Star Watch

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  Both Leon and Hanna continued to stare at Larkbadder.

  “Use your imagination … leave it to say the Pharloms entertained themselves throughout the night … until they were satisfied. I just happened to be one of the prisoners selected to cart off what was left of their remains to the bio furnace. Those mental images will stick with me till the day I die.”

  “So you’ve given up?” Hanna asked.

  Leon was surprised—she had asked the same question he’d been ready to ask himself; his appreciation for her ballsy attitude just kept on growing.

  For the first time, Larkbadder let a smile cross his lips. “I’m not sitting here talking to you, Pike, because I like your company. I don’t. You’re a miscreant … there’s a bounty on your head in this system, and I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that you were wanted in other systems as well.”

  Hanna looked straight at Leon now. Her expression was hard to read.

  Larkbadder continued, “With that said, if there’s anyone who can get off this rock, it’s you. And just maybe, you can bring back help.”

  “That, or he’ll leave this system and never look back,” Hanna said.

  Leon placed a hand on his chest. “Your lack of trust in me cuts right to the heart, Hanna.” Though he made light of her comment, it actually stung. He may very well be a miscreant, as Larkbadder put it, but he was loyal to those he cared about—sometimes. He turned back to Larkbadder. “Other than the Marauder, I didn’t notice any other vessel.”

  Larkbadder’s smile returned. “And there you have the crux of the problem. The Pharloms may be thick … dull-witted, but they’re smart enough to ensure no other escape attempts are even remotely possible.”

  “Shit.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So why did you think he could be of any help?” Hanna asked.

  “Your friend has a unique ability … like how he was able to divert a freighter, filled to the brim with Dramgolian Ail … metric tons of the stuff … a six-month supply, to this planet. Let me tell you both, the one thing you don’t mess with is a Tromian’s Dramgolian Ail. You’re actually quite famous here, Pike. I’d suggest a disguise, but …” Larkbadder looked around the barracks and shrugged, “not much chance of that.”

  Hanna’s expression now was much easier to read: a cross between disgust and disbelief. “Let’s get back to escaping,” Leon said.

  “As the Security Commander heading up that case, your unique communications abilities became apparent. Not only can you speak in any alien language, you take on its dialect, too … you sound like a native.”

  What Larkbadder was referring to was Leon’s use of his internal nano-devices and his NanoCom’s translating capability. He had to admit, they’d provided him with more opportunities than he ever could have imagined.

  Larkbadder stood and hurried over to the tent’s outer fabric—he peered through a small gap in the material.

  Leon had been hearing noises coming from outside. Obviously, Larkbadder heard them as well.

  “What is it?” Hanna asked.

  Larkbadder continued to watch whatever was happening outside. “Pharloms preparing a campfire.” He turned toward Leon. “Just like last time. My guess … some have attempted another escape. There are six men and one woman; all have their hands bound behind their backs. From the looks of the collected Pharloms, they’re feeling uncharacteristically jovial.”

  Hanna looked like she was going to be sick. She pointed a finger at Leon, as if she were holding a pistol. “I don’t really know who you are and, to be honest, I don’t really like you very much, but if you can help get us out of here, I’ll do anything for you … Hell, I’ll have your baby.”

  “Slow down, cupcake … we just met.” He stood and joined Larkbadder at the small open gap and peered out. “How much time?”

  Larkbadder said, “Last time they waited until dark. But the natives are looking restless. My guess? An hour … maybe less.”

  “Can you stall them? You have access to the dude with the red sash … the warden?”

  “I intervene, even in the slightest, I’ll be bound up and thrown in with the others. We’ve learned to keep our mouths shut, or pay the consequences.”

  “Can you think of any other reason you’d need to speak with him … perhaps some camp liaison issues?”

  “Overcrowding. I could ask for a meeting to discuss more barracks.”

  “If I’m going to be slinking around in the dark, I’d feel a lot better knowing he, and some of the others, were distracted. Maybe you can start a small commotion?”

