Darklanding Omnibus Books 10-12: Hunter, Diver Down, Empire (Darklanding Omnis Book 4)

by Scott Moon

  Shaunte heard half of what he said. Staring at him reminded her of how hard she was working to fix these problems and how much she wanted a vacation—with this Neanderthal, if possible. True, he was happier where there was action. Darklanding had plenty of that. She thought he liked having skinned knuckles and half-healed black eyes. Made him feel like a man, probably. “Ah yes, that’s a shame.”

  “What?” he asked. “Are you even listening to me? Shaunte, are you ogling me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I can live with that. Ogle away. Let’s drop everything and fly out to the south range for a vacation. Watch the sun go down, and maybe come up again a few times. You can afford it,” he said.

  “I can.” She sat up straighter, sweeping her hair behind her ears as she re-activated her computer screens. “Darklanding can’t, as you have reminded me. Things are going to get better. I’m not going to say more right now, but it will be good for SagCon and Ungwilook.”

  She felt him watching her as she worked. It’d be nice if he came around the desk to interrupt her with a kiss, but probably better he didn’t.

  “What can I do to help, Shaunte?” he asked.

  There were a hundred things. She chose one he would be good at. “Get over to the mines. Restore some order. All the problems you’re seeing in Darklanding are also occurring at the mines. P. C. Dickles acts like he doesn’t have personnel problems, but I know he does. He doesn’t have a security officer.”

  “He does now.” Thad stood, pointing his thumbs at his chest. “This guy.”

  Shaunte batted her eyes dramatically. “My hero.”

  ***

  Two other humans rode the shuttle to the SagCon mines. No Ungloks were on board. Thad normally enjoyed moments of silence, but this was depressing. And not all that silent. An hour into the trip, the electric hum of the engines and the overworked heating vents sounded like a distant artillery barrage, grating on Thad’s last nerve. He tried to think of pleasant things—memories of a recent meal with Shaunte, the sunset he’d shared with Maximus before they unburdened the animal of the Heart Stone, Mast Jotham’s laughter at a not very funny joke.

  He leaned back in his seat and covered his eyes with his hat. Sleep eluded him. Darklanding was in trouble. The financial crisis wasn’t something he could help Shaunte fight. Keeping order was the best he could do, so he never took a day off. He arrived early and stayed late, which meant his deputy did the same. It wasn’t fair to the Ungwilook native, who probably thought this was how all sheriffs worked. Thaddeus was inadvertently taking advantage of his friend.

  The transport arrived at the mines. Thaddeus went directly to the controller’s office and asked where P. C. Dickles was working.

  “In the mines,” the woman said dryly. “Probably panning for exotics right alongside his crew.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  She shrugged. “There’s a map posted by each lift. I’d start with N49 sector, at the bottom of the red lift. What exotics we managed to scrounge up came from there.”

  Thaddeus watched her turn to other work, surveillance monitors and computer terminals. He tapped his fingers, thought about what she’d said, and finally went to find red lift—a battered metal box with red hashmarks that reminded Thad of half-chevrons.

  Before long, he was descending in a rusty cage that had seen better days. Signs advising workers to turn off unneeded lights, save money, and save the company were on every doorway and hallway entrance. The ride down was dark and cold. He heard each level go by and felt the lift bumping on its guide rails from time to time. He didn’t see any workers until he had searched half of N49 sector.

  “Howdy, Sheriff. You looking for Dickles?” a man with the name Quark Guthrie on his much-abused jumpsuit asked. He was young. His gear looked too large and his enthusiasm was out of place. He adjusted a helmet that seemed at least a size too big. “Normally he’d be around here, but he’s working on a project right now. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to tell anyone what it is.”

  “I’m the sheriff, you can tell me.”

  Quark pointed at him and made a “you almost tricked me” laugh. “The boss warned me you’d say something like that. But he also said if there was anyone I could tell about this, it was you. I watched you race against LeClerc, by the way. That was some crazy flying. I’ve never been to the Mother Lode, so you probably don’t recognize me. It’s no big deal if you don’t.”

