Enter the Sandmen

by William Schlichter

  “Where do you get unworthy?” Saltāl questions.

  “In what little I’ve been able to translate of the religious speech, ‘unworthy’ is a constant in the lectures. All, but the Mokarran, are unworthy.”

  “Most religious dogma creates scapegoats.”

  “It’s more than finger pointing at the cause of problems for the Mokarran. It’s something else. Sometimes it scares me.”

  “I’ve been utilizing this maintenance tunnel,” Saltāl steps aside.

  Nytalyan climbs in. She brushes her fingers over a silver insulation covering a small section of tunnel. “What substance covers these walls?”

  “The padding prevents radiation from penetrating a spacecraft,” he explains.

  Her fingers stroke the texture of lots of seams. Fragmented pieces shoved and glued together to make a larger piece. “You put this here?”

  “I’ve a friend who works on the shuttles who enjoys sporting events from Circtrus IX. So I pirate record them. He smuggles me the scrap insulation from the shuttles he builds.”

  “The Mokarran will kill you.”

  “If they catch us, but like you said, we’ll need proof—recorded proof. I’ll need a place to store the information. They scan and find nothing. The insulation hides whatever’s in the tunnel.”

  “Are you sure?” Saltāl seems unconvinced.

  “I’m sure. You stash your recording equipment in here. Less chance they find it.”

  “They find it; they will kill you.”

  “You’re recoding the Mokarran because you fear what they are doing. I memorized the death reports of non-Mokarran and constructed this chamber for the same reason.”

  “You think there are more of us?” Nytalyan asks.

  “Others have to notice what the Mokarran are doing, but fear speaking out.”

  “How do we know who to trust?”

  “We don’t,” Saltāl admits. “We find those suspicions and we bring them in. Pool our information. We’ll need a communications officer.”

  “Once it’s collected, what do we do with this knowledge?”

  “The Throgen Empire lacks interest in the citizen of the planets it rules. The United Confederation of Planets could be our best option with the intelligence we gather.”

  “THEY REMOVED YOUR tenure when I left Zayous?” Confounded by this news, Maxtin’s unsure what to say to Professor Emuukha.

  “They felt I would inspire others to rebellious behaviors.”

  “I cost you your career.”

  “No. I cost myself. I spoke to you about the galaxy in such a way to inspire you. If the current administration considered it an unfavorable position—I must have been doing my job. They want teachers to open the minds of the youth, but as soon as we lead you to question the status quo, they’re unable to handle it. Progression is only for those seeking power. Once they have it, they don’t want anyone to question what they have and no one else does.”

  “On the surface, you’re able to influence so few.”

  “I would be complaining about such cramped quarters on one of those star cruisers when they are perfectly good planets to colonize in the galaxy. Placing me on the surface prevents me from revealing our current planetary situation.”

  “I share responsibility.”

  “Don’t. You’ve gone on to a greatness I never thought possible—president of an entire planetary alliance.”

  “I am one of five presidents of a confederation.”

  “As opposed to a federation. Technical defining terms, both are groups brought together under a defined purpose. Confederation simply gives more of an illusion of retaining control of their own internal affairs.”

  “We let planets control their own citizens.”

  “Outside the Riftgate, but to gain access inside, you have specific standards.”

  “I won’t be founder to a welfare state. Citizens inside must have employment—one of your lessons.”

  “What jobs are most prevalent for those untrained?”

  “We train our military. All they do is train. My most experienced soldiers last saw combat thirty years ago.”

  “An army of green soldiers to throw at battle-hardened Mokarran.”

  “My concerns are growing along with an influx of faulty weapons being marketed as Interplanetary Mining Corporation specialties.”

  “The IMC would never allow such a blemish. It only provides customers with the best.”

  “So its fees prove,” Maxtin agrees.

  “The UCP lacks its own weapons factories? The economic benefits would outweigh the extra quality the IMC puts into their weapons.”

