Return to Dragon Planet: Book one of the Dragon Planet Trilogy

by S A Robertson

  TEN

  1

  By the time Blake stumbled his way back through the communal area, the whole ship was shuddering. Yellow light whirled up and down the walls from the spinning alarm beacons in the ceiling. Blake staggered into a nearby table, knocking over a couple of glasses that smashed on the floor. Only then was he aware that Nyara was behind him.

  “Dragons?” Nyara made a grab for Blake’s wrist to stop him from falling.

  He pulled it free. “Dragons don’t hunt in pairs,” he replied and started off again, heading for the cockpit.

  She followed him as he dragged himself up the stairs, jostling down the corridor until he reached the door to the cockpit and threw it open. As soon as he did so, he saw a console alive with flashing lights and chirping out hysterical warnings. Skreet wrestled with the steering console. Through the cockpit window, Blake could see the forest below swelling alarmingly. Skreet dragged at the controls at the last minute and the RV swooped, heaving to one side again.

  “What’s the damage?” Blake gripped the frame of the door.

  “I think we just lost a shield. What’s going on out there, Blake?”

  “Wyverns,” Blake answered. “They came in hard off the starboard bow. Damn stupid things wouldn’t have seen us as anything other than a territorial threat.”

  The ship bucked, and Skreet grimaced, the steering console trying to force itself out of his grip.

  “I’m not sure I can keep this thing airborne if there’s so much drag on the tail, Blake,” he croaked. “And if we can’t shake them, we’re going to have a lot of trouble landing. All I can see is trees!”

  “Great,” Blake growled. “Okay. Just slow her down as much as you can and try and keep her as steady, Skreet.” Already Blake was backing out of the cockpit, pushing his way past Nyara.

  “What are you going to do?” She peered into the glare of the cockpit briefly before turning and following Blake back down the corridor.

  “You heard what Skreet said. We have to shake ourselves free.”

  “And how do we do that exactly?”

  “How do you think? Someone’s got to go out there and shoo those things away.”

  “Shoo them away? You’re not serious!”

  They rattled down into the communal area where Maddox and the others had emerged from the hold.

  “Will someone mind telling me what’s going on?” Maddox demanded.

  “We have a couple of unwanted hitchhikers,” Blake said as a reverberating bang rippled above them. The RV trembled. “Wyverns. Two of them. They’ve attached themselves to the ship and if we’re not careful they’re going to rip the guts out of something vital.”

  “Wyverns?” Uldo said. “Aren’t they like small dragons?”

  “Distantly related,” Nyara said. “But wyverns are far less dangerous.”

  “Tell that to the RV.” Blake started across toward an opening labelled, ‘Gen Labs’.

  “But where’s he going?” Maddox shouted.

  “He says he’s going to try and shake the creatures loose,” Nyara explained.

  “But how’s that possible?”

  “I think he’s going outside.”

  “What!”

  Blake opened a door and hurried into a corridor flickering with sallow light. He’d been on a couple of RVs in his time, hitching a lift in his early hunting days with a scientific crew to the Drakkenfell. The layout for these craft hadn’t changed much, and after passing a med bay and a couple of stem labs, he arrived at another blast door with a lock wheel. Above the door was a sign reading, ‘Escape Pods’. Grabbing the wheel, he began to slowly drag it ‘round as the rest of his party arrived behind him.

  “Blake, be reasonable!” said Maddox. “You should send Cid up there. You’re too valuable to the expedition.”

  Cid turned his single eye toward Maddox, as if to say, ‘And I’m not?’

  “No offence…” Blake said before Cid could reply, heaving the door open. Stale air rushed into the corridor. A darkened space began to light up with tinkling, white lights. “…But you send that cannon up top and he misses his mark, you can say goodbye to any landing at all.”

  “Then I’ll go,” said Nyara. They followed Blake as he stepped into the silo where two egg-shaped pods, enough to fit four people, squatted in their bunkers and below their hexagonal escape hatches.

