Enter the Sandmen

by William Schlichter

  ••••••

  AMYE TWISTS ON the swivel stool at the breakfast counter as if she were five. “Where do I begin?”

  “What do you mean?” Reynard takes a tub of ice cream from the small refrigerator/freezer in the kitchenette at the end of his quarters.

  “First, your quarters are three times the size of mine.”

  “I am. The. Captain,” Reynard bellows in his best Shatner impression.

  “Granted, but do you need couches and this kitchen?”

  “I thought I did at the time. I was missing home.” He drops two scoops into a bowl.

  “So you did this to remind you of your home, but I doubt there were such other spacious accommodations on Osiris.”

  “We called it Earth. Osiris was a mythical god to those who knew ancient history.” He puts a brown jar into the microwave.

  “He was a military leader who was driven into exile during the Great Purge. A lot of spotty history. But it’s commonly accepted he took a group of his people with him in order to save the species,” Amye recalls.

  “I read some history. It sounds like Osiris colonized Earth and was forgotten about until the Iphigenians invaded.” He covers the ice cream in warm hot fudge. Reynard slides a bowl across the counter to Amye, handing her a spoon. “The replicator doesn’t do this justice.”

  She takes a bite. Warm fudge dribbles on her chin. He contemplates using his spoon to catch the falling chocolate and then brushing it on Amye’s bottom lip like some cheesy romantic comedy, but stops himself. Being her captain he should proceed with caution—girl with issues.

  Amye catches the dribble on the side of her finger. She licks it off, not wanting to waste any as Reynard offers her a napkin.

  “In a thousand years, some things haven’t changed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Many people on…Osiris,” he’s not sure how he’ll ever get used to referring to Earth as Osiris, “wrote stories envisioning the future. The most popular fantasy was everyone would have flying cars and robots to do the housework, but others had stranger ideas, and yet most of what I’ve seen is practical. Not outrageous, even from my own time.”

  Amye licks the fudge from her spoon before waving it before him. “I don’t know who invented this or even when or on what planet first, but you can’t improve on such a device so why bother.”

  “No need to reinvent the wheel.”

  Amye giggles. “Osirian saying?”

  “Yes.”

  “A lot of cultures have failed to invent such a device. It’d advance society a lot. I studied so many cultures in the IMC school. I had to pick thirty to know well.”

  “Australia knows over five hundred.”

  “Nysaean brains work like a computer. Thirty was hard enough. If you were smart you’d pick some of the obscure ones so you could travel more and maybe work on some exotic planets.”

  “The IMC functions like it’s an empire.”

  “They might as well be. They make weapons, sell ore, and have their own space fleet, factories, and self-contained education system.”

  “How did you get stuck on Tartarus?” Reynard releases too late he should not have asked this question.

  “It was a family thing. Grandpa, Dad, Sister…” She trails off. “I couldn’t get my test scores high enough to escape.”

  “I grew up on a farm. College was going to be my only way out of hauling hay and shoveling manure. Nothing prepared me for the Iphigenians’ invasion.”

  Amye snaps back from her thoughts. “Not being aware of your true history or that life truly exists beyond your solar system. Your people must have been so alone.”

  “We couldn’t stop finding new ways to kill each other long enough to notice. Having over half the population conscripted into the Iphigenian Civil War may be the only thing to save us as a people.”

  “It seems all your crew lost so much in this war. You and Australia—even Scott—lost your home planets.”

  “We don’t have to talk about it.” Reynard hopes that if he doesn’t inquire into her losses, Amye will speak about them.

  “Do you do this with all your crew?”

  “Chat with them?” Reynard’s unsure what she means.

  “Serve them ice cream—alone—in your quarters.”

  “JC and I’ve had many long private talks over scrambled eggs. Australia just sits in that chair in full-on-follow-procedures-and-report mode, but no, I’ve not served anyone else ice cream. I thought you might want to talk…”

  Amye’s thoughts drift. She doesn’t hear anything else Reynard explains. When she snaps back to reality, she mumbles, “My sister…”

  “What about Kymberlynn?”

