Star Watch

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  With his battle suit’s power pack completely depleted, Ricket sprinted from beneath the descending spacecraft’s hot thrusters and headed directly for the stone archway. He quickly discovered it was actually the gateway to a wide, subterranean stairway. Down he went, more than a thousand steps, before reaching a broad, cobblestoned thoroughfare. Internal nano-devices, with specialty enhanced optics, allowed him to perceive basic shapes in the near total darkness. He determined he was in an immense natural cave—perhaps a dried-up aquifer—one that reached a thousand feet into the darkness above and extended miles in all directions, though it was too dark for him to be completely sure. He continued walking down the main road, and, in time, reached the outskirts of a city. Ricket marveled at the sheer size of the surrounding, towering stone structures—most were in a remarkable state of preservation. His battle suit’s power levels, eventually sufficiently regenerated, allowed him to use his helmet’s spotlight to take in his nearby surroundings. He turned his head and noted other buildings—buildings even paralleling the buildings behind these. The size of this subterranean world was far larger than he could ever have imagined.

  A thousand rectangular windows, black and vacant, like so many empty eye sockets, followed his movements. He walked for nearly a mile, down the sprawling city’s central causeway. Easily a hundred … maybe two hundred … thousand people once lived here, in the distant past. Ricket briefly wondered what happened to them. Were they Blues or Sahhrain? Did it matter?

  Ricket picked up his pace—well aware the Minian was still in grave danger—soon to be attacked by an overwhelming force. Not from space, but infiltrated from within, via one of the ship’s habitat portals.

  Ricket, at first, didn’t notice but now he could clearly see various small icons and readouts coming back alive on his HUD. This far beneath the interferences on the planet’s surface, his suit’s sensors were slowly coming back to life. He tried hailing Captain Reynolds, then the Minian, but neither hail connected. He ran through several other HUD menus until he found, and displayed, the directional locator overlays for a relatively close habitat portal. An amazing bit of Caldurian technology that he’d used successfully in the past, within The Lilly’s HAB 12, and other Zoo habitats, it was an indispensable, essential tool when searching for a habitat’s entry-exit portals.

  The Minian possessed one known Zoo portal into this small section of Harpaign, with its ancient ruins and ghastly weather. The habitat, known as HAB 7, was first created by the Caldurians a distant thousand years, or more, ago. Ricket, never aware of the towering stone archway’s presence, now so prominent above him on the surface when he was within HAB 7, thought about that—concluding, it must have been built some time after the Caldurians first created the habitat.

  A smile spread across Ricket’s small lips when an aqua-colored triangle hovered before his eyes. His HUD was informing him where the closest habitat portal was located. He’d need to change direction, but it was close … less than a mile away. With such good fortune, hopefully he’d be able to access the portal, enter the Minian, and warn the captain.

  Again, Ricket stopped in his tracks. New life-icons were popping up on his HUD—too many to count. They were coming from behind him, where he’d just been. Sahhrain warriors were on the move. Ricket didn’t understand how they could move with such speed. Even if he phase-shifted to the portal ahead, it would be too close—he wasn’t sure he’d have sufficient time to give the captain adequate warning. He interrupted setting the coordinates and stepped into an alleyway between two stone buildings as they passed by him in a blur, riding distortion waves of violet light. One by one, they whisked by, in what seemed a never-ending stream of Sahhrain.

  Ricket, momentarily paralyzed by indecision, saw the last of the warriors whisk past him. As he stepped out onto the street he saw more coming, but they weren’t Sahhrain warriors—they were drones. Over a thousand of them. He inputted his new phase-shift coordinates, based on the location given on the portal directional locator overlay, and flashed away.

  * * *

  The battle in space continued as the cloaked Sahhrain missiles bombarded the Allied fleet. “Two Blues’ ships just fell off our sensors … destroyed, in that last missile strike, Cap,” Orion said.

  “We’ve got more requests to return fire, Captain,” Seaman Gordon said, his voice anxious—an octave right below squeaky.