  “Contractually, UCP weapons are not allowed outside UCP space.”

  “The armistice treaty prevents providing such weapons to those engaged in rebellious activities against the Mokarran, not if I wish to keep the UCP out of the war.”

  Emuukha understands his former pupil’s ploy. “Maxtin, stop leaving UCP space. Someone will tie you to those actions, and your impeachment will help no one.”

  “Deception and misdirection—useful in the political game.”

  “Fabrication and appeasement also bring about results.”

  “The citizenry feel war will appease them. Revenge has become the growing motivating factor among the new and young citizens.”

  “Introducing the entire Zayar species would balance that out. We don’t want a war with the Mokarran.”

  “Those votes will negate war favor.”

  “Maxtin, you did learn. You lose nothing by this. You become a hero to those who wanted the Zayar in the UCP. You keep controlling votes, and anyone who opposes you doesn’t lose face because you didn’t directly defeat them.”

  “I plan my strategies. No pawns wasted. Nothing left to chance.”

  “This entire Zayous affair as well?”

  “I simply turned this to my advantage. I was unaware of the planet’s pollution status. I could have had the needed cleansing chemical ship in under guise.”

  “Too much could still draw in speculation. The Mokarran never knew how vulnerable we are.”

  “Once the official announcements of Zayous joining the UCP are made, I’ll have a large shipment of several needed trade items sent in. Qarban R16 will be included. With steady trade practice engaged, most won’t recognize…”

  “They might recognize Zayous doesn’t export.”

  “Historically, they didn’t in the past, so fresh supplies won’t raise eyebrows. Even self-sufficient planets import.”

  “An entirely new generation of people are in power positions after thirty years. They won’t remember how Zayar used to be.”

  ••••••

  “THE COUNCIL AGREED to this?”

  Thierry escorts Maxtin from The Conclave.

  “In thirty years they’ve been unable to clean enough of the surface to make returning a viable consideration.” Maxtin shakes his head. “They’ve forced everyone to live on battle cruisers and regulated all birthrates.”

  “To evacuate one of those battle cruisers will displace thousands.”

  “They’re only allotting me the smallest battle cruiser in the fleet,” Maxtin says.

  “The Celesta. I doubt it will match a newest Mokarran battle cruiser.”

  “The Mokarran have an innate fear of Zayars. They won’t take a risk challenging even the smallest of our ships. I want them in fear of our weakest ship. Celesta displaces the least number of people, and The Conclave’s in agreement to open an embassy on Parliament.”

  “A full staff of Zayars could give a thousand a new home.” Thierry releases a grin.

  “I have access to the chemical Qarban R16. It should expand the dome enough to allow some resettlements.”

  “To remove one in a thousand will give so many breathing space.” Thierry asks, “How many are on the Celesta?”

  “A thousand. If I fail, their displacement will be permanent.”

  “A gamble, but life for those on the battle cruisers must
be at a breaking point for them to authorize this.”

  “A part of our nature is to be deceptive. I offer them a straight solution, and they assume I have ulterior motives,” Maxtin reaches the airlock door.

  “Ulterior motives are in our nature.” Thierry offers his hand to the Admiral. “I’ve more Qarban R16 to collect until we are officially part of the UCP.”

  Maxtin grips his captor’s hand.

  ••••••

  THE CELESTA’S AIRLOCK releases. Dozens of Zayars with duffel packs push past the Admiral. None of them demonstrate respect with a proper glance into his eyes.

  Professor Emuukha greets his pupil, “Admiral, meet Captain Quiqui.”

  “You’ve been reassigned.”

  “Yes, Admiral, transferred due to my previous engagements against the Mokarran.”

  “Before the Battle of the Twin Suns?”

  “Your entire crew faced the Mokarran—all one hundred of us.”

  A skeleton crew. The base number to operate this ship. The Conclave had its own motivations in supporting me. Maxtin realizes he was played for the first time since he was elected.

  “My first officer, Xiuhcoatl.”

