Boomer (Star Watch Book 3)

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  Zintar’s mind turned to the Sol System—thirty-eight light-years away—and he pictured it in his mind. Even with the Alliance’s combined assets, including the U.S. fleet, they were destined to fall. Again, Zintar savored the thought of possessing that small fleet of advanced ships: possessing Star Watch. Anyone in command of those twelve vessels would surely rule the galaxy. Soon now, he’d have the means to snatch them.

  And now he had the means to an end. A wonderful fluke of good fortune—after excavation of another monotonous, ancient Harpaign buried ruin, more rock tablets were uncovered. But this time, nothing less than a miracle had come about. Zintar had heard the fables since early childhood—stories passed down from past generations—of the four wons that would open a gateway to Rom Dasticon. Dasticon would simply be a means to an end … useful to a higher purpose—his and the Sahhrain’s.

  This next phase—the final phase—would be the most crucial. It required possession of all four won effigies, which would open the gateway into that distant realm—Dasticon’s realm. Zintar possessed one already. He suspected the young human girl possessed another—the Goldwon, most likely. Zintar’s fists clenched. The very same child female who’d defeated his brother, Vikor, in battle, humiliating a whole race of people in the process. He pushed the thought of her from his mind. He would deal with her himself—make an example of her. Killing her was an option, but making her a slave—perhaps a barracks whore—would be far more fitting.

  He shifted his thirteen hundred pound bulk onto his side and heard the bedding beneath him strain under its colossal weight. Two of his three wives were asleep, lying in the huge bed beside him.

  One wife, Glorra, sleeping on her back, her mouth slightly agape, was gently snoring. Tormaline, on the other side of Glorra, lay on her side, facing away from Zintar. Beneath the dim cabin lights, Zintar’s eyes took in and followed her gentle naked curves, where her waist broadened at the hips, then let his gaze travel on further, down her long muscular legs. What amazingly strong legs this wife has! His eyes returned to her buttocks—small and round—and noticed the still visible impression of a handprint—his handprint—on one cheek. He’d given her a good whack there, during their recent lovemaking. The memory of it brought a brief smile to his lips.

  He abruptly sat up, then stood. Stretching, he made his way to the quarters’ head. As he relieved himself, he contemplated bathing. It had been several days, a point Tormaline brought up just hours earlier. Perhaps tomorrow … He dressed in yesterday’s black uniform of leggings, heavy boots, and a near floor-length uniform jacket. He avoided looking at his reflection in the large mirror. He knew he was unattractive. His lips were full, on a wide-set mouth. His furry brow protruded out ridiculously—like those of his ancient Sahhrain ancestors, a million years back. He was a fucking beast—thick and hairy, even a glance at his own reflection was enough to depress him for the rest of the day. He quickly left his ornate and spacious quarters and his two sleeping wives.

  * * *

  Lord Zintar entered the Vastma-class warship’s bridge. The fleet command ship, she was a hive of constant, bustling activity. In this compartment alone there were sixty-three bridge officers, always busy at work. The vessel was immense—as large as a city—spanning miles in circumference. On board, the crew consisted of close to a thousand Sahhrain, and just as many warriors were hoarded in the ship’s barracks.

  Heads turned in Zintar’s direction as he approached the throne-like command chair toward the front of the bridge. From a chorus of deep male voices came the usual welcoming chant, “Lead us, Zintar!”

  He smiled and they smiled back. Unlike his late brother, Vikor, Lord Zintar Shakrim was not only respected among his crew—he was also liked—even loved. He was fair and often used humor to relieve onboard tension. Even with that said, he dealt with disobediences swiftly—usually by his own hand. But that was a rare occurrence among a crew more than willing to please. They knew what was expected of them—what their commander most desired. All anyone had to do was look high up, where the bridge compartment’s forward bulkhead narrowed and curved. A virtual series of five three-dimensional warriors hovered in various poses of battle. At the center was Captain Jason Reynolds, his daughter Boomer at his side. She was wielding an enhancement shield, he a plasma rifle. There was also a horned beast, known as a rhino-warrior, holding a large hammer in one fist. There were two others—another human, Billy Hernandez, and a small, odd-looking creature, known as Ricket, who had an intellect like no other. Those five were the architects of the Sahhrain’s defeat, five years past. Each one, in their own way, still yielded a powerful influence over thousands, if not millions, of people and the U.S. fleet. One by one, he contemplated them actually hovering up there. Soon, those virtual images would be erased—just as their lives would be.

