Death Drop (The D-Evolution)

by Sean Allen

  “Major!” Malo said enthusiastically as he stood up and saluted, bending at the waist to keep from piercing the ceiling with his gigantic horns. Otto saluted him and couldn’t help but smile at the situation.

  “At ease, Malo. Please, sit down. It’s obvious these little Hellion fighters were never meant to carry Moxen around.” Malo sat down as gingerly as he could and smiled at the little major.

  “Malo happy to see you! Glad you alive!”

  “Me too, Malo, and I have you to thank for that.” Otto’s smile changed from amused to grateful.

  “You save Malo, Malo save Major.”

  “Actually, Malo, you have Doctor Blink to thank for saving your life. I was certain you had been lost in the collapse of the tunnel. Blink was the one who didn’t give up hope. I feel ashamed now, but I had to make a decision to keep the rest of us alive and complete the mission. I did what I thought was best at the time; I hope you can understand that.”

  “Malo understand.”

  “I want you to know I would’ve kept the promise you made to Talfus as long as I was capable.” Otto’s face had become gravely serious. “I would’ve found a way to beat the Mewlatai that killed him—I don’t know how, but I would’ve done it—and I would’ve taken his body to the oceans of Waadi if you had been lost.”

  “Malo know.” He smiled acceptingly and a heavy weight lifted from Otto’s heart. “Have something for Major.” Malo pinched a small, metal object between his thumb and forefinger and presented it to Otto as delicately as he could. Otto accepted the pistol thankfully and placed it in the holster on his new belt, immediately feeling more secure with its weight resting on his hip.

  “What’s the status of our mission, Lieutenant Schunkari?”

  “Meeting Rilek Trinity Straits. Malo put location in computer.”

  “And how long until we reach the rendezvous point?”

  “Seventy-two hours.”

  “Excellent, Malo. I’ll leave you to pilot the ship. Inform me when we’re two hours out. Until then, you can find me in the cargo hold.” Otto almost told Malo that he was going to be working on Bertie, but he didn’t want to raise any suspicion, so he stopped short. “If I’m not there, you can find me in my quarters amidships. Carry on.”

  Chapter 19: Lonely

  “This is your three-thirty wake-up call.” The soft voice of the holodex chimed happily through the intercom as a wide-eyed Dezmara Strykar watched the rays of a white sun break past the curvature of a large, purple moon floating just off the bow of her ship. She always left the clock set to the time of the last planet she had been to, although she hardly ever slept and when she did, she never needed help waking up at a particular hour. Like so many other so-called nights, Dezmara was unblinking at the helm and didn’t need the reminder to rise. She let out a long exhale and brushed her dark hair from her green eyes. She pulled a steaming cup to her lips and sipped slowly as she searched the stars for something she had never seen. Dezmara was Human, or at least that’s the only conclusion she could come to that made sense, although she wished, with all her heart, it wasn’t true.

  She hardly believed it herself, but it was the only explanation for the fact that she couldn’t find anyone else like her. Humans were a legend, a myth—a race so hated by the Durax that they annihilated the entire Human home world. The Durax killed vast numbers of their conquered, but they always took survivors as slaves. But something else happened with Humans—the Durax left none alive; or at least, they thought they hadn’t. Legend said that an unknown number of Humans escaped their ravaged and dying world, and that the Durax, despite all their power, could not find and destroy them all. That is why they had been hunted.

  Humans were talked about in whispers and secrets. Some storytellers said Humans wielded a great power over the Durax and, like the Mewlatai, were destined to one day help overthrow the reign of Helekoth and his vile followers, freeing the enslaved galaxies of the universe. But still others asked, if Humans had this mysterious power, why didn’t they use it to save their own world? Why did they flee instead of stand and fight? Why haven’t they returned as saviors? Some believed that they escaped to a free galaxy, never to return. Others believed they were hunted to extinction. Descriptions of Human shapes and features were once posted at every Durax outpost and checkpoint across the universe and they were always accompanied by the words “extremely dangerous” followed by “reward.” But Humans had not been seen for an age. It had been so long since any living creature had caught even a glimpse of a Human that they were scarcely believed to exist at all. Not even the Durax, except perhaps for the few still living who discovered them, believed that there once was or still existed any such thing as a Human.