  “I don’t need anyone else to worry about.” Blake moved past the pods until he came to some lockers and opened one of the doors. Inside were survival suits. He ignored the helmets, snatching up a respirator, some goggles, and a pair of mag boots. Hanging on the back of the door was a cable belt that he also appropriated. Putting the shotgun down on a nearby bench, he began to equip himself, throwing the belt around his waist and fastening it with a clip, before sitting down on the bench.

  “You said there are two of them, didn’t you?” said Nyara, and as if to emphasise the point there was another crash somewhere above their heads. The RV banked. A couple of oxygen cannisters rolled across the floor. Maddox and Uldo looked up to the ceiling. “My arrows won’t pierce the skin of the RV,” Nyara went on, “and they’re sync charged. I’m a good shot, too.”

  “No.” Blake stood up now having pulled on the mag boots, and after dragging goggles over his eyes he picked up his shotgun, clumping toward a gated scissor lift. He wound the respirator over his head and around his neck, unlocked the gate, and stepped onto the platform. “Now get back inside. Brace yourselves. Whatever happens, it’s going to be a bumpy landing.” He fixed the oxygen mask to his face and pulled the elevator lever. The platform began to rise while above it a small, dilating maintenance hatch began to open. Air blasted in, flattening Blake’s hair as he adjusted the respirator over his nose and mouth. Below him he saw Maddox and Uldo begin to back out of the silo, while Nyara stood watching Blake slowly ascend through the hatch.

  2

  It was like stepping into a hurricane. Blake clutched at the rail around him with one hand, trying to keep as tight a grip on his shotgun as he could. Squinting against the cacophony of sound and fury, the air buffeted him with such a physical force he had to crouch slightly to keep his feet, and that was despite Skreet doing as he was told and slowing the craft to as slow as it would go to keep it airborne. Along the length of the research vessel, he saw only the familiar undulating landscape of shielding panels until the communications tower. But there was no evidence of unwanted passengers. The only sign they had been here at all were several deep score marks and dislodged shielding tiles toward the back end of the fuselage, exposing snaking ducts and the fizzing of spitting blue sparks. Grey smoke streamed away and past the boosters. Blake adjusted his respirator slightly to calibrate his air and swung his attention behind him. The front of the ship had also been damaged, nearer toward the cockpit. A dish had been ripped off from its housing, although, again, there was no sign of the vandal who had perpetrated the damage.

  Forcing his shotgun under one arm, Blake lifted one of the heavy boots on his feet and dropped the heel onto the platform. Immediately the mag tech engaged, and the sole of the boot dropped hard, fastening to the metal surface. He did the same with his left foot and was finally able to let go of the rail. Then he slung open the gate and slowly stepped free of the platform.

  As soon as he plodded out onto the surface of the RV and away from the lift, it sunk back down through the hatch. The hatch closed fast, and Blake realised a small lever by its side was now his only means of recalling the elevator to get back into the ship.

  Blake gripped the shotgun as he scanned the bleak surface of the RV. He soon found an eyehook for his cable belt. There was usually one close to the lifts, available to anyone who needed to make repairs in Zero-G, and after taking a couple of steps he bent down, hauling the hook on its track on the back of his belt to the front to fasten it. Then he swivelled the cable to the back of the belt again and pushed to standing. The wyverns still hadn’t shown themselves. Blake wondered if they had finally realised th
at the RV hadn’t been any kind of a living threat to their immediate territory and flown off. He hoped that was the case. Any more sustained damage and the crew would probably have had to resort to using the escape pods.

  Blake looked down toward the starboard wing and saw the forest dominating the landscape. Skreet was bringing the ship around in readiness for its final approach, which meant the treetops looked closer than ever. Blake realised he didn’t have much time. Whatever he found up here, he would have to deal with it fast. He didn’t want to be clinging to the outside of the ship if it had to make an emergency landing.

  Warily, Blake continued toward the comm tower. Behind it and toward the thrusters was where Skreet had told him there was the most damage.

  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all, he thought, and he even came to a stop. Where the hell had the creatures got to?