  He salutes.

  “Xiuhcoatl?” Maxtin recognizes the name, “The Xiuhcoatl who spoke for supporting the Osirians before the Battle of the Twin Suns?”

  “I was politically active until my recent military reinstatement.”

  “You fought against the Mokarran?”

  “During the Colm border system skirmish.”

  “Skirmish. One medium-class Zayar cruiser destroyed three Mokarran heavy battle cruisers.”

  “I was a helmsman on the Sadiya then, Sir. We only destroyed two.”

  “Propaganda then.”

  “No, Admiral. Reinforcements arrived and helped dispatch the third. After the battle the Sadiya spent eight months in dry dock for repairs.”

  “Captain Quiqui, experienced as your crew must be, are all—”

  “Outspoken,” Quiqui answers Before Maxtin is able to ask. “The Conclave has seen fit to give you a ship. All on this ship have been vocal about supporting the UCP.”

  “You as well, Emuukha?”

  “They want me out.”

  “No respect for the wisdom from a renowned professor.”

  “My station will be on the Celesta,” Emuukha says. “They’re afraid with my knowledge of political science, history, and government I might rally all the disillusioned aboard the battle cruisers to take action. Why else would I be on the planet’s surface breathing air better reserved for someone who might discover a solution to the chemical plague?”

  “The same holds true for the manifest of your Celesta crew,” Captain Quiqui admits.

  “They want us to lose. It will tarnish the reputation of the fleet the Mokarran fear.”

  “I’ve examined intelligence of the Summersun military. Assisting the Deliverance will lead to victory.”

  “Not without causalities.”

  “I remember why I never returned home,” Maxtin says.

  “Killed in the line of duty remains a high honor among our people.”

  “Then we shall honor our government. Are they going to staff the UCP embassy with such deviants as they consigned to this crew?”

  “We wouldn’t want anyone staffing our first embassy to embarrass The Conclave.” Professor Emuukha adds, “Admiral, allow me to show you to your quarters.”

  “Captain Quiqui, there have to be more than one hundred people upsetting The Conclave. You need more than a skeleton crew.”

  Quiqui nods.

  “You want insubordinates under your command?”

  Professor Emuukha seals the door to the single unit living quarters. “Maxtin, don’t trust those penalized for speaking out. Some would sell you out to return to The Conclave’s good graces or to be banished to the Zayous surface.”

  “Nothing’s changed.” Maxtin sniffs the air. “How many people were assigned to this room?”

  “Family of four. They were lucky to have this much space.”

  “A colonization of a new planet would fix this.”

  “Have you ever known our government to do what was best for the masses?”

  “Even a full staff of Zayars at the embassy won’t alleviate these numbers.”

  “The embassy staffing will ensconce the reason for why shuttles are going between the UCP and Zayous. Every Zayar we get off a ship restores us. Trust me, one less person in line for the shower use will be noticed.”

  “Needed a medium cruiser.”

  “You would have shoved some thirty thousand people onto other ships.”

  “The embassy’s capacity maxes at thousand. Some could join the Academy,” Maxtin offers.

  “A few might, but Zayars don’t mingle well with off-worlders.”

  “This venture will establish a presence. Saber rattle, nothing more.”

  “You won’t fail. Adding the Celesta to your military action should magnify your original plan.”

  Maxtin activates the computer screen on the wall. He displays a map of Zayous. Using his finger, he scrolls until the dome appears. “What’s the closest city to the dome?”

  “Melentia.”

  “A quiet fishing village—a hundred miles away from the domed area.”

  “It was home to some fifty thousand and not many fish. They will send all original residents home first and fill in any civil gaps until staffed. They’ll shuffle around citizens until they have one battle cruiser strictly for military,” Emuukha explains.

  “A colony reduces the drain on all the ships by removing thousands of people at once.”

  “They are making some kind of play, Maxtin. Something even you’re unable to outthink. They want their fleet back, and not to protect a new world. Logically, retribution on the Mokarran. If Zayous joins the UCP, they may lead you into war.”