  Of course, there was such thing as a Human. There was Dezmara. She was flesh and blood and the destruction of the Human planet happened so long ago that she couldn’t have possibly lived the hundreds of millennia that had passed since the Durax were said to have begun their quest to dominate all life. Or could she? She didn’t know anything about her physiology. No one knew how long Humans lived, if they were granted great gifts of strength and speed or if they possessed powers of the mind. No one she ever spoke to knew anything about Humans, and too much snooping after a successful run was a surefire way to convince good paying clients and ringers that you were a Durax spy. Dezmara had no idea how old she was, but there was something about her smooth skin and bright eyes that told her she was still relatively young. She was tall compared to most races she had seen, and although curvy, her body was covered in toned muscle from several years of combat training.

  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply as she began the morning ritual she had repeated every day for the last eight years. Dezmara concentrated on the last thing she could remember about her past—the night she was discovered on a derelict ship, with no power and with no crew, floating in an uncharted vector of space. She remembered becoming aware of a deep, impenetrable darkness that consumed her. Then, slowly, she remembered feeling the smallest trace of an ember spark somewhere in the recesses of her mind. The spark flickered into a faint glow that continued to swell, cutting into the darkness until it raged like the first sun born into the emptiness of a universe that had never before seen light. The rays emanated from her consciousness and launched a fiery attack on every inch of her frozen body until at long last she could feel the tingling sensation of blood pulsing through her extremities. Her eyes swam beneath their lids as she struggled to open them and a voice like a warning went off in her head. “Wake up! Wake up, Dezmara! Dezmara Strykar—WAKE UP!” She summoned all her will to force open her heavy lids. The flashes of light that played around the room flooded her senses as tears of protest streamed down her bluish cheeks. Then the first sounds Dezmara could remember hearing vibrated in muffled tones in her ears.

  “Captain, we’ve found something. There’s a life form in a cryolech and its vital signs are stable. There’s no other cargo aboard.”

  “What does the registry say on the cryolech, Rhinok?”

  “The register is empty, Captain. I don’t know what it is, but it doesn’t look familiar to me.”

  “Keep the chamber locked but start the thawing process and prepare to move the life form. I’ll make ready the infirmary to examine the specimen.”

  “I’ve already done so, Captain. Rhinok out…”

  “’Ello, luv.”

  Dezmara woke from her trance with a sudden jerk as the familiar voice of her mechanic broke the silence.

  “Daydreamin’ again, were we? Same ol’ Dezmara. Three years, ev’ry mornin’ I been wakin’ you at the same time from a dream you won’t tell me nuthin’ ‘bout. I’m gonna go out on a limb an’ assume it was nuthin’ again—just like the last ‘undred times?”

  Dezmara’s small mouth smiled coyly as the Kaniderelle busied himself with finding a clean cup without waiting for a reply. Simon Latranis peered into the neatly organized compartments in the cockpit with yellow eyes framed by perfectly round mechanic�
�s goggles that rested squarely on his long, narrow snout. He smiled to himself, revealing two sharp incisors followed by a succession of less menacing teeth on each side of his mouth as he slowly poured a steaming, green liquid from a shiny cylinder into his favorite cup. His keen sense of smell was working overtime as his nostrils flexed vigorously at the hot vapor that danced from the vessel and gently caressed his nose.

  “Aaah,” he said as he stared mistily at the object of his affection. “Nuthin’ quite like a steamin’ cup of oshkva to warm your insides first thing in’ the mornin’, is there?” His question wasn’t aimed at anyone in particular, and he gripped the cup with both paws in a reverent embrace as he carefully eased backward into the copilot’s seat next to Dezmara, making certain not to spill a single drop of his beloved nectar.

