaths of many innocent command staff.

  The next problem—stumbling. Each step becomes full-knee trembles of a newborn calf. Whatever was in the conduit was more than just uncomfortable heat. It has left her sick, disoriented, and unable to move her feet. Anyone who discovers her now will be compelled to take her to the medical unit, leaving her vulnerable to questions. She knows her original plan of returning to her quarters and sleeping it off won’t cure her ailment.

  She forces herself to wobble forward. If she does collapse, she wants to do it as far away from the temple chamber as possible. Maybe someone will believe she was doing something besides spying.

  The vice grip of a strong hand clamps on her shoulder and sends the chill of death down Nytalyan’s spine. Her heart stops.

  She stares up at her discoverer. “Just turn me in. I’ll tell you nothing.”

  A smile fills Saltāl’s face. “I’ve no plans to report you unlike your squeals will.”

  Nytalyan lowers her voice. “We should retreat now.” She slips the recorder in her tunic.

  His smile shifts to panic. “What are you doing? Recording the Mokarran’s religious ceremony means death.”

  “Being in the employ of the Mokarran is death for all of us. You will just get me there faster.”

  He slides his arm under her, propping himself against the wall to support her slumping frame. “Why invoke their wrath at all? Why do you record it?”

  Whatever ails Nytalyan must be treated quickly. Lying will not get her to the medical bay. “Not to make a recording, but to record. I’m unable to learn the religious language just by listening.”

  “I know I haven’t given you a reason to trust me, so I will. I’ve noticed in recent battles with the Throgen Empire the Mokarran only engage with non-Mokarran forces. They shift much of the non-Mokarran forces to the Throgen border.”

  “Do you have proof of this?” she asks.