Enter the Sandmen

by William Schlichter

  Reynard secures his gun belt into place, instantly missing the weight of his weapon on his hip, “Even certain doom doesn’t stop the clear thinking of a Calthos warrior.”

  “Osirians rush too fast. You must consider all.”

  “Go with Scott. We search for an hour, then meet at the entrance.”

  Joe bows to his sword brother before escorting the engineer from the arena section.

  “You feel her?” Reynard whispers.

  “Whatever Crackle’s companion did to the band, it freed me of the suppression med, but I’m unable to sense Amye’s thoughts over thousands of others.”

  “We need the Dragon scanners.”

  “Crackle’s friend may be hunting us as well as the Tibbar,” JC adds.

  “She doesn’t have claws and teeth designed to tear the hide off of other dinosaurs.”

  “You cannot ignore the danger she offers.”

  “I’m not ignoring it. Just shifting her to the back burner.” Reynard’s eyes follow a reptiliod spotting a white sequined jumpsuit and dark human hair. “No way.”

  “Did you spot the Tibbar?”

  “No, but I’m pretty sure I know what happened to Elvis.”

  “You and your outdated cultural references,” JC rolls her eyes.

  “It works both ways. I’ve no idea what most references you guys make other than the Twin Suns.”

  Even with constant observation, the perpetual sporadic flashing of all the game lights on the casino floor make it impossible to track every alien that could be a threat to them. Other distractions draw his attention as well. The nearly naked Aurulent slaves serving drinks have lost their appeal as eye candy. Reynard reconsiders as his eyes shift from a pair of exposed breasts to a blaster barrel. He follows the barrel to a man who, if he didn’t know better, he would swear was an olive-skinned Snake Plissken—down to the eye patch. The man sports reptile skin pants and a vest that looks like Tibbar hide. Most mercs would choose to wear something woven with the plasma reflective fibers; however, Tibbar skin comes with it an impressive natural barricade accepting hits from many lower-powered blasters.

  “Weapons aren’t allowed in here.” Reynard gives his best lost tourist whine.

  “I caught your performance in the arena. Osirians make poor operatives.” He jerks the gun, motioning Reynard to move away from witnesses.

  “You look Osirian,” Reynard snaps.

  “He’s not. I’m unable to read his mind.” JC scans the area he leads them into. It seems to be an unobserved corner where a gaming machine was removed.

  “You’re inhibited, witch.” He shifts the gun barrel toward JC. “But you couldn’t even if it was off.”

  “It’s off. You going to report me with your hand on a gun?”

  “A sense of humor to go with your assets.” He waves the gun at JC’s nearly exposed areolas. “You’ve your tricks and I’ve mine, but the distraction of a practically naked female loses its appeal here with so many to choose from.”

  “Distracting men with cleavage doesn’t require a woman to be telepathic to read their mind,” she grins.

  He laughs.

  “Are you going to mug us or what?”

  “You’ve so much to learn, Commander.”

  JC notices, “You’ve lost an eye since your vignette was issued.”

  A low growl accompanies his speech, “If the bounty on me’s been activated, it’s a signal the Admiral’s been taken.”

  “No one could kidnap a vice-presidential admiral from the UCP,” JC protests.

  “I would agree, at least without the onset of an inner planetary war. But our fearless leader likes to oversee many of his black bag operations personally. He hates sending people to do the dirty jobs necessary to keep the UCP safe unless he’s willing to get dirty himself.”

  Reynard deduces, “No one knows he’s missing.”

  “I doubt it. He arranged for this bounty ploy, so his trusted agents could find each other and him if he were to disappear.”

  “I doubt he counted on the Tibbar accepting such consignments,” JC remarks.

  “This is all well and good, but how do we trust you? How do we know you’re the real Hauser?” Reynard asks.

  “You should be quicker in asking such a question, Commander. You’ve a lot more trust than an Osirian should in this business.” He flicks the wrist of his unfilled hand, and a credit card appears.

  Reynard snags it and slips it to JC.

  “Activating this bounty was Maxtin’s way of activating his employees, notifying them he’s seized while he’s off the grid.”