  Jason took in the multiple overhead display segments and quickly recognized there was no avoiding the inevitable: this conflict was escalating to all-out war, despite the Star Watch initiative to keep the peace. There was tolerance, reluctance to commence new battles, but such even-mindedness was balanced by an even greater necessity: to face reality. In light of the Sahhrain’s blatant attacks, he knew he had no choice; he would have to destroy the Sahhrain in battle. But first he needed to deal with one evident problem.

  “Let the Blues’ fleet captains, all of them, know we’ve got this … have them stand down and fall back.” Thus far, Jason wasn’t impressed with the Blues’ capabilities—the way they’d haphazardly assembled their forces. He wondered if they’d ever actually confronted an enemy in space before. If they had, he doubted they won. At this point, they were just in the way. “Gunny, return fire.”

  The logistical display was already a flurry of movement. Allied warships were strategically maneuvering into well-practiced battle formations. Sure, their assets were outnumbered four to one, but Jason wasn’t overly concerned. His fleet was battle-savvy from the many years fighting scores of space battles against the Craing. Added to that, the Sahhrain warships’ technology was far inferior. This battle would be over soon.

  Jason thought about his father’s lofty ideals for Star Watch. He swore under his breath at the futility of it all, as it now seemed a pipedream, to hope there could be some kind of post-Craing War peace within the galaxy. He continued to watch, as the battle unfolded, and listen to Orion’s voice communicate in low tones to her counterparts sitting at other bridge tactical stations.

  Jason ordered the repositioning of fifty Allied warships—then split these assets into two synchronized attack modes—thereby flanking the enemy and isolating them.

  The overhead wrap-around display’s views, on all sides and back, gave the impression of looking directly out into open space. Hundreds of brilliant blue, crisscrossing plasma bolts streaked across the black void. On the display’s front segments, more and more Sahhrain warship icons could be viewed fading from bright red to non-threatening gray.

  “Give me an updated count, Gunny.”

  “We’ve lost two more … both Allied light cruisers. Eighty-nine Sahhrain warships have been destroyed.”

  “Seaman Gordon … open a channel. Request the enemy to surrender. Let them know we have no interest in furthering loss of life … on either side.”

  “All hails are being ignored, Captain.”

  Jason pounded a fist onto his command chair armrest. “Damn it!” He stood and glared at the display. “What’s their damned end game here? Suicide?”

  The question was rhetorical—Jason didn’t expect an answer, but one came back just the same.

  “They want this ship. I warned you, Captain.” It was Granger, the Caldurian scientist. He’d entered the bridge and now stood beside him.

  Jason scoffed at that. “Well, it’s obvious their attempts have failed miserably.”

  Granger didn’t answer right away. When he did, his condescending smile was gone. “What does this,” he gestured toward the display, “accomplish?”

  “Not much. Frankly, it’s hard to watch.”

  “Are they directly attacking the Minian?” Granger asked.

  “For the most part no … but there again, would you?”

  “Perhaps it’s something else … perhaps they’ve been ordered not to attack.”

  “Yes, they want this ship … to keep it in one piece. I know that … you’ve already made that clear. But it’s obvious they’re not going to get her.”

&nb
sp; “No, not from out there; that’s evident. They’re wasting—”

  Jason turned toward the tall Caldurian and cut him off, “Time!”

  Granger nodded. “They’re stalling … I’m betting they’re keeping the Minian occupied for a different kind of attack.” And suddenly Jason knew exactly what was about to go down.

  “Gunny! We’re being attacked.”

  She looked up in confusion, then toward the logistical display segment. “Captain?”

  “No … from the Zoo … maybe from one or more of the habitats. We’re being infiltrated … from inside, not outside.”

  He wondered if it was too late—were they already entering the ship? “Granger … can you turn them off? Close down the habitats?”

  Granger shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that.”

  Jason hailed Billy. “Ready your men … your Sharks. Deploy to the Zoo … we’re being attacked!”

  There was a momentary silence on Billy’s end. “Holy shit … okay … I’m on it, Cap. Let me roust the Sharks.”