  Larkbadder scowled at that, then nodded. “Look, the communications depot is located on the far side of the big tent you were first brought into for processing.” He crouched down next to his cot, pulled back the blanket, and came up with a metal pipe, about a foot long. “If you’re going to do this, you’ll need a weapon. Take this.”

  Hanna stood up, grabbing it from Larkbadder’s hand before Leon could. “I’ll take that.”

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m coming with you,” she said.

  “Like hell you are. If I get caught, that’s one thing. There’s no point in both of us risking our lives. Sit tight and let me handle this,” Leon said, reaching for the pipe.

  “I don’t trust you … certainly not with my life. No, I’m going with you and there’s nothing you can do or say to change my mind.”

  Chapter 15

  Sol System

  The Assailant, Open Space – Near Jefferson Station

  _________________

  Admiral Perry Reynolds was awakened twenty-five minutes after finally falling asleep. He’d returned to the Assailant totally exhausted. Too many pressing matters … post-war grievances, tensions regarding how to redistribute military assets among Alliance members, the need to continue to protect Earth, and the near-extinction of humanity there.

  He continued lying in bed, listening to the gentle, repetitive tone. The AI’s voice came alive. “Admiral Reynolds, you have an emergency situation that requires your attention. Captain Underwood awaits your response.”

  I’m too fucking old for this shit! He let his mind drift back to the nearly refurbished F1, sitting back at the scrapyard. Why couldn’t I have just left it alone … stayed retired?

  The admiral rubbed his tired eyes and, pulling aside the bedcovers, swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He found his robe, lying at the end of the bed, and stood. “Let him in.”

  Captain Underwood hurried into the admiral’s cabin looking desperate. He, too, looked as if he’d been rousted early from sleep. One of the older officers in the fleet, Underwood was almost completely gray on top, tall, and in relatively good shape. “Admiral, we have a situation.”

  “I gathered as much, Carl. Tell me what couldn’t wait—”

  The captain cut him off: “I’m sorry, Admiral, but the shit’s hit the fan in quadrant 5626.”

  The admiral shook his head. “I don’t have any idea what that means.”

  “It’s the Sahhrain, Admiral … they entered the Dacci Commonwealth system three hours ago … casualties are already in the hundreds of thousands.” The admiral was well aware the Sahhrain were like no other adversary. Driven by ancient rituals, superstitions, myths, and folklore, the Sahhrain were consumed with a dark, evil belief system that crossed into the afterlife.

  He had already determined the Sahhrain needed to be dealt with. They were the next mission, after Trom, for Jason and his Star Watch armada.

  “How many Allied warships are battle-ready at this moment?”

  “Here at Jefferson Station?”

  “Yes.”

  “Close to one hundred, Admiral.”

  He contemplated on that figure for a moment. The Assailant had recently undergone retrofitting, allowing for interchange wormhole travel. If they wanted to get to the Dacci Commonwealth system ASAP, his ship would be needed to open up an interchange wormhole. She was also, next to the Minian, the most po
werful warship in the fleet. With the ship’s cloaking capability, she was nearly impossible to defeat.

  Underwood said, “In anticipation of your command, I’ve taken the liberty to ready the fleet, sir.”

  “I’ll be commanding the operation from the Assailant, Captain. Have the fleet ready to move within the hour.”

  “Very good, sir.” Underwood quickly left his quarters.

  The admiral walked to the observation window. In the distance, blue and captivating—Earth shone bright amid the contrasting blackness of space. He pushed away the growing feeling of dread that recently had begun burrowing, like slithering dark snakes, into his consciousness. He wondered, as he gazed at his home planet, if this might be the last time he’d ever see Earth.