  Lord Zintar settled his girth into the command chair and was soon joined by his second-in-command. Zintar said, “Don’t keep me in suspense, Brakken. Tell me what’s been happening in my absence?”

  Brakken, at seven feet tall, was handsome, and had refined Sahhrain sensibilities. Slender, though chiseled, muscles hid beneath his uniform, and he was a cunning warrior that few would ever contemplate going up against. The only one known to have beaten him, while sparring within a combat rink, was Lord Zintar. That was not a surprise, for none had defeated Zintar in battle before—or since.

  “It has been a mere three hours, my Lord. Why not return to your colossal bed and your three needy wives?”

  “Two. One has run off … somewhere.” Zintar looked over at Brakken with a sideways glance. “If I find out that Danamie is now warming your bed sheets—waiting for your shift to end—I’ll be most upset.”

  “No, my Lord, I’d be far more inclined to entice Tormaline into my bed.”

  Zintar laughed at his second’s candor. “Talk to me about our mole.”

  Commander Brakken shrugged. “It is just as you expected. He has, albeit reluctantly, agreed to our latest terms.”

  Lord Zintar stared blankly at his friend. Humans never ceased to amaze him. While some were among the most courageous of beings—others were solely motivated by power and greed, and that disgusted him. Eventually it came down to weeding out and tempting the right highly placed officer—one having little, if any, scruples. But finding someone as high up in the chain as a general—well, that seemed almost too perfect. The fleet officer offered to do small favors at first, in exchange for monetary compensation. Over time, though, he approved hundreds of construction jobs for Blues contractors. A strong advocate for the Blues, he became secretly wealthy in the process. It was only a matter of time before the Blues became the primary builder of most U.S. fleet space stations; then later, of all new warships. The high-up fleet officer had even gone so far as to encourage the Blues as they opened their arms wide to the Sahhrain—sharing their vast technological advances, and had even worked in tandem with them—building a secret fleet of Blues/Sahhrain warships, on a par with those of the U.S. fleet. Zintar marveled at the general’s treachery toward his own people and reminded himself to never trust the arrogant Calhoom.

  “There is a problem, my Lord,” Brakken volunteered.

  Zintar already knew what he was going to say: “Let me guess … the mole is becoming worried about working with us … the Sahhrain?”

  “He is terrified that the knowledge of his subversive actions over the years will become known to the high fleet command—namely the Omni—his brother.”

  Lord Zintar and Brakken exchanged another smile and looked up at the hovering image of Captain Reynolds. “What I would give to be there, when the Omni of the U.S. fleet is told of his brother’s ongoing transgressions: that Brian, now the rank of general, is a traitor to his own kind. Ahh, to be a bug on that wall,” Brakken said.

  Zintar sat back in his chair, keeping his gaze on the lifelike images. For all the malice he felt toward Captain Reynolds, it paled in comparison to the venomous hatred he felt toward the young girl warrior. But she
too, unknowingly, was now being played.

  “Go ahead and strut, little Goldwon master—in the end all the wons will be mine. Then you will have to face me, and pay for your actions.”

  “Lord Shakrim … there’s an Alliance vessel quickly approaching. A personal craft,” the Sahhrain officer said, looking up from his board with a startled expression. “The Blues’ database has it registered to the U.S. fleet’s Omni.”

  Chapter 16

  “No! It’s not, Gunny, look again. Have you ever seen that kind of symmetry … or organization … in open space?” Leon asked, glancing up as Jason entered the bridge.

