by Ellis,Tripp
Massive crowds gathered in the streets, waiting for their new King to address them. As each moment passed, Davvel’s heart beat faster. He could hear his pulse rushing through his veins. He wrapped his finger around the trigger and lined the palace balcony up in his sites.
Sweat was beading on his forehead. His collar felt a little tight.
Valinok finally emerged—the crown firmly upon his head. The coronation had taken place. He was the King of Saarkturia. The crowd erupted with cheers. The new King strolled across the terrace to address his people.
Davvel’s scope locked on to the target. With polymer cased sub-sonic smart rounds, it was almost impossible to miss. He was about to fire a lethal round when the office door burst open. A tactical response team flooded the room.
BAM!
A bullet ripped through the air, shattering Davvel’s skull before he could fire at King Valinok. His brains splattered against the window, then slid down the glass.
Rylon’s Night of the Crystal Saber extended into the next afternoon.
Kyva wore the dress Rylon bought for her. An elegant evening gown that fit her perfectly—a scoop neck trumpet dress with a sweep train. She looked regal and radiant. She sat through the coronation and smiled, and pretended to have a good time. She did all the things she was supposed to do, despite the fact that she hated Saarkturia. Fantasies of poisoning the new King danced in her mind. Not that she despised Valinok. It was more to get back at her father, Emperor Tyvelon, for sending her here.
Kyva stayed inside the palace and did not venture out onto the terrace with Valinok. Rylon wasn’t sure the Saarkturian public was ready to see their future Decluvian Queen. He figured it was best to let them adjust to the new King for several months before hitting them with another challenging development.
The public at large was generally aware of the alliance made with the Decluvians. But they didn’t need to be reminded of it every day. The Decluvians were former enemies. There was still a great deal of mistrust among the two species.
Afterward, there was a celebration in the throne room that was filled with traditional rituals, dancing, and entertainment. The palatial chamber was adorned with luxurious appointments. Ornate pillars towered overhead, carved with reliefs by the finest artisans. It was the height of opulence.
Both Kyva and Valinok looked bored out of their minds. But the two of them were going to have to get used to attending boring political functions. Being King wasn’t about leading armies into battle and conquering foreign worlds. 99% of the time it was filled with mundane, trivial duties. Smiling, shaking hands, greeting dignitaries, reassuring the public. Valinok was getting his first glimpse into public life. He grew up watching his mother handle all of these duties with aplomb. She even seemed to enjoy it, to some degree. But he wasn’t even an hour into his rule, and he was already about to pull his hair out.
“How much longer do I have to sit here?” He asked Rylon. He sulked, resting his chin on his palm.
A team of athletic dancers were performing before him. Their svelte, toned bodies undulated and writhed in rhythm, performing impressive acrobatic feats.
“There are five more traditional dances that are done for good luck,” Rylon said. “There is the presentation of gifts. And the blessings from the oracles.”
“But I am now King. I can make the rules. I can decide what traditions I will keep, and what can be dispensed with.”
“As King, you serve the people,” Rylon said. “Do not underestimate the value of tradition. It gives the masses comfort and reassurance. It provides stability in times of change.”
Valinok frowned. He glanced to Kyva. “Do you have to sit through stuff like this on Decluvia?”
Kyva nodded. It was the most he had said to her since she arrived on Saarkturia.
Rylon strolled across the court to speak with one of the Senate Consuls, leaving the two relatively alone. They sat for a moment in silence.
“It must be difficult for you,” Valinok said.
Kyva looked at him hesitantly.
“Leaving your home, moving across the galaxy, abandoning all your friends.”
Kyva pursed her lips and nodded.
“Not to mention the whole arranged marriage thing.”
“It’s been an adjustment.” She was careful not to offend him. “Not that it isn’t a lovely planet,” she quickly added. She hated Saarkturia. It was cold and dry, and it was causing her skin to flake.
“It’s more humid on Decluvia, isn’t it?”
She nodded.
“I’ll have them adapt the climate in your room so it’s more comfortable.”
“Thank you. That would be nice.” Kyva couldn’t help but be surprised by his gesture of kindness.
“We can build spaceships that travel across the galaxy. I’m sure my people can figure out how to accurately simulate your home environment.”
Kyva smiled.
“Look, this is all part of the treaty,” Valinok said. “We just have to attend these functions together. Smile. Pretend we like each other. But that’s it. You can do your own thing on your time.”
Kyva felt relieved. But a small, insecure part of her felt rejected. “Do you not find me pleasing?”
“It’s not that at all. Maybe arranged marriages worked a hundred years ago. It seems antiquated to me.”
“I’m so glad you feel that way,” Kyva said. It was like a weight lifted from her shoulders. “Maybe we can try being friends first?”
“Friends. I’d like that,” Valinok said. “I don’t have many friends.”
They smiled at each other and shook on it.
Kyva’s eyes glimmered. Valinok wasn’t so bad after all, she thought.
7
New Earth
Wheels were a serious limitation. Presley was stuck to the highway as she raced toward the destruction. Hover-cars were streaking out of the city, using any available free space. It cut down on traffic jams, but it looked more like a demolition derby. Hover-cars were randomly weaving about, criss-crossing over the terrain. There were more than a few accidents.
