Enter the Sandmen

by William Schlichter

  The Scalterrian chitters at her in such frantic levels she could go into convulsions.

  “What do you care, lady?” Amye grips her rock hammer ready to impale the creature’s skull to stop the high-pitched noise. Then she gets it. They have to police their waste rock. All rocks go in the bucket. The mineral goes in the plastic case.

  The gravel has to be dumped into a chute and could be a means of escape. So could finding this mineral. She only needs enough to buy her way out. She’ll simply go back to the Dragon, unlike most of these people who will dig enough to return to a gaming table. She wonders how many are down here a second or third time.

  “What am I looking for?”

  The creature chitters. Amye makes out only one word: Khonarigte. A type of coltan and highly sought-after, as it’s one of the few metals found to comprise the electronic components of a hyperdrive engine. Once refined, the heat of the hyperdrive doesn’t melt it the way it does other metals.

  If they abandoned this facility only flakes remain. Amye contemplates other methods of escape. It could take weeks to dig enough Khonarigte to reach the first line on the plastic tube.

  Just do to this Scalterrian what she plans to do to you. She’ll show me where to dig and once I’ve collected some of the Khonarigte assail me and steal. No other reason for her helpfulness.

  The Scalterrian computer jack catches the pale light, acting as a constant reminder how humanoids who are willing to augment themselves become dangerously addicted to the machine attachment. Some authorities claim the electric jacker connected to the synapsis emits a low-level radiation that warps the mind. Osirians are highly susceptible. It pushes them to insanity. Many species, however, seem to lose their mental faculties the longer they stay jacked in. This female seems to have a body quiver as she marches down the mine shaft. The shakes are one of the first indicators of mental trauma from being plugged in too long.

  Amye would be doing her a favor if she brained her and took the Khonarigte. She actually wishes Kymberlynn would advise her. She has no idea what her sister would condone in order to handle the situation.

  I won’t commit a second murderous act. The politician was indirectly causing millions to suffer under the Mokarran rule even if he wasn’t actually committing the acts himself. Not the same as facing a soldier on the battlefield. It is their job to kill you. This woman will attack. Stopping her would be pre-emptive. What if she had no intention to attack? There is no evidence she is plotting to harm. After examining what Amye knows of Scalterrian—which is next to nothing—maybe the species has a natural tendency to be helpful.

  Amye scrawls her finger along the rock. She notes a divergence in the smooth edge to rough hard chiseled ridges. This tunnel was created by the rock hammers as an afterthought when the bored tunnel ended. The passageway drops in height, forcing Amye to slump as she steps. Even her shoulders soon become boxed in as the shaft becomes more of a rabbit burrow.

  “I’m not going to be able to fit.”

  More chitters.

  The Scalterrian crawls on all fours. Amye considers turning back. The only logic in traveling down this tunnel is to mine minerals. Not an attack. She has to have some first to be worthy of attack.

  Unless she plans to eat you, Kymberlynn’s thought resonates. Osirians are food for several species. Not truly delicacies, but the meat will do when other is scarce.

  Amye scampers along her elbows to keep moving. The rocks are cold against her bare arms. The tunnel lacks the room to turn around. Two other aliens drag her through, jerking her to her feet. Before she breaks free of their grasps, the Scalterrian chitters excitedly and Amye spots a lit durasteel plate.

  The aliens release her. She spots the jacking ports reflected in the light blasting on the metal. Amye recognizes what the metal wall represents. She wonders what the jackers think she’ll be able to do about it.

  The chitters are interrupted by a single word: Escape.

  It’s clearly a question. They must know what it is as well. They never knew they would get so lucky being thrown a mining colony brat, so why did they show her?

  “It’s an ore sampling pod. The entrance is exposed to the vacuum of space. There’s no way to use it in an escape.”

  “The asteroid has an atmosphere. Thin as it is,” the tubular alien on her left speaks.

  “Not enough for me to breathe to get back to the entrance to the casino. And why show me anyway? I just got tossed in here.”