  “Nothing. She would question my time in here with you.”

  Reynard spots an opening, “You don’t talk much about her.”

  “What’s to say? You know she’s the perfect pilot. With the perfect hair. Even more perfect performance results. I’m sure Scott could tell you some more things she’s perfect at.”

  “He would have a long list of women to compare her to,” Reynard realizes too late he shouldn’t have mentioned Scott and Kymberlynn’s affiliation.

  “I wonder if Australia knows how long. He’s the only thing that makes her lose her propensity for rule following.”

  “As long as it doesn’t interfere with the functioning of the ship, I’m staying out of it.”

  “But you have no problem butting into my business,” Amye snaps.

  “Now wait a minute. I’m not butting in. You just completed a difficult mission.” Translation—your first murder.

  “As your captain I thought you might need to talk, so the next mission your mind’s clear. I’m not butting in, ‘Little Sis,’ I’m doing my job.”

  Amye swears he hears her call her “Little Sis” with Kymberlynn’s tone and voice. Did he scold me the way she does? No, he’s not trying to get your jumpsuit off. He is just doing his duty. He is being a friend.

  “You’re correct. It was difficult. I should’ve taken the sniper shot. I just couldn’t bear the thought of blowing him apart in front of those children.” One thing you will not do is cry. You won’t cry in front of him…your…captain.

  “We had orders. His death will save lives.”

  “Why do you keep training so hard to fly a Mecat?” Amye asks.

  “Because I’m not cut out for this assassination stuff either,” is Reynard’s quick answer.

  “It wasn’t the same as firing on the Mokarran,” Amye admits.

  “I was willing to fire. Willing to do what I asked one of my crew to do and hadn’t done myself. I was looking for any reason not to. Not everyone we face will be the source of evil. I trust Maxtin has examined the ramifications of a death. I trust when he says one death will save lives he’s correct.”

  “People tell stories of Zayar brutality. All they wanted was to be left alone on their planet. One such tale was of a trade delegation wishing to open a dialogue. The Zayars slaughtered half their planet as their response with minimal losses of their own. Another tale was of two planets in a neighboring solar system whose war threatened Zayous. So, again, they slaughtered half on each planet and forced a treaty on them.”

  “I’m sure those accounts have been exaggerated.”

  “A five-hundred-year-old treaty exists between those worlds today. Zayars are big on population control. Supposedly, they systematically eliminated half the population, people they deemed unsuitable. Scientifically, they strengthened the gene pool of each species.”

  “The Iphigenians did something like that with my people, only they only took those they felt had certain—characteristics.”

  “I thought you were frozen.”

  “Not immediately. While I was waiting to be inspected I saw one of my classmates being released. She was a perfectly healthy person.”

  “On the outside. You’ve no idea what her genetic makeup said about her. The Iphigenians had the military hardware but not the sold
iers. They took those who could be quickly trained. She may not have had an aptitude for the pilot’s chair.”

  “When it comes to a Mecat, neither do I.”

  “But they placed you in cryosleep. You and a selected few others. Without the data from the cryostats ship we won’t know why.”

  “I certainly don’t feel special.”

  “You’ve learned to pilot an advanced starship, and no Osirian ever earned honor among the Calthos warriors. You tested positive for something they wanted in a warrior.”

  “I still can’t pilot a Mecat worth anything.”

  “Australia understands the customs and practices of over two hundred different species, but do you feel she’s able to blend in with those people if she had to?”

  Reynard considers for a moment. “She lacks tact.”

  “Surgical.”

  “She performs their rituals to textbook specification. The small nuances are absent.”

  Reynard notes the renewed light in Amye’s eyes. He wonders if he should ask about her sister. “Interesting how Aus knows so much about everyone else and so little about her people.”

  “The Tibbar invaded when she was two.”

  “Nysaean recall every memory from birth.”