  “Are you always so talkative?” Thad asked.

  “Uh huh. Especially when I’m nervous.” He looked around and didn’t see any other miners, or more importantly, foremen. “I’m a sub-foreman, you know? This is dumb. You know what, I’m going to take a chance. Just go wild and make my own decision.”

  Thad resisted the urge to smile. The young man was so full of exuberance and positivity, it lifted Thad’s mood. “Don’t strain yourself.”

  Quark laughed. “I know, my derring-do is nothing compared to your adventures. Let’s find Mister Dickles and his underwater mining machine.”

  “He’s building a submarine?”

  Quark nodded vigorously. “Come on, let’s go. I’m super excited for you to see it now.”

  Thaddeus followed, wondering if he’d been such a hyperactive mess in his youth.

  Each hallway seemed shorter and narrower than the one before it. Metal I-beams and raw timber had been shoved in place as supports. The lights in this section, although turned on, hung from a cord on the ceiling. He wasn’t sure if he was smelling exotic ore, but the air was definitely full of minerals. He could taste them. He could also feel a strange kind of humidity. P. C. Dickles’s shop looked like a foundry, a bicycle repair room, and the flight deck of a half-destroyed fleet carrier all rolled into one.

  Quark led Thad through rows of parts stacked two meters high in places. He heard the sound of something metal being banged with a wrench mixed with curses.

  “Mister Dickles? Are you in here? I brought the sheriff.” Quark peeked cautiously around the corner. “Mister Dickles?”

  “What?”

  Thad put a hand on Quark’s shoulder, then moved around him. The room was huge—dominated by a high ceiling and a large, perfectly smooth pool of inky water. Several half-made watercraft lie strewn on a beach of black and gold sand.

  “It’s me, Thad. Shaunte sent me to help…”

  Dickles stood from his work, a wrench in one hand and a hammer in the other.

  They locked eyes, Thad was convinced the man’s mind was still wrapped around the problem he was trying to solve.

  “Sheriff Fry? You know about submarines?”

  “No. Shaunte sent me here to keep order. Said you were having problems.”

  Dickles shrugged and put down his tools. Wiping his hands on a greasy shop towel, he stepped away from the monstrosity of spare parts he’d created. “I wish I could get my hands on the fuselage of a spacecraft and get it down here. Something like that should be airtight.”

  Thad shook his head. “Won’t work. Built the wrong way. Spaceships are made for environments with no external pressure. You need the exact opposite. Unless your goal is to be crushed by tons of water.”

  Dickles cursed. “Thanks for ruining my grand daydream.”

  “You’re welcome. It’s what I do.”

  “You’re really smart, Sheriff Fry,” Quark said.

  “Not something I get accused of often.” Thad walked around several half-built submarines. “This one looks finished. Have you tested it?”

  Dickles shook his head. “Works perfectly, for about ten feet. Then it leaks.”

  “Shaunte ordered a fleet of real submersibles, remote control versions. Best of the best,” Thad said.

  “Which will be here in about five years.”

  “Eighteen months. It’s always eighteen months.” He regretted the flippant response immediately. “Sorry. You’ve been busting your ass, and I’m making jokes.”

  Dickles picked up his tools and started banging away at his motl
ey creation. Each strike of metal on metal sent ripples across the nearby water.

  “What can I do to help?” Thad asked.

  Dickles stopped swinging the wrench but didn’t face Thad. “The submarines I build aren’t going to work. Maybe the Ungloks have a solution to this mess.” He paused for several long breaths. “Do your job. Keep the peace. Let me handle the rest.”

  Thad promised he would, then went looking for several troublemakers Dickles described as “somehow drunk and prone to fight every time they get their fifteen-minute union break.”

  An idea wiggled in his imagination. The details were sketchy, but he thought Mast could help Dickles somehow. He wasn’t sure why but thought his deputy might know what Darklanding needed.