  Only to immediately snatch up his shogun in his hands as he saw a huge shadow begin to ease its way around the other side of the tower.

  3

  The wyvern was in stalking mode. Using powerful claws on the end of its wings designed to cling to cliffs or mountain ledges, it pierced the lips of the shielding tiles to keep it from being torn from the surface. A blunt head the size of an armchair bristled with spines, weaving back and forth on the end of a long, powerful neck. In some ways it had all the characteristics of a dragon; those jaws full of black, needle-sharp teeth, its eyes golden and cat-like and eerily familiar. But this was a much less powerful beast, more delicate and agile. A single, well-placed las-strike from Blake’s shotgun could easily kill it. Which was not to say that would be easy. That thick, horned hide across its shoulders and back was more than tough enough to deflect most attacks. Blake knew he would have to aim for its thinner underbelly armour to affect any real damage.

  The creature let out a rasping hiss, audible even above the driving wind. Its spines bristled as a tail, thick with poisonous quills, snaked behind it. While wyverns didn’t have the advantage of fiery breath, a single one of those barbs could not only skewer a man, but there was also enough poison in each to kill with even a glancing blow.

  Blake racked the shotgun to charge up the sun stone battery and jammed it against his shoulder. An augmented viewfinder bloomed into being, locking onto the target. The only trouble was, with the shuddering of the ship, the force of the slipstream, and his fogging goggles, he found it difficult to keep a steady bead. Nor did it help that the wyvern was almost completely flat against the surface of the ship. If it had been airborne, he might have had a better chance at hitting it where it counted. As it was, the creature was slowly advancing toward him with its belly nicely protected.

  Gritting his teeth, Blake took a step back as the wyvern lifted one of its claws and hooked it between a couple more shield panels. It pulled itself forward a few feet. The ship was now dipping at an even greater angle. Blake braced himself as the creature advanced, its tail beginning to rise above its head, those deadly quills fanning out. It let out another warning hiss. Blake swung his shotgun away from targeting the wyvern’s head and toward one of its claws. If he couldn’t kill it outright, maybe he could dislodge it.

  Thumbing away the safety, he fired.

  The white-hot bolt of fiery light from the ultra-beam shotgun flashed through the air and glanced off the surface of the RV. While it might not have been powerful enough to penetrate the hull, it would easily shatter bone. The only problem was, his aim had been wide of the mark, only sending up wheeling, flares of heat off the shield tiles and leaving black score marks behind it. The strike, however, was close enough to the wyvern’s wing to singe it. The beast slid its claw away, fastening itself again quickly and let out an indignant shriek.

  Damn it! Blake racked the shotgun again, quickly sweeping the barrel away to the other claw, only to let out another curse as the wyvern’s tail snaked up again to release a barrage of spines.

  Instinctively, Blake dragged his right foot up as the spines darted toward him, some of them ricocheting off the tiles. One or two of them were strong enough to pierce the metal. Fortunately, Blake had been quick to avoid any one of them perforating his boot. Not so fortunately, however, after disengaging the mag tech and with the RV now banking at an almost twenty-degree angle, he felt the heel of his other boot begin to lift as both of his feet slid out from underneath him.

  Instantly caught by the slipstream, Blake was blown into the air. The force of the wind was such that he had no chance to grab at anything to stop him rushing toward the aft of the RV. He could have easily collided with the hulking thruster tanks at the back of the ship. It was only in his desperation that he had the presence of mind to snatch at the auto-reel on the buckle of the cable belt. At once, the wheezing line that was unspooling from the belt braked and snapped him to a stop, the belt cinching so hard around his waist it felt like it might cut him in half. Blake cried out in pain. Worse, the force of the sudden jerk against his body was such that he lost his grip on the shotgun. The weapon peeled out of his hands and away into oblivion, briefly ricocheting off the tale of the ship.