  “Why is everyone so quick to want war?”

  “I have written more dissertations on the subject than we have ships in our combat fleet. In our case it would be cold-hearted revenge. We stopped war on our own planet once we sponsored population control.”

  “I remember the ‘The Corden Flies lecture.’ The cube of food you placed in their jar every day could feed ten flies. Anytime they had an eleventh member they killed the most vulnerable insect.”

  “Remember, it wasn’t always a baby fly.”

  “Sometimes they killed the old one, or the maimed, or the sick,” Maxtin says.

  “I speculate this acceptance of UCP help was because we are reaching the end of our food cubes and no one is ready to select the most vulnerable, or in our case, decide who has become undesirable in our current situation.

  FEAR—THE MOST DANGEROUS of human emotions. Throughout all his training with the Calthos warriors he never witnessed any among them. They are instilled to control fear from birth. Their techniques never involved dealing with a spaceship crash. His sword master would never concern himself with what crisis introduced fear, but instead to focus on the training—escape the crisis. Sucking in toxic air panics his brain. He closes his mouth and exhales. The lack of breathable air takes away his ability to calm his brain. He smells and tastes the pollutants as they consume the artificial atmosphere. He must get off the bridge.

  Blue lightning swims through the Dragon’s control panels. Tendrils of electrical arc seem to hang in the air for hours before they dance to the next panel, sending up plumes of green sparks and more coils of electricity. Streams of blue lightning strike some of the crew, sending them into convulsions, jerking like a skipping LP record.

  Reynard moves his hand to unlock the seatbelt. The strangest sensations overwhelm him as azure sparks dance across his fingernails.

  So much for being a leaf on the wind…

  Breathe—find complete relaxation.

  The seconds last forever.

  The lights flash off.

  Reynard understands they are going to crash. No matter how many alternative plan
s his mind contemplates, none of them will halt the impact of the lake on the view screen—nothing. None of his training gives him the ability to prevent a crash when a ship loses all power. He notes the Dragon has no air bags to cushion his fall. He places his open palm on the harness—locked on his chest. He prepares for the onslaught of impact.

  The seconds stretch.

  He opens his mouth to order the crew to brace for impact.

  Hours past from the time darkness consumes the bridge—smash.

  The harness pulls Reynard into the formfitting seat cushions. The concussion jars through him. Deflating his lungs. His limbs flail, but he stays in his chair. Seconds pass as hours and Reynard wonders how his crew will withstand the trauma.

  Even in pitch black, he understands the Dragon impacted the lake and slid forward, resting with a lean to the left. Reynard forces his mind to grasp an escape and how to find the air he needs in the complete blackness of the Dragon.

  Emergency light.

  Emergency lights should come on. Reynard’s thoughts are replaced by swimming worry about asphyxiation. Drowning in a soiled container of poison was not the way he planned to die. His brain demands viable oxygen in trade for an escape plan.

  A cold mouthpiece presses past his lips and against his teeth. Reynard opens to remove the pressure. He bites the rubbery tip. Within two gulps, cleaner air pumps into his lungs. Amye’s frame basks in an angelic glow, as if she were a savior from the heavens. She gropes between Reynard’s legs, leaving him with a quick “this is not the time or place to rub my crotch” moment. His erotic thoughts are smashed as she yanks free an aerosol canister to spray fire suppression foam on the flames growing from a comm panel behind her. Within a half a minute the bridge returns to obscurity as valuable air molecules are sustained.

  The fire gives him a brief moment of illumination, revealing a cooked mess. His crew appears no better. Amye is using the ocular lens of her headset as night-vision goggles. An act of brilliance in this crisis. The personal air breathers for thinner atmospheric planets—a stroke of genius on her part.

  “They won’t help long. Shorten the breathable air supply. They suck out oxygen.” She explains, “A captain would want an assessment of resources, air and light being a priority.”