People looked at Presley like she was crazy—she was going in the wrong direction. Everyone was trying to get away from the chaos, and this idiot was going toward it. Some people honked and glared at her, like she was somehow impeding their escape from the city.
The dull rumble of explosions vibrated the ground. Fighters rocketed overhead, ripping through the air. Presley had the accelerator mashed to the floor. This was the fastest she had ever driven in her life. The roadways were clear for the most part, but every now and then she’d have to swerve around an impact crater, or the wreckage of a hover-car.
Her heart was pounding in her chest, and her skin was covered in a thin mist of sweat. Her T-shirt was sticking to the small of her back. Her eyes were wide like saucers. She kept hunching down to see the sky through the windshield, trying to keep track of the fighters. Every time she heard one race overhead it sent a chill down her spine. She wondered how long it would be before someone started taking shots at her.
She turned on the stereo and switched to the information channel. But it was just a solid tone. Every channel was the same. Either they had all gone off the air, been destroyed, or transmissions were being jammed.
Presley tried calling her mother again—there was still no response. It just rolled over to voicemail again. “Mom, call me as soon as you can. I’m on my way to pick up Timmy. I hope you’re okay.”
Her eyes were full and she was trying to hold back the tears. She didn’t have time to break down and become a blithering idiot. She needed to keep her head together.
An enemy fighter swooped by and strafed several outbound hover-cars. The high-caliber projectiles tore through the bodywork, shredding the cars. Fuel cells ignited, blasting some of them to pieces. Passenger compartments were peppered with bullets, splattering crimson blood against the windows. Some of the cars veered aside, smacking into other cars, creating a pileup. It was an immense amount
of destruction—and it was caused by one strafing run from one enemy fighter. And there were hundreds of fighters out there, patrolling the air. It was a grim reminder of just how deadly it was to be out and about.
The victims were innocent civilians. They posed no threat, and their destruction had no strategic value—yet the enemy had no qualms about destroying them. It went against the conventions of every known intergalactic treaty. Presley wondered who these aliens were, and how they could be filled with such hate.
The old Mustang kept barreling down the highway. She was traveling at well over 100 miles an hour, which was slow for a hovercraft, but with four wheels connected to the roadway it felt fast. Unsafe. Thrilling.
Presley turned north onto the Stenson Freeway that headed straight into downtown. The skyline drew closer. So did the destruction. It was insane.
The speedometer read 127 mph.
Stenson was wider and smoother than the previous highway. But still, the car began to rattle and shake at the advanced speed.
The overpass ahead had been bombed out. But Presley couldn’t see it until she got farther up the incline. By then, it was too late to do anything about it. Within seconds, the car launched off the edge of the incline. Jagged concrete and twisted rebar hung from the edge. The Mustang vaulted through the air. Presley gripped the steering wheel, hanging on for dear life, hoping she could make it to the other side of the chasm.
In her haste, she had forgotten to buckle her seat belt. It was too late now. She was going to come to an abrupt stop if she didn’t clear the downward edge of the overpass.
She felt weightless as she flew through the air. A few moments later the car smacked the concrete on the downslope. The shocks bottomed out, and the car twisted sideways. The tires screeched across the pavement. White smoke billowed into the air from the wheel wells. Presley turned the steering wheel in the direction of the spin trying to get the car back under control. It swung back and forth a few times before she finally straightened it out.
She breathed a sigh of relief, and a slight grin crawled on her lips. She was feeling accomplished. That moment of euphoria when you cheat death. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. In that moment, she felt invincible. She hated to admit it, but that jump had been almost fun. Terrifying. But fun.
The euphoria didn’t last long.
Presley could hear the shriek of a targeted missile screeching toward her. It streaked through the air, spewing flame and propellant from its tail. An enemy fighter had swooped in behind her and targeted the Mustang. She was one of the only vehicles on the road this close to town—and the only vehicle heading into downtown. She stood out like a sore thumb. It was enough to draw the Decluvian’s attention.
Presley caught a glimpse of the rocket in her side mirror. She swerved to avoid the missile. It impacted the roadway, cratering the concrete in a blinding flash. Bits of concrete and debris erupted. The blast tumbled the Mustang on its side, then rolled it upside down. The only thing Presley could hear was the ringing in her ears.
Sparks showered as the Mustang ground across the concrete. Glass shattered, metal crumpled and twisted. Shards pelted the cabin. Presley was tossed like a rag doll.
The car scraped to a stop at the shoulder of the freeway.
As Presley’s hearing returned, she could hear the fighter roar away. Her heart was racing, and she felt like her whole body was vibrating. She took a moment to calm herself down and to assess the damage. She knew all too well that the rush of adrenaline and endorphins after an accident could keep you from feeling any pain. It’s perhaps one of the scariest times—those terrifying moments between the accident and the first sensation of an injury. In that timeframe, you have no idea if, or how bad, you are hurt.