  Chapter 47

  Dacci System

  The Minian, Zoo Habitat 7

  _________________

  Distortion waves don’t suddenly emanate from an enhancement shield, as if some kind of mechanical trigger were pulled. It didn’t work that way. No, first one needed to communicate his or her intentions—in much the same way one willed an arm to move—or eyes to blink. An enhancement shield was effective, but only to the level the user integrated the weapon into his own state of being. What constituted a master in the ancient martial arts of Kahill Callan, specifically, wielding an enhancement shield effectively—came from years, usually many decades, of training. But the warrior’s level of mastery in that regard was finite. Yes, he (or she), although certainly masterful—was like a technician—skillful in all the intricate, incredible, defensive and offensive moves.

  But there were others who were, typically since birth, bestowed with mental abilities that went far beyond those of master technicians. The few who could tap in to their own inherent, latent abilities—to actually influence their surroundings—not depending solely on the small, three-sided shield worn upon their forearms, were indeed a rare breed. Aahil had spoken about this. Spoken of Lord Vikor Shakrim’s level of mastery. Of Boomer’s own potential to match his, perhaps even eclipse his, in time. What Aahil had repeatedly conveyed to her was that she didn’t need years and years of training. She possessed innate fighting skills that reached far beyond any warrior’s he had ever encountered, regardless of age. No, any perceived boundary, limit, to her capabilities was all in her mind. She needed to transcend doubt—believe in the unbelievable. To coax and manipulate the invisible forces of matter, which weren’t really matter at all, only pure potential. Boomer didn’t quite understand what Aahil meant. He told her that was fine—that actually, in some future—still to be defined at a point in time—she already fully knew, and understood, his meaning.

  Lord Vikor Shakrim rose to his feet, without the use of arms or legs. One second he was on the ground, and in the next, standing before her.

  Boomer attacked. She unleashed a torrent of distortion waves toward Shakrim’s head, while driving forward, towards his legs. He moved aside with relative ease, as a matador would to evade the horns of a charging bull. She flew past him and rolled forward, abruptly using the power of her shield to cartwheel sideways. Behind her, powerful distortion waves plowed a deep trough into the sand, obliterating her footprints.

  “It fills my soul with pleasure that my Sachem has finally sent me a somewhat adequate opponent,” Shakrim told her. He stood ten feet away, taking up the primary Kahill Callan fighting stance. His bare chest looked like two swollen pillows; the muscles on his arms bulged—taut, branch-like veins loomed large in his underarm flesh.

  Disgusting, Boomer thought.

  They moved at the same time, both manipulating the edge of their shields in a similar motion that propelled them upward—Boomer straight up six feet, and Shakrim even higher—over ten feet. He fired down at her, his hands and fingers extended. Two sets of distortion waves swirled into brilliant violet tornadoes of energy—converging into a single, blindingly white pinpoint on Boomer’s chest.

  She screamed into her helmet—screamed until her throat felt as if it would rip apart. She grabbed for her chest—for the open, gaping crater she felt certain was there. She fell to the ground in a heap. Opening her still-tearful eyes, she saw that her visor had dug several inches into the sand. She continued to probe the front of her battle suit with her fingers—looking for damage—but found none. Immediately, she phase-shifted fifteen feet to her left with no conscious thought.

  He pounced—standing now exactly where she’d been. Boomer arched backward as distortion waves sliced through the air close above her. She continued her reverse movements by going into a modified back flip; two more shield-accelerated flips put her forty feet away from Shakrim. Unable to track his quick, sudden blur of movement, she spun to her left, ready to dive forward, when several consecutive violet waves knocked her sideways, onto the ground.

  Boomer staggered to her feet, then immediately experienced a strangling sensation around her neck. Grabbed from the side, she found herself held in the air. Shakrim, one hand tightly gripped around her throat, and holding her at arm’s length, partially turned her body around to look into her visor. She tried to phase-shift away. Nothing. He must have damaged her suit with his last volley of distortion waves.

  “I want you to know, little girl, your death has not been in vain. And understand, there was nothing you could have done differently … it’s a foregone conclusion you would die here today. It’s an honor, really. Think about it … chiseled into sacred tablets, two millennia ago, your presence here was foretold. Yes … an honor indeed! Rom Dasticon will save an honored place for you in his realms of infinite darkness.”