  * * *

  Similar to what the admiral was doing, thirty-eight light-years away, Lord Vikor Shakrim was gazing out through a large, elongated, observation aperture toward another distant planet—a planet devoid of any coloration with the exception, perhaps, of pale gray. One of the least populated of the Dacci Commonwealth system of planets, it was the most similar to his own home world, Sahhrain. Wind, perpetual sandstorms, and other harsh conditions had fashioned his people into what they’d become … certainly resilient … but also patient. Feeling his excitement elevating, Shakrim checked himself. Neutral ambivalence toward others, those not of Sahhrain lineage, was the sacred state of mind to hold, as prescribed by his early forefathers, and set down in their holy primogenitor writings. But over the years, the millennia, most Sahhrain had transposed all vestiges of such ambivalence toward other races into unadulterated hatred, smacking of evilness.

  His muted reflection, staring back at him on the glassy surface of the observation window, told of his lack of sleep. Deep creases around his mouth, a sunken hollowness to his cheeks, were noticeable. The pallor of his skin—the color of the distant gray planet—had recently turned several shades darker. Lord Vikor Shakrim, standing straight, took two steps backward, allowing his full reflection to come into view. At six-foot-eight, he had a striking form. As dictated by his rank, he wore the customary, reflective-gold breastplate, which somewhat enhanced his own chiseled pectoral and abdominal musculature. His black stretched uniform, molded to the contours of his flesh, glistened as black as the dark space beyond. And black like his hair—pulled straight up, angled back, thick and coarse like Brillo, it was formed into a cone-shaped mound. The only indulgence of color came from the inside lining of his cloak, revealing when he moved bright glimpses of scarlet red.

  Enough of this! Shakrim reluctantly pulled his eyes away from his reflection, turned, and hurried from his simply adorned, albeit ample, living quarters. In the passageway three crewmembers immediately stopped in their tracks, and bowed their heads. He ignored them. He also ignored the many figures, like grotesque artistic reliefs, displayed on the bulkheads throughout the ship. Mostly heads and upper torsos—enemies of the Sahhrain—were positioned as though some incredible force had pressed their form into one side of the bulkhead. They now peered forth, each covered in metallic black, in suspended animations of both agony and despair. Shakrim passed by almost a dozen mummified alien forms before reaching the bridge.

  Lord Shakrim entered the bridge with purpose. His sudden black and gold appearance, the momentary flashes of red, brought crew activity to a momentary standstill. Heads bowed as Shakrim strode to the center of the triangular-shaped bridge. Three of the ship’s senior officers stood at the center console, referred to as the board, where a high-resolution display provided a comprehensive, logistical presentation of space and the planets within the local solar system.

  The three officers were obviously in the middle of something—probably strategizing. With a casual swipe of his hand, Lord Shakrim cleared the board to black. With another wave, he brought forth a live feed of the planet below, Corplin-Re. Standing erect, hands on his hips, he assessed the gray world. He used his mind—his telekinetic powers—and the image below began to enlarge, to zoom in, at a faster and faster rate. The three officers quietly watched his superior telekinesis abilities at work. All Sahhrain possessed similar mental powers, in varying degrees: the ability to move small objects—ten to fifteen feet. But it always required the use of hands—a wave … a gesture with two hands, or some kind of physical motion, or action—to manipulate the objects. Lord Shakrim needed no such antics. His telekinetic powers were far superior to those of others on the ship, or in the entire fleet, for that matter. He wasn’t limited, either, to mere ten- or fifteen-foot manipulations—he was able to mentally move very heavy objects a mile’s distance. He continued to focus, zooming in on the planet until the feed showed him exactly what he was seeking.

  “Lord Shakrim, as you can see, our army has constrained the local Dacci populace. What resistance we encountered from their paltry military effort has also been dealt with. We also have control of the Loop wormhole here in Dacci space—”

  “I’m well aware of all this, Commander Hilt … If I want to hear you prattle annoyingly, I’ll ask you to.” Lord Shakrim continued to stare at the feed. A straight line of attacking Sahhrain shieldsmen warriors, each dressed identically in black battle suits, had enhancement shields worn on their left forearms. These small shields worked uniformly with the shieldsmen’s own telekinetic powers—amplifying them—creating a directional pulse or wave that virtually paralyzed nearby opponents.