  She eyed him with interest as they sat in silence and enjoyed the beautiful scene unfolding before them through the viewing panes. He was a medium-sized Kaniderelle at just over five feet tall, not including the pointy-tipped ears that sat attentively on top of his head. The backs of his paws, and the extent of his arms that was exposed when he pulled up the sleeves of his blue, grease-stained smock, were covered in short reddish-brown fur. His tail was of the same color, but the fur that covered it was considerably longer than anywhere else on his body, and at the moment, the bushy appendage curled from behind him and rested motionless in his lap. The insides of his arms, neck, and ears were lined in white and contrasted sharply with the rest of his body. He had distinctive markings on his face that started on his snout and continued onto his brow, then traced around his eyes like a mask and gave him a mischievous look, particularly when he wasn’t wearing his goggles.

  Dezmara didn’t know much about Simon’s past before she met him three years ago. She had needed a crew member who knew his way around plasma turbines and was more than familiar with on-board weapons systems. She also needed someone who wouldn’t ask too many questions. Fortunately for Dezmara, the underworld of ringers, moonrunners, and black market smugglers was full of characters who didn’t want to be found. When Simon agreed to sign on as Dezmara’s only crew member under the strict condition that she never ask about his past, she knew it was a match made in heaven. Of course she was even more delighted when he turned out to be a whiz with anything mechanical, from plasma turbines to magneto generators, as well as any type of weapon they had happened to come across in their three years of flying together.

  She was comfortable with their set-up. They were moonrunners—or just ‘runners’ as they were more commonly called—and their operation was built on anonymity. Simon enjoyed discretion as much as Dezmara did, and he didn’t mind at all that she went to great lengths to ensure her existence stayed a secret; in fact, he had designed all the systems that kept them both from having to deal directly with anyone or anything outside of the ship if they wanted.

  “Any word from the guv’na?” Simon asked nonchalantly between sips of oshkva.

  “Nothing’s come through on the usual frequency. You sure you programmed it correctly?”

  Simon feigned a look of genuine hurt as Dezmara continued to stare out the main view port at the radiant sun now more than three-quarters past the eclipsing body of the purple planet.

  “’Course I programmed it correc’ly, what kind’a bloody bungler do you ‘spose I am anyway?”

  Dezmara smiled over her steaming cup without looking at Simon as he double-checked the receiver frequency on the com unit with one paw while palming his cup from the bottom with the other. Simon grunted brashly as the display on the device flashed a sequence of numbers.

  “There ‘tis. Still workin’ and still encrypted jus’ like I tol’ya. One day, girl, you’ll learn never to doubt your ol’ pal Simon. Looks like the guv’s jus’ not callin’.”

  “Well,” Dezmara said before taking a sip, “it’s a good thing you finally got it working because the ‘guvna’ is going to call…right about…now.” She leaned forward and delicately placed her cup on the console in front of her as the com system issued four beeps in quick succession. The holodex voice that gave Dezmara her unnecessary wake-up reminder chimed through the cockpit once again, this time announcing the caller.

  “Ringer, Leonardo Fellini. Authentication code LFX6239. Encryption secure.”

  “Simon, would you be a dear and initiate the voice veil program? Thanks.”

  Simon was staring at Dezmara with a befuddled look, and his tail was now twitching from side to side in his lap, as it always did when he was perplexed or concentrating.

  “’Onestly, luv, how do you do that?” he said with amazement as his furry digits flew across the control console and initiated the computer program that he had designed to disguise Dezmara’s voice.”

  “Greetings, Leo. What can I do for you?”

  “Ghost, it is a pleasure to speak to the best runner in the galaxy,” Leo flattered in a thick, Turillian accent. “You have done such a superb job—two hundred and thirty runs and never a second place finish! For someone who doesn’t want to be known, you are making quite a name for yourself. I was wondering if you would care to make it two hundred and thirty-one?”

  “That’s why I’m tuned to an illegal ringer frequency,” Dezmara chided, although she doubted her sarcasm would come across in the deep, electronic speech the voice-veiler generated on the other end of the transmission. “Destination?”

  “Ghost, you never cease to amaze me! Always short and to the point—it’s always about business with you, eh?”

  “There is nothing else, Leo. Where’s the cargo headed?”

  “Hexalon in the Simokon System. A little city called Chuudagar.”

