“Looking to add another murder onto your sentence, Kreeg?” The human drew the energy sword, his thumb poised on the igniter switch.
“I’ll kill a hundred of you if it means not going back to Moebius,” Kreeg snarled. He lunged at the hunter with a screeching battle cry.
The human leapt into the air and flew over the charging tarnak, surprised by the sudden burst of speed. As his feet touched the ground, he flicked his thumb and a white-hot beam projected from the sword’s hilt. Kreeg turned around on his insectlike legs and clicked his mandibles threateningly.
“I think you’ll find that my head doesn’t come off quite so easily, Kreeg,” said the hunter.
The tarnak raised his appendages and shrieked as he lunged in for the killing blow. Ready this time, the human sidestepped the attack and sliced both appendages off with an upward swipe of the energy blade. Kreeg squealed and staggered to a halt, staring down at the smoking stumps. The tarnak fell to what passed for his knees and sobbed pitifully as thick, gelatinous green goo seeped from the wounds. A shadow fell over him, and Kreeg looked up into the hunter’s cold, accusing eyes.
“Please,” Kreeg whimpered. “Show mercy. Please.”
“Kreeg Bonwoppa…” The hunter raised the sword high over his head. “You have been charged with escaping from a Federation penal colony, murdering a hunter, theft of a long-range Federation spacecraft, and resisting arrest. I hereby summarily sentence you to death.”
“You can’t do that!”
The hunter shrugged. “I’m making this up as I go.”
Kreeg closed his eyes and cringed as the white-hot blade sizzled through the air and sliced through his neck.
Chapter Thirteen
Moebius Penal Colony, Moebius Alpha 2, beta 3
Hunter HQ
Moebius Penal Colony, located on the second planet from the giant blue sun — likewise named Moebius — was a volcanic rock, with a high sulfur content atmosphere and mercury pools and seas that stretched for hundreds of miles. There were no sentient beings indigenous to the lava planet, and any prisoners able to survive unprotected on the surface were sent to the frigid D’mak Tel prison on Moebius Alpha 12.
Moebius prisoners were protected from the harsh elements by powerful heat shields, and were given insulated suits while working within the obsidian mines. The prisoners’ complaints that the suits were defective, and only blocked a minuscule amount of heat, fell on deaf ears. The headquarters of the hunters, a Federation-funded interstellar police force, was located on the planet’s third moon, where — thanks to ample thermal shielding — the heat was a bit more tolerable.
Claims agent Yimza Noofra looked up from painting the raised scales on the back of her hand as the door to the shuttle dock opened. She rolled her yellow reptilian eyes as the red-haired human stepped through the door with a canvas bag gripped tightly in his hand. The bag was wet, and a foul-smelling green substance dripped from the bottom, leaving a sticky trail on the freshly buffed floor. This made the third time today that a hunter had made a mess in her office. The human reached into the bag and, gripping it by the antennae, pulled out a severed tarnak head and placed it on the counter with a wet splat.
“Quintin MacLaren collecting the bounty on Kreeg Bonwoppa,” said the hunter.
Yimza stared at MacLaren for a moment before producing a handheld scanner and passing it over one of Bonwoppa’s dull, lifeless black eyes. After a few seconds, the file flashed onto her screen and she checked the severed head on her desk against the file photo on the monitor.
“He’s dead,” she said.
“No kidding.”
Yimza scowled. “He was supposed to stand trial for new charges.”
“He resisted arrest,” said MacLaren. “How’s that for a new charge?”
Yimza glared at him before turning her eyes back to the screen and keying a short sequence of commands into the computer. She regarded him with a suspicious gaze as the machine buzzed ominously.
“There’s no record of any Quintin MacLaren in the payroll database,” she said.
MacLaren stared blankly at her. He obviously hadn’t been expecting this.
Yimza reached for the intercom switch. “I’m going to have to notify security.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said a male voice from the open doorway to Yimza’s left. “Transfer the bounty to my account. I’ll see that he gets his money.”
Yimza eyed the new arrival with almost the same amount of disdain she had shown for MacLaren. He was also human, with thick black hair and the same emerald green eyes as the younger man. He was dressed in the standard black jumpsuit, with an I.D. badge clipped to his chest that read: Long, Robert J.
“This is most irregular, Officer Long,” said Yimza.