  Amye seems to shift the subject, “You ever try and research the Nysaean? There’s not one iota of information. Nothing. As if once the Tibbar invaded and assumed Nysaean as their home world, they never existed. Even Doug, with all his years of cleaning redundant information from the ISN, never encountered Nysaean references.”

  “Australia says they were pacifists who kept to themselves. Her mother was teaching her to love all life.”

  “If they kept to themselves, then maybe most of their history was lost when the Tibbar invaded.”

  “You seem to be holding back a ‘but.’ Like you know something.”

  “I wasn’t even born yet. Neither was Kymberlynn. Until I met Australia I don’t think I even knew about Nysaean. But JC acts like she does.”

  “JC’s unable to read Australia’s thoughts or Ki-Ton’s. I would say her training would brush on species they can’t scan,” Reynard speculates.

  “But she has no idea what species Ki-Ton is.”

  Better not ask about Kymberlynn. I’ve finally got camaraderie going. Questions about her sister would kill it. I’ll ask her next time. “I’ve got a job for you.”

  Amye gives him an unsure glance. “You can’t leave the princess locked in her room forever.”

  “She’d be the safest there.”

  “Maybe so, but I thought you could take her to the training room for some exercise or at least to let her stretch her legs.”

  ••••••

  AMYE BLOCKS ANY chance the princess has of being able to flee her room as the door slides open. Every suitcase or cargo trunk in the room has been turned over, leaving a disheveled mess of clothes, baubles, and personal effects dispersed around the room as if they exploded.

  “Bit of a tantrum, Princess?” Amye attempts to hook her thumb in her gun belt but it’s gone. She couldn’t risk the delicate flower reaching for it.

  Michelle sucks in a lung full of air and pushes out her chest in an attempt to create a big and powerful stance. “You should address me as ‘your royal highness’ when you speak. If I wish the conversation to continue then properly you should say ‘ma’am’. I am of royal birth and should be treated as such.”

  “You’re not my future queen, nor are you an inmate. Right now you’re nothing more than a spoiled toddler who had a tantrum. I’ll tell you this, Princess...” Amye tires of calling her “princess.” “Do you have a first name?”

  “It would be improper of you to refer to me as such.”

  “Then ‘Princess’ it is. You want some recreation time, Your Majesty?”

  She mumbles in a low whisper.

  “Yes, Princess?”

  “Michelle. My name’s Michelle. If you’re able to speak it without the disrespect you put in ‘Princess.’”

  Amye shifts her tone. “All right, Michelle. You want to get out of this room?”

  “Will you send someone in while we’re gone to clean this mess?”

  “You smerth’n serious?” Amye snickers to herself. “You’ll have to clean this mess yourself.”

  “I’ve never had to clean anything up in my life.”

  “No one on this ship will clean your ass for you. Time to grow up, Michelle.”

  “I have never been treated like this.”

  “Maybe some time on this ship is just what you need.”

  “Being roughhoused by thieving hooligans, what’s the lesson?”

  Amye hangs in the doorway, considering her answer. “You know, you’re correct, Michelle.”

  “So you’ll return me to my mother?” Michelle seems hopeful she has a friend.

  Amye squashes that. “No, but you should know how to prevent someone from manhandling you.” She tosses the princess a bundle of clothes.

  “Change.”

  ••••••

  “IF I’M A guest, then how long am I stuck here?” Michelle tugs at her training uniform.

  Joe contorts his body to complete his kata form.

  He knows pupils have arrived but won’t acknowledge them until he’s ready. Somehow Amye knows Joe assesses them both without even turning his head.

  Amye glances down at the young girl and wonders how at seventeen she could still be so clueless. Was I this clueless?

  No. No, she wasn’t.

  She was clueless when she was fourteen, leaving Tartarus for the prestigious Advanced Education Program, where she learned how the universe worked.

  Amye evades the question. “Until the Mokarran are no longer a threat to Aurora would be my guess. The queen wants you under our protection.”

