Alien Hunters (Alien Hunters Book 1): A Free Space Opera Novel

by Daniel Arenson

  The woman he had killed.

  "You chose to wed that fool of a magician instead of me," Grotter whispered, caressing her framed face. "You chose to fight me. But I will always love you, Kira. Even though your blood stains my hands, I will forever love you." He turned back to look into space. "And I will kill your sons. I will kill Riff and Steel Starfire."

  A smile stretched across what remained of Grotter's mouth, twitching. How sweet it would be! Killing Kira had not been enough, had not filled his cravings for vengeance, had not punished her enough for spurning his love. But to kill her sons! To kill that fool of a bluesman and that relic of a knight! And in the name of Emperor Lore of Skelkra, no less!

  A day of great victory approached. A day of vengeance. A day of glory.

  Finally Grotter saw it ahead. The asteroid floated before him through space, a hundred kilometers across. As the Barracuda flew closer, Grotter saw the glittering colony clinging to the great rock—Pyrite City.

  Grotter snorted. A city of sin. A city of sleaze. Once he caught the pirilian girl, it was a city he and his skelkrin masters would destroy.

  He flew his starship closer to the mining colony. The halls of Pyrite City clung to the asteroid like luminous barnacles: brothels, opium dens, casinos, bars, a thousand hives of debauchery. Grotter directed his ship toward a port, and the great Barracuda landed, dwarfing the other starships that anchored here.

  Grotter left the control bridge, walked through the gleaming halls of the Barracuda, and exited the warship. A hundred of his warriors exited the ship with him, Cosmians in black robes and black hoods, their guns larger than human arms. Across the starship lot, several robots saw the militia and fled, squeaking and clattering.

  One Pyrite denizen, however, was more brazen. A little man in a gray polyester suit rushed forth. He had a timid, ratty look to him, his fingers tipped with small claws no larger than coins, his nose sprouting whiskers.

  Probably a starling, Grotter thought. A human mixed with alien genes. A badge on his suit named him "Myron."

  "You cannot land here!" Myron was whining, his voice high-pitched. "Your starship is too large, too large!"

  Grotter raised an eyebrow, amused. He turned to stare at the Barracuda behind him. The massive warship filled most of the lot. The crushed remains of several starjets lay beneath it, flattened and showering sparks. His fellow Cosmians smirked, turning between the wreckage and the wailing little bureaucrat in the gray suit.

  "You must leave, must leave!" Myron cried, waving his arms about, seemingly undaunted by the sight of a hundred Cosmian warriors.

  Grotter snickered, stepped toward the little man, and reached out his metal claw. He grabbed Myron's throat and lifted the thrashing creature off the floor.

  "I'm looking for Riff Starfire." Grotter's bionic eye narrowed. "A piece of space scum, traveling in a dragon-shaped ship with a crew of miscreants. He was here. Do not deny it. Where is Starfire now?"

  Myron thrashed, gurgling, pawing at the metal claw that squeezed his throat. The little creature was trying to speak but only wheezing.

  "Speak louder!" Grotter demanded, squeezing his claws tighter. "I can't hear you."

  "Starfire . . . gone!" Myron managed. "Flew off! Release . . . me!"

  Grotter tossed the sniveling rat to the floor. Myron fell with a thud and tried to scurry away. Before he could flee, Grotter slammed down his boot, pinning the starling to the floor. He reached down his claws, pointing the sharp metal fingers at Myron's whiskered face.

  "Tell me everything," Grotter said. "When did Starfire leave? Where was he heading?"

  "I don't know, sir!" Myron said. "I—"

  Grotter lashed his claws, slicing off one of Myron's earlobes.

  The starling screamed. Blood spurted onto his polyester suit, only to slide off the shimmering fabric.

  "You'll have to do better than that," Grotter said, "unless you want to lose more body parts."

  Myron wept. "I don't know, sir! He . . . he bought hyperfuel. Just one pack. Just enough for twenty or thirty light-years, sir. Flew off only yesterday."

  Grotter pressed his claws against Myron's other ear. "Where was he heading?"

  "I don't know, sir! I saw him heading . . ." Myron gulped and pointed. "That way. To that star. The bright one in the Lyra constellation."