  CHAPTER TWO: Egoak Village

  “Sheriff Fry told me you would be coming,” Mast said, looking at P. C. Dickles and an eager young man he didn’t know. “He muchly thinks you think my people have a way to mine underwater. He did not say you would bring a friend.”

  Dickles stood on the edge of the plateau with all his gear, looking confused. He had a large backpack crammed full of tools and a second loaded with survival gear.

  “Name’s Quark Guthrie. I’m Mister Dickles’s assistant, sub-foreman actually.” He thrust his hand forward while balancing a small mountain of packs and other gear on his back. “Glad to meet you.”

  Embarrassed, Mast shook Quark’s hand, not certain the human understood the significance of this gesture to Ungloks.

  Dickles broke the tension. “Fry said we’d be going into the mountains.”

  Mast nodded vigorously. “Yes, that is what I’m thinking. The Egoak live high in the mountains, near a sacred lake I have never made the pilgrimage to see.” He paused, fiddling with his coat to the point of distraction. “Muchly.” Leslie Stargazer, one of the very loud women at the Mother Lode, became very drunk last night and lectured Mast about his Galactic Standard. He was very ashamed to know that his favorite word was not as muchly needed as he’d believed.

  “Fine, but how are we getting there? I didn’t exactly pack walking shoes. And the mountains are a good distance away. I’d like to meet these Egoaks and get my fresh dose of disappointment and despair out of the way. I’m a busy man, you know.”

  “I…know,” Mast said very carefully.

  Dickles stared at him. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing is…bigly wrong with me,” Mast said. “Not to worry. We will take a glider.”

  “I thought Gloks were afraid of flying.”

  “Gliding is not flying,” Mast said.

  “It kind of is,” Quark Guthrie said.

  “Come with me. Our wings await.” Mast led the miners to the edge of the cliff where a traditional Ungwilook glider was hooked to the side of the mesa overlooking Transport Canyon.

  Quark frowned. “Doesn’t look like I’m going. Wingspan of your glider won’t support three of us and our tools. I can see that from here.”

  “Oh, hell no. Your kids make that?” Dickles asked at the same time.

  “Mast Jotham does not have offspring, but you were using a figure of speech. Very muchly…agh. Very truly you were speech figuring.”

  “Please stop talking. You’re giving me a headache,” Dickles said as he dropped his gear and studied the glider with grudging interest. Quark took notes on the structure of the device.

  “You cannot take so much,” Mast said. “Not if the three of us intend to reach the village without muchly dying.”

  “All three of us, on that thing?” Quark asked.

  Mast and Dickles ignored him.

  “You must leave your gear. It will not be as useful as an assistant where we are going,” Mast said.

  “I can’t leave it here,” Dickles said.

  “We will hide it. I will hire an Unglok boy to watch over it, keeping it safe.” Mast secured the gear with a nearby family in need of work, credits, food, and about everything else. He knew them from before the sheriff arrived and trusted them.

  “Climb onto the glider and hold on,” Mast said. “You as well, young Quark.”

  “There’s no safety harness!” Dickles looked at the tiny hut where the family of nine Ungloks were guarding his prized possessions. “I don’t know, Mast. This seems like a bad idea.”

  “It is the only way I can help you find exotic ore,” Mast said.

  Dickles climbed on board, straddling the tail of the glider like it was a surfboard or a land whale never meant to fly. “This can’t be safe.”

  “It is very dangerous. Now hold on. I am not a good flyer like the sheriff or that Leslie Stargazer woman.”

  “I heard you puked the last time Fry took you on the Calico,” Dickles said.

  “Yes. It was unfortunate. But this is not an airship; it is only a glider.”

  Quark found his place and gripped the handholds as though they were already in the air.

  Mast grabbed a handle on the left side of the fuselage and pushed. Soon he was running. He scrambled into place in front of Dickles as the glider fell from the plateau.