  “What’s all the hubbub?” Jason asked.

  “I hate to admit it, but I think Leon may have a point,” Orion said. She stood aside as Jason leaned in to take a look at the small, hovering, tactical display.

  Jason asked, “Can’t you expand this a bit more?”

  “On the Parcical I could, Cap,” she shot back, sounding a bit frustrated.

  Jason stood and turned toward the forward observation window. “I agree … if it were a belt, individual meteors would be positioned randomly. And it’s not moving … there’s no drift. No, we’re not looking at some deep space natural occurrence.” Saying that, Jason was well aware of the implications—quite possibly there were thousands upon thousands of foreign objects adrift in the far reaches of the Dacci system. Perhaps some were spacecraft, but that didn’t really make sense.

  “There are high levels of radiation in that part of the system. It’s an area of space seldom traversed … no commercial traffic to speak of,” Orion said.

  “What do the charts say?” Jason asked.

  Orion scanned her board readings. “There is a meteor belt, but the readings indicate it’s two light-years away from these coordinates.”

  Hanna, sitting quietly at the comms station, continued to adjust her settings. “Well, hello there!” All eyes turned in her direction.

  “What have you got?”

  “I didn’t pick up on it at first. It’s not on any of the standard communications channels. In fact, it’s only showing up on an obscure channel—one dedicated to drone telemetry.”

  “What are you hearing?” Jason asked.

  “Dacci … they’re speaking Dacci. Because they’ve overloaded the channel, it’s scratchy as hell—everything’s distorted.” Hanna looked up, then said, “Captain, there are hundreds … thousands … of open, live ship-to-ship channels.”

  Jason took a seat at the helm. “Take a seat, everyone.”

  Orion sat down at her station as Leon moved over to the co-pilot’s seat.

  “Cap, we’d need five separate phase-shifts to get in close enough to see what’s really there,” Orion said. “Unless you want to call up a wormhole.”

  “An interchange wormhole would be far too noticeable, so five phase-shifts will be fine. Go ahead and input the coordinates, Gunny.”

  “Done, Cap,” she reported a moment later.

  Jason saw their proposed jump pattern highlighted on the small forward display. He tapped at a touch-sensitive virtual key. In less than a second, five distinct white flashes later, they’d traveled hundreds of thousands of miles.

  The extended silence in the cabin was broken when Billy suddenly entered the bridge. “Sweet Jesus, tell me I’m not seeing what I’m seeing.” No one answered.

  Jason didn’t expect them to be positioned this close to the enemy. As he visually scanned space before him, he did a quick mental tally and stopped counting at ten thousand warships.

  “Somebody’s been busy,” Billy said, now standing at Jason’s side.

  “Cap, we’re looking at three separate fleets here. Most vessels are on a par with our own Craing light and heavy cruisers: Advanced shielding, high-yield plasma cannons, FTL capability. It’s an incredible assemblage of assets,” Orion said.

  “Would have been nice if you’d picked up on them before,” Billy said, without looking back at Orion.

  “Yeah … and it’d be nice if you’d get sucked out of an airlock,” she snapped back.

  Jason gave them both a stern expression. “Gunny, zoom in on their closest ship.” She did as told. Jason leaned forward, then asked, “What’s that?” Orion zoomed in again.

  Billy said, “Well, I guess that removes any doubt.”

  Jason nodded. They were looking at the starboard hull of the closest warship. An emblem or crest depicted the Sahhrain flag on its background and a symbol of an enhancement shield in the foreground. The Stellar’s AI translated the Dacci lettering above the emblem, Honor and Sacrifice, and below it, spelled out, was Rom Dasticon.

  “What are they waiting for?” Orion asked. “This is a serious threat … a threat the U.S. fleet would have a hard time holding off, let alone defeating.”

  Jason’s irritation was growing. Irritation that this buildup had gone without notice by the Alliance—and more so, by himself.

  “I think I can answer that,” Hanna said. “Much of the jabbering I’m picking up concerns someone named Zintar.”