  Grotter snarled and looked up. Above, through a transparent force field, shone the stars. Myron was pointing toward Vega, one of the brightest stars in the sky.

  Yes, Grotter thought. Vega was close, only twenty-five light-years away. Just close enough for a single pack of hyperfuel. Humanity's newest colony lay there on a planet called Cirona, a frontier backwater.

  Grotter pulled his foot off Myron and turned toward his men. "We go to Vega!"

  The Cosmians bowed their hooded heads and began filing back into the Barracuda.

  Myron rose to his feet, clutched his wounded ear, and began fleeing the starship lot.

  "Myron!" Grotter said.

  The starling turned toward him. Grotter raised his claw, opened his palm, and blasted out a ball of plasma.

  The red projectile slammed into Myron. The starling screamed, fell, burned, twitched . . . then fell still.

  "You tried to hide information from me," Grotter said to the corpse. He snorted. "Also, your whining was annoying."

  Grotter stepped back into his shimmering, silver warship. With a blast of engine fire that roasted the other starships on the lot, the SS Barracuda rose back into space, leaving the asteroid behind.

  As the ship blazed into hyperspace, Grotter sat on the bridge, smiling thinly, and clutched the framed photograph of his beloved.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:

  THE ENGINE GRINDERS

  Piston paced across the engine room, his nerves refusing to unwind.

  "The coils are overheating," he muttered, tapping them. "The hyperfuel is burning too hot." He peered at the gauges. "Too much steam building up." He twisted a valve, releasing a blast of heat. "Damn ship's falling to pieces, and you keep getting underfoot."

  Twig sat on a pipe. She glared at him. "Me? I'm just sitting here."

  "Sitting here being useless!" Piston shook his fist at her. "We're flying far, Twig. Farther than we've ever flown. Deep to the most distant of human outposts. Near . . ." He gulped. "Near the Skelkrin Empire. And you're just sitting there!"

  The diminutive mechanic tossed her long, black hair and rolled her eyes. "Well, what do you want me to do? Summon the armada? Lead an army to war?"

  "You could help me with the damn tension coils." Piston knelt. His old knees ached whenever he knelt. "Damn it, Twig, I'm too old for this. I need you."

  She groaned, leaped off the pipe, and knelt beside him. She reached under the panels and twisted at the coils, setting them aright. "There. Better?"

  He nodded and grumbled. "Better."

  Twig playfully punched his shoulder. "And I know you need me. You'd be so lonely without me. You love me and I'm your best friend." She grinned and hopped away as he tried to slap her. "I heard you say it! Back when I was inside the tardigrade. You said it all, and you were crying. And—all right, all right!"

  She scurried away as he roared and tried to grab her. The damn little clod was so fast. He was a lumbering hunk of muscle, slow and sturdy. He was built for the rocky, giant planet of Gruffstone, a place of immense gravity. There his stocky body thrived. But this ship here was set to Earth gravity, always leaving him feeling slow, cumbersome, a brute. He couldn't catch Twig. He could barely catch a cold on this ship.

  Finally he sat down on a box and sighed. "I'm not meant for this business no more."

  Twig was halfway across the engine room. She peered around a bar. "What, fixing tension coils?"

  He glowered at her. "I'm fine at fixing coils! I mean traipsing across the galaxy like this. This is a young gruffle's game." He tugged at his long white beard with his knobby brown hands. "I'm old, Twig."

  She rolled her eyes. "No you're not."

  "
I am!" he insisted. "I'm very old. Ancient. I'm far, far older than you."

  "Well, I'm only nineteen. You have crumbs in your beard older than that."

  He glared, brushing that beard. "Well, I'm far older even than this ship."

  Twig raised an eyebrow. "The Dragon Huntress is only sixteen. Even I'm older than it."

  "Well, I'm very old! Leave it at that. So old I've forgotten how old. So many years out here in space, far from home. Far from Gruffstone."

  There were no proper windows down here in the engine room, only a small porthole. Piston stepped toward it and stared outside at the streaming lights of hyperspace. He wondered if Planet Gruffstone, home to the gruffles, was somewhere out there in his field of vision, stretched into a streak of color as the hyperdrive engines bent spacetime around them.

  Twig came to stand beside him. She stood on her tiptoes, hopped up and down, but still couldn't reach the porthole. Standing more than a foot shorter than him, she could never reach a damn thing.