  JC examines the card, “If someone took a vice-presidential admiral from the UCP, the Subspace Netscape would explode with news and speculation on his capture.”

  “Not if he wasn’t taken from UCP territory. You’re such newbs. Maxtin’s unable to stay away from the trenches, kiddies. He has to be involved in the action. He was undercover and off-world when he disappeared.”

  “How do you know this?”

  Hauser waves the gun inviting them to follow. He marches down the corridor, his back to Reynard leaving him vulnerable to attack.

  Reynard considers this an act of trust from Hauser.

  Hauser leads them past room after room of aliens in the throes of depraved sexual acts with other aliens not of their species. Just like Doug explained with the jackers, these humanoids seek pleasures forbidden on their home world. Reynard’s not sure what some of these humanoids are doing that’s abnormal other than fornication with a different species. Even with so many humanoids congregating with each other across the known galaxy, many are still intolerant of Osirians and interspecies mating.

  On his own world the drive for political correctness and sparing of feelings removed the term half-breed from many people’s vocabulary, but the expression brings disdain upon many. Making these seemingly normal sex acts so taboo and taboo brings excitement. So as long as no half-breeds are conceived these people harm no one.

  JC’s eyes roll back into her skull as her face melts into pure ecstasy. She experiences every moment of pleasure from so many of these aliens that she moans in a moment of climax.

  Reynard shoots her a concerned look and realizes his companion’s unable to stop the overwhelming flood of emotions soaking into her brain.

  Hauser leads them to the only closed door in the chamber of forbidden pleasures. He takes the card back from JC in order to open the door.

  Once inside he locks it. “I don’t care how off-the-grid this place is. I still wouldn’t use my DNA card. Some genius hacker could still find you.”

  Flushed, JC falls into the legless chair suspended from the ceiling by wires. She fans her face with her hand. “Too many minds surging with pleasure thoughts. I couldn’t keep them all out.”

  “The reason I hid them here,” Hauser explains.

  Reynard shoots JC a curious glance, unsure what the mercenary means. It reminds him of exam day and he didn’t know there was a test or even a class he should have attended.

  Hauser mashes the door release on the closet and two bound and gagged humanoids in UCP cadet uniforms slump to the floor. “I found these two on Summersun. Apparently the Admiral was to meet with you and add them to your team. They informed me Maxtin was also in accompaniment of another Zayar.”

  “Impossible. It would draw attention.” JC realizes, “Zayars never leave their home world.

  “Exactly.”

  Reynard should understand why this information brightens the room, but he doesn’t. “Why?”

  “Zayars are isolationists. For there to be two of them off-world attracts more attention than any secret operation would warrant. Luckily, they all look alike, so I doubt anyone realizes one was the Admiral.”

  JC glazes over the two contusion- and abrasion-covered cadets. She kneels next to them and waves her hand over their foreheads. “They are UCP cadets, Commander,” she reports. “They don’t know Hauser. He snatched them from Summersun.”

  Reynard’s
hand instinctively reaches for his magnum only to find the empty holster.

  Hauser raises his gun again as a reminder. “Easy, lad. They didn’t want to come quietly, so I had to…persuade them. I couldn’t have witnesses. They would report the missing Admiral and blow his cover. They were meant for your crew.”

  “There’s still the matter of the bounty activation.”

  “The one on me is not real. It’s a signal code broadcast on open channels.”

  “We didn’t know it wasn’t accurate.”

  The two bound and gagged cadets attempt escape. Within a second JC dumps the female to the floor on her rump while Reynard twists the male into a restraint hold, allowing him to have access to the back of his left hand. Reynard fights through the pain of his fractured hand. Five minutes in the Dragon’s medical bay—

  “What should we do with them?” JC asks.

  Reynard runs a scanner over the implanted DNA bar. The entire personal history of the cadet prints out on the scanner screen. Reynard activates the holography display and reads the information while keeping the aggressor pinned.

  “UCP Academy Senior Cadet Mark Calrissian,” Reynard reads. “This is why I don’t have one of these things. His entire life story just scans in an instant.”