  Boomer glimpsed Shakrim slowly bending his elbow—bringing her face in close to his own. He watched her eyes, as if studying her. She felt his grip around her neck tighten, then heard a sound—like the crinkling of a squeezed soda can. Oh god … I’m going to die here. Her desperation was turning quickly into fear … then to infinite sadness. She thought of her mother and Mollie and tears filled her eyes. She thought of her father … I’m so sorry, Dad.

  It was becoming increasingly difficult for Boomer to breathe, and swallowing nearly impossible. Beginning to choke, as violet light pulsed from his clutched hand, Boomer could see her terrified face reflected in his eyes. She knew his muscular strength was bolstered by his enhancement shield’s unique power. Alarms sounded in her helmet, warning icons flashed onto her HUD, as the integrity of her battle suit was compromised. It wouldn’t be long now.

  If she were about to die, she didn’t want it to be in her battle suit. Her HUD was crapping out—readouts and icon statistics flashed on and off. As a last conscious act … she disengaged the suit.

  Boomer fell to the ground, choking. On hands and knees she gulped for air. She saw her enhancement shield, lying on the sand, no more than five feet away. Miraculously, her battle suit retracted into the SuitPac device on her belt. Somehow, Shakrim had lost his grip … or his concentration. Something must have happened. She continued to gag and gasp for air and, more than seeing him, she sensed his sudden movement. He was bending over, ready to grab her neck again.

  In an instant Boomer knew: Some unfulfilled craving, lying deep inside her, was instinctively aroused, attracting the shield toward her. She knew what the shield required, where its need to please emanated from—from some deep void, prompting it to give everything, in order to please the one who’d wield it.

  She re-routed the direction of the distortion wave energy, letting it consume her … become her. She dove up and forward at a forty-five degree angle—one arm and hand raised over her head like superman; her other arm trailed down, hand open. Like a magnet the shield flew into her palm. She brought the shield up, grasping it in outstretched hands. Downward dis
tortion energy continued to build and enhance into blossoming waves. The throbbing waves of violet turned to vivid red as Boomer ascended higher and higher into the sky. I’m flying! I’m alive, and I’m flying!

  A half-mile away, she landed imperfectly—coming down feet first. Stumbling, she tried to run fast to match her forward momentum. In the distance, she saw the Sahhrain warriors, still in a circle, and spotted Lord Shakrim standing there too.

  Suddenly startled by a brilliant flash of light, Boomer reflexively assumed a Kahill Callan fighting stance, ready to go at it again. But it wasn’t Lord Shakrim. Instead, Leon stood in front of her and she could see him grinning through his visor. He said, “You’ve got some pretty cool moves, kid, but it’s time to go.” He stepped in, wrapped his arms around her, and together they flashed away.

  * * *

  They phase-shifted into the crew compartment of the SpaceRunner. Leon released her and saw Boomer’s less than grateful expression.

  “What have you done? Put me back! Right now! Put me back in the fight!”

  Leon retracted his battle suit. “Sorry, kid … that’s not going to happen.”

  Boomer ran to the observation window and looked out. The last of Shakrim’s warriors, riding on violet distortion waves, were entering a stone archway. She continued to watch until there was nothing left to see, only a quickly dissipating cloud of dust remained.

  She spun back around. “I have to follow them. I’ll need a new SuitPac.” Boomer then noticed Rizzo’s body, outstretched on the opposite side of the compartment. His tall form lay immobile on a bed of seat cushions. Hanna was kneeling next to him, talking in low tones. Boomer’s heart sank.

  Leon was gone. He’d probably headed off to the bridge. She saw Bristol sitting alone, tinkering with something on his lap. His cheeks were red and it was evident, by his puffy eyes, he’d been crying. Of course he’d cried—he just lost his brother.

  Boomer crossed the compartment, settling on the deck near Hanna. She heard the SpaceRunner’s drive revving up and felt its soft vibration in her legs.