  "Here." He knelt, grumbling. "Hop on my shoulders if you want a look outside. You'll just keep hopping around otherwise and probably break something."

  She climbed onto his back, a fraction of his weight, and onto his shoulders. She gazed out the porthole. "It's pretty out there."

  Piston nodded. "And it was pretty back home. On Gruffstone. Oh, the stars you could see from there! The sky's not as murky as on Earth, you know. As a wee lad, I used to climb the mountains and gaze up at the stars. They shone like diamonds. Have I ever told you about the diamond mines we had back on Gruffstone?"

  Of course he had. He knew that he had told her. A million times or more.

  "No," Twig said softly. "Tell me."

  He inhaled deeply, seeing them again. "So many diamonds shone there, Twig! And rubies. And emeralds. And sapphires. And topaz and amethyst and tiger's eyes and a thousand other gemstones. That's why we first moved to Gruffstone, you know. To mine for precious jewels." He caressed his ring and the ruby that shone there. Suddenly he felt older than ever. Suddenly the ache inside him seemed too great. "She's still buried there, you know. My wife."

  Twig hopped off his shoulders and stood before him. Her brow furrowed. "You were married?"

  "Aye, lassie. To a beautiful woman, a living jewel. The greatest beauty in Gruffstone." He sighed wistfully. "Her skin was smooth as a chestnut. Her eyes were large and deep like the night sky. Her beard was long and flowing, and—"

  "She had a beard?" Twig's eyes widened.

  He frowned. "All gruffle women have beards! And they're proud of it, lassie."

  Twig rubbed her very smooth chin. "Hmm. I don't think I'd want one."

  "That's because you're a knuckle-brained little halfling! But gruffle women are proud of their beards and weave them into many elaborate braids that shine with jewels. And I brought my love many jewels." He lowered his head. "She fell ill. She was still young. Still so beautiful, still so happy. Even until the end, she was happy." He placed his hand against the porthole. "I miss her. After she died, I couldn't stay. I left Gruffstone. Found myself in this floating hunk of junk."

  "You never told me," Twig whispered.

  "You never asked!" He shook his fist, then lowered his arm and lowered his head. "And I never wanted to speak of it." He snorted. "Funny thing. You're the closest thing I've come to a soul mate since she died. Never thought I'd end up being friends with a knuckle-headed halfling."

  Twig stuck out her tongue. "Well, when I left home, I never thought I'd be stuck in an engine room with a grumpy old gruffle. A gruffle who has crumbs in his beard, might I add." She twirled her wrench. "You know, Piston old boy, maybe you like mines and gemstones and pretty rocks. But not me. Not us halflings. I come from a planet of grassy hills, swaying fields, rustling trees, sunlight, flowers. So many flowers. There was true beauty there."

  He snorted. "Flowers! Hah. Allergy monsters. Why'd you ever leave if you love them so much?"

  She shrugged. "Well, everyone in my family has been a farmer. Farmer after farmer, going back for generations. While they were all growing carrots and mushrooms, I was in the shed with my tools, fiddling around and building robots. Junkbots, my old gaffer would call them. They were simple things, just made from tin cans, springs, gears, old batteries and wires and little motors. But they worked. They really did!" She sighed. "I never had any friends back on Haven. I'm small, even for a halfling, and weak, and . . . for a long time, I was very sad. Melancholy, our village doctor called it."

  Melancholy suddenly filled Piston's own heart. "You suffered from depression, even among the flowers?"

  Twig looked down at her feet and shrugged. "Some call it depression, others anxiety, and . . . well, I don't know. Even though it's beautiful in Haven, with flowers and forests, I always felt like there was a gray cloud above me. For many years—Haven years are short, but they seem long to us halflings. I didn't eat much as a youngling. Maybe I was afraid of growing too big. Maybe I felt safer being so small, able to hide, to disappear, to stay a child." Her eyes dampened. "But when I worked in the shed with my tools, building robots, that cloud went away. The robots I built became my friends. While everyone else talked about turnips, mushrooms, and pumpkins, I talked about gears, bolts, screws. I knew I wasn't meant to be a farmer. I knew I was meant to work on great machines like starships. To work with huge, massive hyperdrive engines, not just little motors I took out of lawnmowers. So I left Haven. Hitched a ride to Earth. Saw a dragon starship and knew it was my home." She rubbed the tears out of her eyes and grinned. "It's tough to beat life on a dragon starship. Especially when there's a grumpy old gruffle inside."