  Blake was suspended; buffeted by the pummelling force of the air around him like a kite, the surface of the ship ten feet below. He could feel his respirator starting to dislodge from his mouth. While the altitude was low enough, and he wouldn’t exactly die from lack of oxygen, his lungs thrust in panic as he swung wildly back and forth. His vision also blurred, making it impossible to gather his bearings. And even as he managed to chance a look below him, his goggles were so steamed he could hardly see much of anything anyway. There was no way of knowing if the wyvern was directly below him or remained where he had left it. But he punched at the auto-reel again, knowing that if the hook came loose from its anchor point it would all be over. The reel squealed. With a jerk he was hauled back toward the RV, his feet hitting the surface hard while somehow managing to fasten themselves to the tiles. He cut the reel before he was dragged all the way back to the lift. The mag boots engaged instantly, and Blake expelled a breath of relief. Saved. Although only just. For as he brought his head up to gather his bearings, he realised the wyvern was closer than expected.

  It was almost on top of him.

  Blake let out another curse, as he saw that bullet-like head swinging over him, its lips peeling back to reveal those rows and rows of dagger-like black teeth. And while he was no longer threatened by tumbling free of the surface, Blake had been relieved of his shotgun. He was defenceless.

  Well, almost…

  Blake first considered snatching at his cable belt to use the reel to pull him out of harm’s way. But instead, he dropped his hand to his laser edge bush machete fastened to his thigh. The wyvern’s head arched above him, its mouth opening so wide it obscured its own sight, only for Blake to slide free the machete from its sheath. Gripping the moulded handle in both hands, a thin seam of heat travelled up the blade. Blake took a step back and when the strike came, all he could do was wheel to one side and thrust the machete upward with all his strength.

  He had no idea whether the blade was strong enough to cut through the exposed flesh the wyvern was presenting to him. He was relieved, therefore, when the machete slid home, cutting through ropes of sinew and hard slabs of muscle. The wyvern offered up an ear-splitting screech from its ruined throat. Hot blue-black blood poured from the wound spattering Blake as he scrambled to one side, and as it sprayed across the surface of the RV, slick enough so that he almost lost his footing again. Somehow, though, he remained upright. And as he turned, he saw the wyvern fall away, its claws unfastening from their purchase, those yellow eyes rolling over lifelessly, as it tumbled down the length of the ship and disappeared over the stern.

  Blake stood, breathing hard. Old memories of dragon hunts came back to him then: his body washed with blood as it was now, his mind benumbed by the encounter between man and beast. He lifted a shaking hand up to his forehead to wipe away some spatter. Only to abruptly become aware of another presence behind him.

  B
lake swung about in alarm.

  The second wyvern had crept up behind him without warning. Perhaps it had heard the scream of its dying partner and come clawing its way from underneath the ship to investigate. Either way, Blake was caught unprepared and didn’t have time to even raise his machete before the creature lunged. He saw its black teeth come charging down toward him, and he turned slightly to shield his face, as if that were going to do any good. But as the monster was almost about to snatch him up, a dart of silvery light arced its way out of the sky, and with unerring accuracy, punctured the wyvern’s cheek.

  Like the other before it, the wyvern’s body slackened. Its talons sprung open, and its wings caught the rushing wind, pulling it free of the surface of the RV. Blake saw the huge body hit the comm tower and spin away and toward the forest below. Only then did Blake lift his head and see Nyara standing by the elevator, her wychwood crossbow raised to her cheek. When she dropped it, she stared at him with those keen eyes of hers. Blake made no acknowledgement. He simply slid his machete into its sheath and slowly began to make his exhausted way back to where Nyara awaited him.

  4

  “I told you I was a good shot.” Nyara dropped her head as the hatch closed above them and the elevator dropped into the silo.

  “And I told you not to come up there,” Blake growled, tearing his respirator free and flinging it aside.

  “I was simply protecting my investment,” Nyara said with exasperation. Blake ignored her and threw the gate aside, stepping unsteadily from the elevator. His back was screaming at him. His knees were hurting, too. Ten years of pleasure cruising for fat tourists had made him soft and he knew it.