Long nodded and stood at the junior man’s side. “Cadet MacLaren is training under Officer Boudreaux and myself.”
“Cadet MacLaren? Last time I checked, it’s against department policy for cadets to go on runs alone.”
“It is,” said Long. “Cadet MacLaren was under my indirect supervision. He made the kill, so he claims the bounty.”
Yimza cocked an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“That’s what I’m putting in my report,” said Long. “Now are you going to pay the bounty or do I have to file a grievance with your lieutenant?”
Yimza gestured toward the severed head. “The mark is dead.”
“The cadet defended himself accordingly,” said Long. “The mark was a known hunter killer.”
Yimza hesitated for a moment, but then began punching keys. “You’re on thin ice here, Long. Next time I won’t be so generous.”
Long cast the cadet a covert glance. “Neither will I.”
The computer beeped and Yimza read the report, “There. Your account has been credited in the amount of 15,000 Federation Credits. Would you like a receipt?”
“No, thank you,” replied Long. “Come on, Quintin.”
The two hunters exited the claims office through a side door. Yimza looked at the slimy severed head on her desk and punched a button on her terminal. A moment later, her voice filled the entire station.
“Sanitation to Claims, please.”
A thick glob of the green goo dropped onto the floor with a nauseating plop.
Yimza keyed the public address system again. “Bring a mop.”
*****
Robert Long was old — really old. In fact, he had forgotten his true age. Whenever Quintin asked about his friend’s past, he would tell him stories of love, loss, and countless adventures, but there were lots of gaps. Often Long would pause and struggle to remember details of even the most significant things. However, he never forgot details about the wars in which he’d fought.
Memories fade with time, he had explained, and it was the same — if not more severe — with Methuselans. That was the name Long used for what they were; he didn’t like the term Homo immortalis that Quintin had grown up hearing on Glynfyl. He also didn’t care for the word human, saying it was reserved for a less-civilized primate, whatever that meant.
Robert Long wasn’t even his real name, just the first one he could remember using. He could not even remember his parents, or where he came from, or the language he spoke there, but he did remember waking up on a beach in a place called “Eng Land” long ago. One day, he knew, he would forget being Robert Long entirely; that is, if he lived that long.
In the corridor, Quintin and Robert walked in silence awhile before Quintin finally spoke, switching from Phaedojian to heavily accented English, “Thanks for helping me get my money, Robert.”
Robert came to a halt and looked at the boy. “You’ll get your money when you go to the academy next term — for tuition.”
“The academy?” cried Quintin. “But, Robert—”
“But nothing,” Robert interjected. “You disobeyed a direct order. You were told to stay here on Moebius and let me and Rene go after Bonwoppa ourselves.”
“But, Robert,” Quintin protes
ted, “that scumbag scragged Ian.”
“That’s right,” Robert snapped, pinning Quintin to the wall with one powerful hand. “He did! Not many beings can kill one of our kind with their bare hands, and Kreeg Bonwoppa did just that. You’re only sixteen, Quintin. Ian was nearly three hundred years old and a lot more experienced than you — a trained soldier. You’re damned lucky that it’s not your head in a bag!”
Quintin hung his head. “I’m sorry, Robert.”
Robert let him go, tousled the youth’s hair affectionately, and slipped an arm around his shoulders. He leaned in close. “How did he die?”
Quintin grinned. “On his knees. Begging.”
Robert patted his back and they resumed their walk. “Good lad. Come on. The others are waiting.”
“Are they mad?”
Robert drew in breath between his teeth as he stopped in front of a door and pressed his palm against the scanner. “They’re not happy.”
The door slid open with a soft hiss and the hallway was immediately filled with the sounds of two people — a man and a woman — shouting.
Quintin sighed and looked at Robert wearily. “They’re fighting again?”
“Again?” Robert raised an eyebrow. “They never stopped.”
“If you didn’t fill his head with all of your stupid war stories,” the woman shouted, “he wouldn’t be so eager to go out there and prove himself. It’s your fault.”
“He doesn’t have to prove himself to anyone,” said the man in a thick Cajun accent. “And it is not my fault. The boy makes his own decisions.”
Quintin and Robert entered the room and saw the feuding pair standing in the center of the room; only a game table positioned between them kept them from coming to blows. The woman was tall with shoulder-length red hair. The top of her black uniform was unzipped with the sleeves tied around her waist, leaving only a tight gray tank top to cover her torso. Quintin tried his best not to stare, but in the end, his adolescent hormones prevailed.