  “You’re not a jacker.”

  “You mean I’m not a burnout. I’ve my synapses intact.”

  “We’re weaker because without being able to jack in to the network, the jacking port loses its charge.”

  “It doesn’t run off your body energy?”

  “Even if it did, they don’t feed us well. You want a good meal. You have to give up some Khonarigte. It needs an outside power charge, or it drains our natural electricity.”

  “Some bootleg mining pod has no use in an escape?”

  “Will it not have an atmospheric reserve? We take it and leave.”

  “I doubt it is. You’ll lose integrity of the mine when you open this artificial air to the thin atmosphere, and who knows how long this thing’s been here. It may not have enough power to open the airlock door.”

  “We have no other escape route.”

  “Find the bore holes where they took core samples. There had to be enough Khonarigte for them to build the mine. There should be mineral there.”

  “I found the bore holes. We dig back here to find the pod.”

  “How long have you been down here? This would take months to dig out.” Amye understands she has to find a quick way out. Between these three they don’t have enough Khonarigte even if she killed them all and stole what they had. This sample core pod does not belong to the IMC, or she would know where an escape hatch in the forward section would be located. She would hate to direct them to dig and it not be there. The pod could contain a radio, and she could call the Dragon to come get her. No matter who built it, the drilling system should have a hatch, but they don’t always lead inside. Part of the ship must be sturdy since drilling weakens some rock.

  Amye rubs dirt from the durasteel shell. “Any idea who manufactured this pod?”

  “IMC,” the Scalterrian chitters. “Make all mining.”

  “No. This was not an IMC mining operation.”

  “How do you deduce?”

  “This asteroid contained no life. They would have forgone the mine and just pulverized the rock, separating out the minerals they wanted.”

  “What does it matter?”

  “Most of these pods have a forward escape hatch. Location dependent on who manufactured them.”

  “We wouldn’t need to breach the atmosphere.”

  “See, you have useful talents even without your computer.” Amye rubs clean some markings. “Do you know this language?”

  The tubed alien shakes his head.

  The Scalterrian chitters.

  “Do you understand her?” Because if not I’m going to bash her skull to stop the racket she thinks is language.

  “Somewhat, if she keeps it slow. The words are upside down.” He shakes his head not able to understand anymore.

  “Cal…Catherian…”

  Caltherian Navigations. Amye shoves her out of the way, slamming the rock hammer into the stone above the pod. Gravel chunks rain to the floor. “I would put the emergency hatch near here. If there’s one.”

  She swings until her arm gets tired. The other aliens take turns hacking away at the rock in shifts until what could be the seam of a hatch. Amye drags the point of the hammer into the grooves and clears away debris. She rubs her finger across it, finding foam reminiscent of airlock seals.

  Her stomach twists with hunger during the hours spent clearing away the hatch.

  ••••••

  AMYE DROPS INSIDE. The air, thicker than the tunnels, tastes like the smell of a locker room after the winning gladiator sports. Sh
e gags on stale air until her throat dries.

  Power.

  The basic layout of any of these craft should be similar to IMC designs. She searches for the ON button. Drilling core samples takes a lot of energy. No regulated craft legally uses a small nuclear core as an energy source. The craft would fall apart under natural elements before the power cells drained. The Caltherians never followed such procedures—

  Amye presses a button. The lights flash on, but the computer controls take minutes to boot and light up. With illumination she opens the panel over the window built into the main entry/exit hatch.

  In the depths of space, she spots the construction web scaffolding surrounding an incomplete craft. Orbiting near it are smaller ships. Construction robots dissect them with plasma torches. They cannibalize other ships to complete the much larger one.

  The chittering Scalterrian drops into the pod. Amye grabs her forcing her to glance out the window.

  “What the smerth are they doing?”

  Among her chitters the word “scavengers” manifests itself.

  “Those are ships from people who are dropped in the mine?”

  The Scalterrian nods yes and chitters the word “dead.”