  “Removes the need to torture for information,” Joe’s tone suggests malice, but Reynard assumes it’s a bluff to instill fear. Not that a seven-foot-tall four-armed Calthos warrior with swords would scare anyone. “You’ve been reassigned to special operations for advanced training under one of Admiral Maxtin’s extraordinary programs.”

  JC releases the manacles on the female cadet first. She rubs her wrists.

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Leahla.” She has no trust for the woman who releases the gag in her mouth. “Don’t you dare scan me, telepath.”

  “I won’t.” JC nods at her.

  Reynard pulls Mark to his feet. “Why did Maxtin assign you?”

  The male cadet raises his hand, pleading for his cuffs to be released. JC yanks off his gag.

  Upset with the disrespect of not placing his rank before his surname, Mark sneers at Reynard, “Admiral Maxtin…”

  “Look, kid. I get the respect of rank. You need to drop the attitude with me and learn real quick that identifying your commanding officer on a mission will get him killed. You salute the Admiral in the field and a watching sniper will paint your face with his brains.”

  “You’re my assignment, sir. I’m here to instruct you in Mecat combat,” Mark explains.

  “First, we’ve got to recover the admiral.” Reynard faces the mercenary.

  “Do you mean to collect that bounty?” Hauser adds, “Because I mean to prevent you.”

  “Any man brazen enough to wear Tibbar hide would be difficult to apprehend.”

  “Smerth’n near impossible,” Hauser assures them.

  “Not for a Calthos warrior,” Reynard tucks the pain of his hand away. In about five seconds on the Dragon it will be as if it never happened.

  “I don’t see one of those here.”

  Joe snags the gun from Hauser’s hand.

  “The beauty of a Calthos warrior is your encounter’s over and they’ve killed you.”

  Joe keeps the weapon.

  “I’m on your side. We both want to find the Admiral. I know of your crew’s involvement with his operations. I was his backup on Summersun; if it went to hell he’d activate the bounty to call in other operatives. I wait here until one of his team attempts collection. One of your squad should know the Admiral’s protocols.”

  “We’ve been following the Admiral’s orders on several clandestine operations. He’s never informed me of these secret protocols. Even Ki-Ton never said…” Even the most secretive of the secretive could be mistaken as a local comrade. Ki-Ton’s unwillingness to trust the crew could be more than just his intelligence training. Reynard meets JC’s eyes. She either felt his thought or had the same one.

  Reynard realizes he must ask: “When did Admiral Maxtin go missing?”

  “By the UCP Time Codes, better part of two weeks. It took me that long to investigate on Summersun and return here with those two to prevent them from revealing the disappearance.”

  “You’ve kept these cadets secured for two weeks?”

  Reynard’s confused face sparks JC to answer an unasked question, “Right after the weapons delivery, Commander.”

  “The timetable’s NOT correct.”

  “The cadets will confirm when Maxtin was taken,” Hauser says.

  Hauser notes that any stoicism the cadets attempt becomes lost in inexperienced poker faces, “You haven’t been with Maxtin’s organization long.”

  “We thought we’ve been following the Admiral’s orders.” Reynard balls his fist until his knuckles whiten. The ensuing pain gives him something else to focus on.

  “Calm, sword brother.”

  Hauser’s eyes widen as he takes a pre-emptive step back from the Commander. He has faced the skill of a Calthos warrior in his past and realizes this Osirian has been trained by someone matching his own skills. “You’re a sword brother…to the Calthos?”

  “I survived their training.”

  “I know of no off-worlders fitting into such a category.”

  “We share our teaching with only those who are worthy,” Joe bows low before handing Hauser back his weapon.

  “You maintain your honor. Most Calthos I’ve encountered do not.”

  Joe’s face never changes. “Traveling off-world was forbidden.”

  “Just because it’s forbidden doesn’t stop people. Even among your honored race.”

  “You boys are losing focus,” JC interrupts. “The queen didn’t know you were coming, and as for the death of the politician...”