  Piston mussed her hair, and suddenly he felt sadder than he had in many days, but also more joyous, a sort of sweet sadness.

  "Aye, lassie." He patted her hand. "There's worse lots in life than this. There's worse than flying through space in a dragon with a good friend."

  She hopped back onto his shoulder, and they stared out together at the stars.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN:

  THE PRINCESS OF ASHMAR

  Nova lay in her bed in the crew quarters, feeling like a maestro trapped in a room with tone-deaf, accordion-playing monkeys. The noise was driving her crazy.

  How could one sleep like this? There were three bunk beds in the room, and from each bed rose a symphony. Piston was the loudest, snoring like an engine; Nova was surprised the sound wasn't knocking down the walls, exposing them to hyperspace. Steel's snoring wasn't as gruff or grainy; the knight emitted a high-pitched wheeze that billowed his mustache with every breath. Twig, barely larger than a toddler, kept kicking her feet in her sleep like a dreaming dog, thumping the wall.

  Romy was the worst of the bunch. Riff had allowed the demon to sleep here tonight instead of in the attic, and the demon now lay sprawled out across her bed, drooling and talking in her sleep.

  "Please, mommy, can I have a puppy? I don't like my vegetables. I want a puppy!"

  Nova rolled over toward the wall, wrapped a pillow around her head, and tried to sleep. But it was impossible.

  She sighed. She missed her home. Back on Earth, she had lived in one of Cog City's finest buildings. Her penthouse had gazed out onto the cityscape—a dazzling view of towers, parks, and countless starjets. Inside her apartment, her bed had been large and soft and topped with satin sheets, not a hard bunk like this. After leaving that useless scoundrel Riff, she had worked hard for her money, had become a famous gladiator, then a rich gladiator. She had found wealth again, the wealth she had lost leaving her planet.

  "You're breaking my heart!" Romy cried out in her sleep. "Put it back in the jar."

  Nova screwed her eyes shut and thought of that lost planet. Of Ashmar. The great, red, fiery world she came from, the homeland of all ashais. She had been born there, had lived there for five Ashmari years—nineteen years as the planet Earth turns. The daughter of Ashmar's king, Nova had grown up in a palace overlooking a lake of fire. She had grown up a warrior, training with blades, with whip
s, with guns, learning all the ways there were to kill a man. She had grown up a princess, an heiress, destined to rule a world.

  And then, six Earth years ago . . . he showed up.

  A scruffy human, ten years her senior. He wore no armor like her people, only jeans and a T-shirt. He carried no crackling whip, only a gun and a guitar. Scruff covered his face, and he played for her people, played on stage, a human come to Ashmar to share his music. He had met her eyes in the crowd, had winked at her, and Nova—young, stupid Nova, only a youth—had fallen for him. For somebody who didn't care that she was a princess. For somebody who wasn't just a grim, gruff warrior, but somebody who could play music for her. Who could make her laugh.

  So I loved you, Riff Starfire, she thought. I told my father I would marry you. She winced. And he cast me out.

  She grabbed her blanket in her fists.

  I gave up two worlds for you. Ashmar. Earth. And now I end up here, in a bunk bed, surrounded by an orchestra from hell. She opened her eyes and looked at Romy. Literally, in this one's case.

  Finally Nova could take it no longer. She climbed out of her bed, stepped between the others, and left the crew quarters.

  She walked down the dark hallway, wearing a long T-shirt that draped over her underpants. Her feet were bare and the floor was cold. Up a flight of stairs, she could see the doorway to the bridge. The door was open, and Giga stood beyond, staring out into hyperspace. Nova wondered if the android slept like humans did, if she too dreamed, if she too was full of fears, regrets, old pain.

  Nova looked away and kept walking down the corridor until she reached the captain's quarters. She opened the door and tiptoed inside.

  Whoever had built the Dragon Huntress had obviously believed the captain first among equals. This chamber was almost as large as the crew quarters, but built for just one. That one—Captain Riff Starfire—lay sleeping in his bed.