  “So they lure the already unscrupulous here, indebt them, have them die earning funds in the mine or die in the Dracon Arena. With no one to claim their ships, they cannibalize them.” They’d have a field day with the advanced tech on the Dragon and the living skin that absorbs plasma bolts. “They are already pirates. Why build such a hodgepodge ship?”

  The Scalterrian chitters and makes an “I don’t know” gesture.

  “I have to warn Reynard.”

  Amye runs her hand over the smooth and unbroken wall to the left of the main hatch until she clicks a spot. A cabinet door opens revealing a hidden compartment. Inside are mining tools including a real pickaxe and breathing masks. She grabs the mask.

  “Close that escape hatch,” Amye orders the Scalterrian.

  “What are you doing?” the tube alien calls from the mine.

  “I’m going out to notify my crew of this trap. You do whatever.” She adjusts the mask to fit her face. “Use your computer skills to activate this pod and search for the mineral or use these real tools to dig. Smerth. I have to warn my people.”

  “Osirians are so selfish.”

  “Smerth’n hell! You used me because I was fresh to dig. I got you in here. We’re even.” Amye slams the escape hatch herself.

  The Scalterrian chitters at a much higher frequent tone. She lunges at Amye, who slams her into the pilot chair. “Press this button after I close the hatch to repressurize the room,” Amye points.

  She twists the handle. The air seals hiss-pop as they release. Air rushes from the pod. “You’ll be better off in a minute. The air reloaded into the pod will be fresh.”

  Chitters fade from Amye’s ears as the air thins. The loss of pressure pops her ears, and she slides the mask over her nose before all of the atmosphere escapes.

  Amye crawls outside. The cold bites her exposed arms. She slams the hatch closed and twists the handle securing it. Bolts from the pod. After three paces the thin air slows her to a jog and exertion on her lungs forces her to stop. She’ll have to travel slow, conserving her air. She hugs herself stroking her hands up and down triceps to stimulate circulation. The breather draws in much-needed oxygen, but there’s just enough in the thin atmosphere to fill the alveoli in order to run. She keeps in the starlight for little warmth as she marches back to the casino entrance.

  TWO MEN ENTER, one man leaves—

  The only choice JarBok gave—face off against the thief in the arena—or fight his way to the entrance of the casino with no weapons.

  He drops a duffel bag at JC’s feet, handing her his jacket. “I’m going to want that back.”

  She leans in as to kiss him on the cheek and slips a thought in his mind: She’s been in the arena before.

  He nods, glancing at the armband they put on her.

  It’s broken.

  After the kerfuffle no one bothered to check that JC still couldn’t read minds. In an arena where anyone randomly adds obstacles based on what they want to bet, how useful are her skills? He understood most of JarBok’s explanation of the combat as he changed into the blue spandex suit.

  They escort his subordinate away and direct him to stand on a floor tile.

  The tile gives way, and Reynard slides down before a shut door. Blocks like a track runner would use are lighted at his feet. He locks the strange boots into the grooved places for them.

  Cheers of the crowd echo around him.

  An announcer booms, “Place your bets! Place your bets! We have for you an Osirian mercenary who claims a Dunderian girl stole from him. Osirian vs. Dunderian. As always, those of you in the booths increase the dangers of the arena by your bets. Keep it sporting! Wager on life expectancy. The greater the risk, the higher the winnings!”

  And dead one of us has to be. No just reaching the end. Blood’s demanded. Reynard hears JarBok’s voice.

  A second of flaying arms before Reynard understands he was propelled through the air by the track blocks. He recovers his wits and shoulder rolls upon impact with the ground. He pops up to his feet with as much flair as he can muster. The crowd roars with approval.

  The expelled female Dunderian lands with more grace. She understands the arena’s procedure, or she’s just nimble. A pickpocket would have to be. Her lavender jumpsuit reveals a well-defined muscular hourglass figure.

  She’s no weakling and could outrun me with those gazelle legs. Reynard bolts for the end of the arena. It looks to be the length of a football field.