Presley looked over her body, hoping she wouldn’t see any blood, or any broken bones. She was lying on the ceiling amid thousands of granules of glass. Her dad’s precious Mustang was now a pile of scrap metal.
8
Slade
“It’s a distress signal from the Scorpion,” Mitch said.
Slade looked like she had gotten news that her child was injured. She had commanded the old rust bucket for 25 years, until she had been unjustly defrocked. The ship was a part of her, and she had felt quite hollow without it.
“Where is she?”
“The Taurian sector.”
“What kind of damage has she sustained?”
“The transmission was from Captain Rourke. He stated critical damage.”
Slade’s face tensed up like she had smelled something foul. The title of Captain Rourke bounced around in her brain inciting rage filled fantasies of revenge. A small part of her wanted to leave Rourke stranded in space. But her sense of duty and honor would never allow such indulgences. It was merely a fleeting thought that bubbled up from the dark side of her brain. There were 1600 crew aboard the Scorpion. There was a war to fight, and the Scorpion was a valuable tactical asset. Not to mention, the look on Rourke’s face when Slade showed up as his savior would be priceless. She didn’t want to miss that for the world.
“Plot a jump for the Taurian sector,” Slade said. “Let’s see if we can give our old friend a hand.”
Two jumps and several hours later, the Revenant emerged from slide-space. The LRADDS display lit up with the Scorpion’s position. It was safe to assume that Rourke had seen the Revenant emerge from slide-space as well.
Slade used the high resolution cameras to get a good look at the Scorpion’s hull. It was tattered and scarred and covered in blast marks. “He takes her out one time and she ends up looking like that.” Slade shook her head. “See if you can make contact.”
“Aye, sir.” Zoey said. She activated the comm system. “This is the USS Revenant calling the Scorpion, do you copy? USS Revenant to the Scorpion, do you copy, over?”
The line crackled with static. A few moments later a thin, tinny voice answered. “This is the Scorpion, go ahead… wait, did you just say the Revenant?”
“Affirmative. Please advise of your status.”
“I don’t really know how that’s possible, but we’re really glad to see you. We’re in bad shape over here. We’re down to 20% power, running on emergency life-support systems—and that’s failing.”
Zoey exchanged a grave look with Slade.
The line was dead for a few moments. Then Slade heard Rourke’s gruff voice. “Revenant, Scorpion actual. Who’s in command there?”
A devious grin curled up on Slade’s lips. “Commander Rourke, this is Captain Slade.” She refused to acknowledge him as a captain, and instead referred to his previous rank.
There was a long moment of silence.
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“No joke, Commander. If you don’t require our assistance, we’ll be about our way.”
There was another long pause.
“Pull alongside. I’ll have my crew transfer to your ship. Scorpion out.”
The line crackled for a moment, then the transmission ended.
“Are you really going to let him aboard?” Zoey said. Then half joking, “Doesn’t the captain always go down with the ship?”
“It’s not his ship,” Slade said. “Helm, bring us alongside the Scorpion.”
“Aye, sir,” Violet said. She was a living, breathing bio-synthetic organism. Indistinguishable from a human—for the most part. Regenerative nanites could repair most of her wounds. She had an indefinite lifespan—synthetics didn’t age. Her brain processed information faster, and her memory and skill set far exceeded that of her human counterparts. She was also capable of a full range of emotions. To top it off, she was gorgeous—sculpted cheek bones, full lips, piercing blue eyes, and raven black hair. She looked like she belonged on the cover of a magazine.
Over the next few hours, shuttles transported the entire crew of the Scorpion to the Revenant. One by one, Stingray fighters landed on the flight deck and were stored in the hangar bay. The once empty destroyer became a beehive of activity. The Revenant s
oon became a fully functional warship, with the crew resuming their duties as usual.
Rourke was the last to arrive. His shuttle landed on the flight deck, and he strutted down the ramp of his vehicle like he owned the place. His chest was puffed out, and his nose was held high. A cadre of Marines surrounded him.
Slade greeted him on the flight deck.
Rourke didn’t even bother to ask permission to come aboard. It was a courtesy he wasn’t going to extend.
“Commander Rourke, what a pleasure it is to see you again.” Slade’s eyes were like laser beams.
“It’s Captain Rourke. And as the ranking officer in the fleet, I’m taking command of this ship. You don’t even hold rank in the military anymore. You’re a wanted felon.” Rourke smirked. “Sergeant, arrest this woman and put her in the brig.”
The Marines exchanged a tentative glance among themselves. They all knew who Slade was. They knew her reputation. They knew her as a hero.
Rourke grimaced at their hesitation. “That is a direct order, Sergeant. Arrest this woman.”
The Marines brought their weapons to the firing position and spread out. The barrels of their carbines were aimed directly at Slade.
Her eyes narrowed at Rourke. Was this how he was going to repay her generosity?
But the Marines quickly turned their weapons on Rourke. He had led them into a disastrous first encounter with the Decluvians. Despite what had officially happened to Captain Slade, she still commanded the respect of the men and women who served in the UPDF. And respect is earned. It doesn’t automatically come with the title.
Rourke was incensed. But there wasn’t much he could do about it.