  “We murdered a man in cold blood. We’ve been removing Maxtin’s allies from the playing board,” Reynard snaps.

  “You helped the queen save her daughter. Whatever devious desires were planned were thwarted when the queen didn’t die.”

  “The bounty on Hauser did offer the reward for his death as well.”

  “Dead’s not my color,” he says as he raises the blaster just an inch. “And Maxtin’s bounty with the retrieval code would never want me dead. If I’m dead, I can’t rescue the Admiral.”

  “Lower the blaster. It won’t help. I’m finished killing under the Admiral’s orders.” Reynard demands, “Where’s Maxtin?”

  “I thought the other Zayar absconded with him, based on what the kids reported. Only the Zayars care nothing for galaxy politics.”

  “Maxtin was seen with a second Zayar.” JC grows concerned. “Impossible.”

  “Even if true, someone else has used the Admiral’s absence to manipulate us.”

  “But only those of us in this room even know he’s missing,” Hauser speculates.

  “Trace the Admiral’s next transmission?”

  “Doug would be qualified,” JC reminds her captain.

  “No, I want you. In this room we’re the only people who know we’re dealing with an imposter.”

  “Or a traitor within the crew.” Joe completes aloud what Reynard was thinking.

  “Everyone was assigned by Maxtin, except for your sword brother, myself, and Amye,” JC points out.

  “Doug wasn’t assigned. I retrieved him from prison, but he was suggested by Maxtin. I was looking for a telepath when I met you, and I rescued Amye from a rock slide. All too random of events for a person to plan an insertion into the crew.”

  “You were sent for Scott when you met Amye,” JC reminds him.

  “No way was she a plant. If I didn’t discover her, she’d still be buried under that rock slide.”

  “Someone Maxtin trusted,” Joe insisted.

  “Or someone turned after they joined. It’s been known to happen. The other side finally offered a bigger piece,” JC says.

  “Enough. Whoever’s behind this wants us not to trust each other.”

  DOUG SECURES THE t
ie-down strap to the metal grate floor in the center of the Silver Dragon’s cargo bay. Once he has the line taut, he jogs down the landing ramp.

  Bringing up a cable, he attaches it to a winch. He activates the lever. The whirl of pulleys turning echoes across the cargo hold. Reynard forbids anyone on board the Dragon but crew. Doug must load the massive holoemersion unit alone. Once assembled the apparatus allows the crew to live in a virtual reality world. Doug splurged on the deluxe package, adding several tons to the ship’s manufactured weight. With the second deck rarely utilized, no one will notice the extra rooms the machine commandeers once he figures out how to get these crates into the elevator.

  As the crates teeter on the ramp to the cargo bay floor, muffled squeals catch Doug’s sensitive hearing. He spins around, wishing he had drawn his blaster in the movement, but an incorrect choice allows Ki-Ton to fire a blaster with a third arm.

  Doug dives behind the crate as the super-heated energy ball screams past his position. Thud—the landing pushes air from his lungs, forcing him to need a moment to breathe again. His brain accesses the recorder built into the cyberjack, now a permanent part of his anatomy. A freeze frame image flashes over his eyes.

  He did spot Ki-Ton carrying a shackled princess with bound hands. Upon encountering Doug, a third arm grew from his side to draw the holstered blaster. Doug always knew Ki-Ton wasn’t an Osirian, but hiding a fully developed third appendage would be difficult.

  Doug’s lungs refill as he grabs his weapon. He twists the end of the barrel in order to adjust the beam strength before jerking up to fire.

  Two energy beams splinter the cargo crate before Doug clears his own weapon to fire. He slams against the floor again. A third energy ball burns through the cable wrenching the crate inside.

  Twang!

  The crate crashes down the ramp, removing Doug’s cover. He fires.

  Ki-Ton avoids the intense beam of sound with reflexes no Osirians have.

  Doug aims.

  One step—Ki-Ton stands next to him. A fourth arm grows from his side, reaching for Doug’s weapon.

  Doug scrambles for the open hole in the Silver Dragon’s hull, fall-rolling down the ramp.

  “I’ve no time for this.”