  “That’s probably Lord Zintar Shakrim.”

  Hanna shrugged. “Could be. Anyway, he’s apparently on a quest of sorts, looking for something—something that would allow this Zintar fellow to open up some kind of gateway. I’m not sure if that’s the right word for it.”

  “Close enough,” Jason said. “That pretty much confirms what Prince Aqeel told me earlier. He’s looking for four effigies … small statues. They’re hidden all around the Dacci system. Whoever brings them together … apparently … can open a bridge to the realm where Rom Dasticon resides.”

  “Him again? I thought we sent that shit-bag packing five years ago,” Billy said.

  Jason didn’t answer, continuing to study the enemy’s mass of military might, stretching out as far as the eye could see.

  Billy said, “I lost a hell of a lot of men the last time we went up against those guys, Cap. Truth is … I’d rather nail my balls to my knee than have to go through all that again.”

  For some reason, his comment made Orion giggle. Billy glanced back, seeing her trying not to laugh, but failing miserably. He too laughed out loud.

  Jason shook his head. “You two sure picked a hell of a time to start playing nice again. Let’s back away from here, before someone sees us.”

  “Too late,” Leon said, pointing out the forward observation window.

  “Shit!”

  “Thirty Arrow fighters … Sahhrain versions of what we saw before, but bigger and meaner. We’re way outclassed here, Cap,” Orion reported.

  “Phase-shift us out of—”

  “Can’t, Captain,” Leon said, “we’re still regenerating the synthesizer power after our last five phase-shifts.”

  “Someone get Ricket in here,” Jason ordered.

  “We’re taking fire—but shields are holding,” Orion said.

  “Time to deploy Big Baby, Gunny.”

  Billy almost lost his balance as Jason kicked-in the Stellar’s two antimatter drives, whipping their small ship up and over, then banking tightly left, as a flurry of yellow plasma bolts streaked past both side windows.

  “Yes, Captain, how may I be of assistance?” Ricket asked, suddenly standing at Jason’s side.

  “What do you need to finish getting Big Baby operational?”

  Ricket turned back, sending a glance toward Orion. “We need to junction the gun to the auxiliary power plant—the feeder to the anti—”

  Jason cut him off mid-sentence. “Just tell me, how long will it take you?”

  “I could do a temporary coupling. Maybe five minutes?”

  “Make it two! Where do you need to work?” Jason asked.

  “Aft … between the drives, in the Engineering hold space.”

  “Go! Get it done!”

  Jason continued to maneuver the Stellar through radical lefts and rights. “Hold on!” He jerked the nose of the ship down and into a forward dive.

  “G-force compensators red-lining, C
ap,” Leon said, as the Stellar violently shook.

  “Three direct strikes. Shields down to forty percent.”

  Leon said, “The good news … we’re a hell of a lot quicker than those little Arrows.”

  Jason opened up a NanoCom channel to Ricket: “Talk to me!”

  “Well, Captain, it won’t be quite as simple a … fix … as … I first thought,” Ricket said, his voice strained, like he was using physical exertion, doing whatever he was doing.

  Two more violent shakes and the bridge momentarily went dark, then became illuminated again.

  “Um … uh oh,” Orion said under her breath.

  “I don’t like the sound of that, Gunny.”

  “I’ve heard of these vessels …” Orion continued. “Vastma-class warship. Makes our Craing Meganaughts look like little play toys.”

  Jason noticed the Goliath-sized vessel was slowly pulling away from the cluster of parked warships. Something moved past them in a blur. It was pure instinct that prompted Jason to jam the controls in toward his own body, bringing the Stellar into a tight, ass-over-teakettle, barrel roll. Before them, a solid wall—a Vastma-class warship—blocked their way. Billy staggered, losing his balance, falling backward onto the deck.

  Completing the barrel roll and leveling out, Jason spotted a different kind of wall approaching—one made of Arrow fighters. “Shit shit shit!” A series of green plasma bolts streamed by their starboard windows—each one the size of a full-sized school bus.