  “Simokon, huh?” Dezmara paused and made a quick calculation in her head. “That’s about far enough. How much does the cargo weigh?”

  “About forty wileks.”

  “Forty wileks?” Dezmara asked with more than a hint of skepticism as she cast a quizzical look at Simon, whose raised brow told her that he was just as curious as she was. “I thought you ringers liked to divvy up your load among several runners to increase your chances of delivery.”

  “There are others, my dear Ghost.”

  “Who else you got?”

  “The Berillica, the Argonaut, the Aurelia Blue and Admiral Rilek’s outfit—Company 327.”

  A slight look of concern appeared on Dezmara’s face as she breathed in through her teeth. “How many ships is Rilek planning to run?”

  “It appears he is going to run the Maelstrom, and his flagship—the Lodestar.”

  “Hmmm.” A look of concentration suddenly changed her expression as she nodded to Simon, who immediately set his cup aside and began a lightning quick, dexterous assault on the control panel in front of him. In seconds, the holographic display was alight with three-dimensional, rotating diagrams and statistics on each of the ships Fellini had mentioned.

  “What’s the matter, Ghost? It’s not like you to be afraid of a little competition?”

  “Company outfits change the odds, Leo—you know that. It’s in their interest to work together so their ships finish at the top of the pack, and Rilek is one of the best at fleet strategy and defense. No doubt he’ll try to captain the Lodestar to a win while sending the other to slow me down. What are the odds in Trillis?”

  “They’re expecting Admiral Rilek to be victorious this time. I think they feel that he’s due and that The Ghost’s luck may have run out.”

  “Bad bet,” Dezmara said confidently. “Gonna be a lot of broken hearts in Trillis after this run. I hope you’re not one of the casualties, Leo.”

  “What can I say, my dear Ghost. I play the odds.”

  A smirk danced across Dezmara’s lips as she reviewed the Lodestar’s thrust to weight ratio and maneuverability stats. Her Zebulon star freighter had almost the exact hauling capacity and far outmatched the rival ship in speed and agility. Rilek was certainly counting on the captain of the Maelstrom to run interference in order to gain the advantage.

&nb
sp; “What’s the payoff?” she asked coolly.

  “The winner gets one hundred thousand tolocs. Second place gets—”

  “No need,” she said matter-of-factly as she cut the Ringer off mid-sentence. “I don’t ever plan on knowing what second place gets paid. Count me in and put me down for all the winnings plus my credit on the Ghost to win.”

  Simon’s large, yellow eyes looked like they could explode at any moment as he stared at Dezmara.

  “That’s over four million tolocs,” Leo gasped as his usually smooth Turillian accent wavered in astonishment. “Ghost, I hope you know what you are doing…you could lose…everything.”

  “What I wager is my own business, Leo. Place the bet, please. I’ll take my winnings in the usual manner—half on credit and the other half loaded onto my ship when the run’s over. What’s my pick-up point?”

  “The Ghost should arrive at Luxon Station in the Trinity Straits in four hours. Approach from the third moon and stay tuned to this frequency—they’ll contact you with the station’s current position. I’ll tell them to expect you.”

  “Have my money ready, Leo,” Dezmara said flatly and then terminated the connection.

  Chapter 20: Rilek and the Lodestar

  Otto spent the next seventy hours in the cargo hold and his quarters. He was a better than average mechanic, and Bertie was beginning to look like his old self again. Otto used the hoist in the cargo bay to lift Bertie high enough that he could repair any damage to the primary cog mount. After the cog was back in place, Otto separated Bertie’s displaced tread by removing two pins in the master link. He carefully laid the heavy tracks back on Bertie’s interlocking gears with more help from the hoist before inserting two new pins in the master link and pushing them into place with a hydraulic press. Once Bertie was mobile again, Otto went to work welding and grinding all of the cracks in Bertie’s chassis. Bertie was gaining power with every passing hour on the charger, and Otto had to scold him more than once for picking up tools with his various hands and trying to pitch in. Otto didn’t want anyone to know that Bertie was back on-line just yet. He didn’t know why, but something told him to wait.