  He watched as the marines maintained a tight formation. The embattled Dacci, small and insubstantial-looking in comparison, attacked indiscriminately from all sides. Some fired handheld plasma weapons, while others resorted to throwing stones. Shakrim zoomed back some to get a better, wider perspective. Thousands upon thousands of Dacci bodies lay lifeless on the ground. He smiled and nodded his approval. Shakrim knew better … they were not dead. No, death would come to them, but very slowly … hours, maybe days, from now. Mere killing was far too easy. The Sahhrain were infamous for inflicting rituals of unending suffering …

  Chapter 16

  Alchieves System

  The Minian, Bridge

  _________________

  The Minian exited the interchange wormhole at the outskirts of the Alchieves star system. Within minutes, the rest of the armada followed suit. Moments later, the wormhole began to slowly fade, eventually disappearing completely from view.

  “Talk to me, Gunny,” Jason said.

  “Looks like the Pharloms have arrived in force,” Orion replied back from tactical. “No less than fifty warships of varying size and strength, and more are still arriving, as we speak. All have plasma weaponry and advanced shielding capabilities. A formidable fleet, Cap. Looks like there’s several stationary transport-type vessels here as well.”

  “Well, we’re not here to start the next interstellar war … let’s see if we can try a little diplomacy first. Seaman Gordon, hail their command ship.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Several minutes went by, “… um … no response, sir,” Gordon said.

  Jason studied the logistics segment on the overhead display. Most Pharlom vessels were farther within the system, closer to the Trom world, approximately six hundred million miles’ distance from their current position. Ten warships were positioned closer and in a line at the edge of that system. “What are those, Gunny?” Jason asked, gesturing toward a series of red icons distributed around the planetary system.

  “Cannon platforms … big mothers, too, Cap. I’m guessing those things pack a major wallop.”

  “Any way to know if the Pharloms have taken control of them?”

  “Not really—”

  “Totally disagree,” Bristol interjected from the forward port side of the bridge. “I just pinged one of their sensor interface ports … though what I can see of the code is minimal, I am seeing a reassignment of their command and control parameters. You can bet they are now Pharlom-controlled guns.”

  “I stand corrected, Captain. Looks like Bristol’s right,” Orion said.

  Jason nodded, his eyes stil
l on the display. “Show me the command ship.”

  A pulsating ring surrounded one of the warships, the one closest to Trom.

  “It’s the heaviest of the lot, Captain,” Orion said. “It has shields comparable to those of our Craing cruisers, yet significantly better firepower.”

  “Sir, I finally have a hail response … a Grand Overseer … Mangga … apparently he’s the fleet commander.”

  “Thank you, Seaman Gordon … on screen.”

  It took several moments for Jason to figure out what the hell he was looking at. Perhaps a pile of rocks? Jason glanced toward Orion—she shrugged and looked as mystified as he felt.

  “Hello … I am Captain Jason Reynolds of the Allied Star Watch vessel, the Minian. Who am I addressing?”

  The pile of rocks shifted and turned. “You are addressing Grand Overseer Mangga. What do you want here?”

  “You’ve entered Allied space and have taken predatory action against an Alliance world. I want you to pull your forces back … do it now. Then we can discuss reparations for the damages you’ve caused within this system.”

  “And who are you to dictate to me, human garbage?” the Pharlom leader replied in his deep gravelly voice.

  Jason felt his irritation growing. Not knowing where Mangga’s eyes were, or if he even had eyes, was disconcerting. “What I am … is the Law …” Jason smiled. “There’s a new sheriff in town and I’m giving you ten minutes to pull your forces back.”

  Again the gravelly voice boomed, “I do not need to pull my forces back, human refuse. Leave this system now, or be annihilated.”

  “Listen to me, Mangga … I don’t want to destroy you, or your fleet. Honestly, I really don’t. There’s been far too much of that over the last few years. But be advised, don’t let the size of our armada deceive you; I assure you, you are outmatched in every way that counts.”

  “Leave here, human. This is your final warning.”