  “You’re outlaws. Why would she want you to protect me?” Michelle admires Joe as he moves with each perfect pass of his body from one attack stance to another.

  “At least you know we’re not afraid to break the law to safeguard you.”

  “Train me.”

  “What the smerth?” Amye questions her own actions. Wait. Why did you bring her here? You gave her the training uniform and drug her over here to train her so no one manhandles her.

  “Teach me to fight,” Michelle states again.

  “I hope you don’t think by learning a few attack moves it will give you an opportunity to escape.”

  “If I’m not a hostage, then I want to learn how to protect myself and my people. I’ve been groomed to be the flower on the king’s arm. If I am to live among warriors, I want to become one. You just said you didn’t want anyone to be able to maltreat me.”

  “I’ll teach you how to defend yourself, so if an opponent three times your size attempts to pin you to the floor you’ll escape.”

  “I want to learn from him.” Michelle points at Joe.

  “For a Calthos warrior to train anyone not from Calthos, Joe must find you worthy.”

  “I’m of royal birth.”

  “That doesn’t make you worthy.”

  SUPERIOR TECHNOLOGY ALLOWS the Dragon to transport objects without the use of both a sending and a receiving platform. A distinct advantage lost when the extra bright white light flashes during molecule reassembly. An active transport announces Ki-Ton’s arrival inside the dilapidated remains of a once-great theatrical auditorium.

  Crunched seats and shattered beams decorate the once-majestic building. Faded murals, of humanoids performing famous works of their culture, peel from one wall. The stink of rot and refuge hangs in the air. His boot kicks past a pile of trash. Every scavenging bug scampers away from him.

  He takes the scanning device from his belt. It should detect life forms and transmit the information back to the Dragon for the crew to interpret. He needs none of their help, nor does he need such a device to detect his prey. Illusion of a need keeps the crew guessing about him. The technology could detect possible chemical traps even his olfactory s
ystem’s unable to sense. Many humanoids have such devices to compensate for their physical limitation. Osirians seem to utilize them the most.

  He sniffs the air soaking in the rot. Even escaping insects trail fragrances, none of which are the aroma he searches for. Time won’t erase scents from his memory. He knows it. It’s like his own perfume. It hints in the air. What he seeks has been here. He kicks up trash and more smells with each step, but never loses the whiff of what he came for. It hangs in the air.

  It gets stronger—fresher.

  Strange?

  The smell, familiar as himself, is not as it should be—tainted.

  “I smell you.” Echoes from everywhere at once in the theater. The acoustical design of the building has lost no efficiency despite the decrepitude of the structure.

  Even with his superior hearing Ki-Ton’s unsure where the voice originated from. Logically, he steps toward the stage where it would be effective to remain concealed.

  “I almost forgot how we reeked,” it calls out from the shadows.

  Ki-Ton triangulates where the voice originated. “You don’t smell as I remember.” Or as you should. Ki-Ton crunches burnt lumber under his step. He lowers the useless scanner. “Why don’t you smell right?”

  This brings an unnerving quiet to the chamber. Ki-Ton hears the clicking of tiny insects fleeing his presence. The absent breath of his prey keeps him on edge.

  “You’re not experiencing degradation?”

  “I know your DNA matches only thirty-five percent of mine,” Ki-Ton answers.

  “That much? I didn’t know I had so much of me left.”

  Ki-Ton knows the voice hides in the dark backstage behind the shredded curtains. “Enough! Tell me.”

  “You’re as demanding as the royals, subjecting us to exile.”

  “We both failed to follow their commands,” Ki-Ton notes.

  “I wouldn’t return to release them even if I knew where they were.”

  Ki-Ton swivels on his heel, marching up the auditorium to the exit.

  “Just going to leave? Wait. It’s been thousands of years. I’ve never encountered another. Don’t leave.” The pleading voice draws closer from the darkness.

  “I came only for the location of our home world.”