  Wind rushed around them as they soared over Transport Canyon.

  ***

  The Egoak villagers greeted Mast with perfect politeness and P. C. Dickles with great respect. They’d only seen a few humans during recent years. One had been from the pre-SagCon survey crew, a rugged explorer type. These Ungloks were different than those Mast had grown up with. They were comfortable underground but had lived above ground for hundreds of generations longer than other Ungloks. No one on the planet swam better than they did. They were fishers, hunters, and makers of clever devices.

  “Do they build boats, or submersibles? That’s what I need help with,” Dickles said to Mast as they followed a procession of men and women wearing bright tunics.

  Feathers and beads hung from their garments. Rings and bracelets made music as they walked. Some were more formal than SagCon Marines on parade, every movement precise and orderly. Others danced like children regardless of their age. Mast understood their village was open to many ways of living and condemned no one who came in peace.

  “They build many ingenious things, but not boats. Agoas design and manufacture sailboats, but they live on the coast and are drunk most of the time, is what I am hearing. The Egoak are not just swimmers, they are divers. These are the Ungloks who will be able to help you, I am thinking,” Mast said. “Please do not embarrass Mast Jotham.”

  Dickles was about to protest when a group of gorgeously decorated Unglok boys and girls surrounded him, singing his name and guiding him to a table covered with food.

  “This is a great honor,” Mast called to him as he fell farther behind. “They believe you are on a quest for your people.”

  Dickles blushed and tried to thank them with the few words he spoke of their language. He looked to Mast for help as they draped flowers and feathers around his neck. “I don’t deserve this kind of attention, Mast. I haven’t been that good to Ungloks.”

  “No, you have not. But they see you for who you are here and now. Do not become grumpy and say mean words. It would be muchly, I mean seriously, a wrong thing to do.”

  Dickles bowed his head to an old woman holding a cup for him. “Thank you, old mother,” he said humbly.

  “Very good, P. C. Dickles,” Mast said to himself. The beauty of the village made him sad. He had never seen such a wonderful place and feared he never would again. “I have an important question for you, Mister Dickles.”

  “What is it, Mast?”

  “Is seriously a better word to use than muchly?”

  “Don’t overthink it. I’m not the right man for linguistic advice. I’m just glad you don’t use profanity every other word. For some reasons, humans like to teach non-Galactic Standard speakers nothing but swear words. So you’re ahead of the game.”

  “Interesting. Leslie Stargazer tells me I use a certain word too frequently.”

  Dickles coughed. “She doesn’t exactly talk like a lady. Be carefu
l with her.”

  “Yes. I will be careful.”

  It was some time before the village swimmers showed themselves on the cliffs above the crystalline blue lake. Mast watched them in stunned amazement—they were so graceful and confident as they shed most of their clothing and jewelry. Mist from the waterfall wreathed them in rainbows and mystery.

  ***

  “You should not have brought me to this place,” Dickles said. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Quark. “Or him.”

  Mast didn’t feel as though he should be here either, but he didn’t tell the humans this muchly imperfect secret. Egoak Village was every bit as special as legends suggested. He could almost believe in the healing magic of the waters and the treasures that supposedly rested at the bottom of the mountain lake.

  “You are not right,” Mast said. “You belong here. They welcome and honor you, so it is good that you are here. I do not know about Quark. He is acting a bit…juvenile.”

  The young man appeared even younger as he played childish games at the water’s edge. Dozens of Unglok children ran in circles with their arms extended as though they were an air glider.

  Local musicians gathered near a simple dock and tuned horns, strings, and percussive instruments. Other, more somber children arrived in a dramatic procession and lined the water’s edge. They sang as older Ungloks played the instruments.

  Quark’s new friends glanced at the goings-on but barely paused their hilarity. One kicked sand and water at another. Moments later, they were all having a splash fight at the water’s edge.

  “Quark!” Dickles shouted. “Something is happening. Get over here and pay attention.”