  The whirl of a tile opening forces him to spin around. A lavender cutlass pops through the floor. Reynard’s on it before she reaches it. He grips the handle and yanks nearly sending himself to the ground as the sword fails to move.

  The crowd roars turn to laughs.

  He recalls, Someone bet this weapon for her. Everything lavender’s for her! Where’s my crew? Why haven’t they sent me assistance? He abandons the sword and races for the exit.

  The Dunderian scoops up the blade waving it above her head to the shouts of the crowd.

  His crew would bet him a comparable weapon. The crowd chants, “Crackle, Crackle, Crackle!”

  The woman’s name. They know her by name! That can’t be healthy. Reynard keeps up his pace for the door. They delay the arrival of obstacles so the betting increases among the proletariat. He realizes this as he hears the grind of the tile spinning open. A blue gladius shines on a pillar.

  Beggars can’t be choosers. Anyone who thinks sword fighting with any style sword is the same has never held one. The two-foot-long, one-handed Romanesque weapon wields completely different than the two-handed, thirty-inch katana-style weapon he trained with for a year to use as if it were a part of his arm.

  He blocks the swing of her cutlass with the gladius. She has more of a reach and has power behind her blows. Clearly trained in blade combat, she wields the weapon in a fashion to utilize the extra length to push Reynard back. He’ll have to endanger himself in a close quarter attack to disarm her.

  Pillars of flame burst through five tiles surrounding them. The heat sends beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. The flames are distant enough not to completely cook them but from the crowd’s vantage point they appear to increase the danger—increasing the betting.

  Unable to change hands despite his slick wet palm wielding, Reynard should drive her into a tower of flames, but instead he slides back on his feet. His boot disperses weight on the next tile.

  A pillar propels upward so fast Reynard finds himself flung forward. His sword slides across the floor. Crackle, with no chivalric intent, pounces. The quick clean slice happens too fast for his nervous system to even note he has a gash on his left abdomen. Blood splashes on the arena floor. Warm liquid soaks his jumpsuit. It needs stiches or bacterium foam on the Dragon. He has a worse scar on his leg from a bar
bed-wire fence.

  She has to move in close to execute next cut. The crowd loves it. Someone won a lot on a first-blood bet. Reynard focuses on her. She had to move within his arm’s reach to draw the cutlass across his skin. She deliberately didn’t provide a killing stroke. Reynard understands she purposely cut him to make him bleed. Crackle must have partners to bet. Scamming those arena gamblers.

  Reynard loses any reservations about hitting a girl. She dances back after making her cut. He balls his fist completing a punch hard enough to brake her jaw.

  Dunderians have a hard facial structure. A boxer’s fracture sets his arm ablaze with pain.

  Even if his punch had little effect on her, it does send her off-balance allowing him the seconds he needs to retrieve the gladius.

  Other options appear further down the arena field. Two platforms rise, one of blue and one of lavender. Reynard desires a sword he’s used most effectively, even though the Old Maestro explained to him a great warrior learns to master any weapon within his environment. A sword may not always be within reach. It can be taken away. He would raise the stump where his lower right arm was to illustrate that point.

  Reynard wraps his fingers around the hilt. It’s not his sword, not his style—adapt.

  Crackle smashes her blade into Reynard’s. He barely has time to block, parry before returning a thrust which she counters with ease. He has to adapt to the shorter length first. This weapon lacks the reach of his katana and forces him to change his natural stance and arm movements.

  Wild slashes pour out of him. Crackle finds herself leaping back, but with a few seconds of study she slips her cutlass between the downward cuts and snips the fibers of Reynard’s arm sleeve.

  The pinprick wakes him. No matter what the blade he trained under, it isn’t its length—it is the form. Let the sword become part of your arm, part of your body, become your soul. The Old Maestro’s words replay in his mind. Reynard blocks the cutlass on its next thrust, twists the gladius so it catches her sword. Her wrist bends at an uncomfortable angle weakening her grip, before he flings both weapons away. Reynard holds onto his hilt. The cutlass sails across the arena tumbling over the tiles.