The man was almost a head shorter than the woman, with brown hair covered by a black bandana. His own jumpsuit was fully zipped, but the sleeves were rolled up, exposing his muscular arms.
“Rene. Cherry,” said Robert as the door hissed shut behind him. “Put a sock in it, will you? I found him. He’s fine.”
Rene Boudreaux and Cheryl Sadler — the latter affectionately called “Cherry” by the other Methuselans on Moebius — turned. Quintin braced himself as Cherry rushed forward and wrapped him in a crushing embrace.
“Are you all right?” she asked breathlessly.
“I’m fine,” Quintin gasped.
Cherry looked him over, checking for bruises.
“Seriously!” Quintin brushed her hand away as she started checking his hairline for cuts. “I’m fine, Cherry.”
“Let him be,” said Rene. “He’s a man, now.”
Cherry whirled on the Cajun. “He’s just a boy!”
Rene scoffed, “When I was his age, I’d already been killed twice in battle.”
Cherry beat her fist against the Cajun’s chest. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You fill his head with these ideas.”
“Oh, stop it, woman.” Rene grabbed her wrist before she could strike him again. “You mother the boy too much.”
Quintin rolled his eyes and retreated to a nearby sofa. He put in his ear buds, thumbing the PLAY button on the right-side ear unit to fill his ears with loud Phaedojian rock music.
Rene Boudreaux was much younger than Robert, and he remembered every minute detail about his childhood, or so he claimed. Like Robert, he’d been a soldier several times and claimed to have fought in every major war since “The War of Northern Aggression.” Robert fought in the same war, but he called it “The Civil War,” a name that usually sent Rene into long, incomprehensible rants in French.
Quintin knew little about Cherry because she didn’t like talking about her past. Whenever the subject came up, she would get quiet and her whole body would start shaking. This usually resulted in Quintin being ushered out of the room by one of the men. Some nights, he heard her crying out and screaming in her sleep.
Rene and Cherry were an item, or at least they had been before Cherry accused Rene of sleeping with a female wrendagga hunter and called the whole thing off. Ever since then, they had been fighting nonstop about anything and everything. Robert insisted that they were still in love but were just too stubborn to kiss and make up.
When Quintin arrived in the Moebius System just over two cycles before, the others had already been stationed there for several cycles. It was the first time Quintin had ever met any other human beings, let alone a female. His teenage infatuation with Cherry hadn’t gone unnoticed and she had taken to him like an older sister, or — sometimes, like today — the mother he never had. She was constantly worrying about his safety, and even more so than Robert, wanted very much for him to give up the notion of being a hunter and attend the academy on Phaedaj.
But Quintin had seen enough of Phaedaj. He’d seen enough of the Federation. He wanted to see Earth.
Bad.
Even though the others could speak nearly fluent Phaedojian when he met them, Robert had set himself to the task of teaching the youth English. Appalled when he learned of Quintin’s lack of a last name, Robert bestowed him with the name MacLaren, one of his old aliases on Earth.
Quintin proved to be a quick study, and with English mastered, Rene had then begun teaching him French. Although, to Cherry’s dismay, Quintin’s French vocabulary mainly consisted of profanity and Louisiana colloquialisms. The Cajun’s accent also found its way into the boy’s speech patterns, along with Long’s own myriad European inflections.
Suddenly the door slid open, and a short Glynfarian stepped into the room. He wore blue robes and shuffled over the threshold with the aid of a walking stick. At the sight of him, Cherry and Rene were instantly silenced, and Quintin removed his ear buds. The Glynfarian scowled at Quintin, the servos in his four gold ocular implants whirring and contracting the artificial irises.
“Uh… hi, Jiri,” said Quintin nervously.
“So…” Jiri’s voice was gravelly with age, which only made the effect of dual, overlapping tones more unsettling. “You’ve returned.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Quintin solemnly.
“Good.” Jiri took two labored steps into the room, leaning heavily on his walking stick. “I assume that you’ve gotten it out of your system now?”
Quintin bowed his head. “Yes, sir.”
“What would your father say if he were here right now?”
“I don’t know,” said Quintin in a voice barely above a whisper.
Amaadoss, his father, had had great plans for Quintin. The academy was always at the front of his mind, of course. He’d wanted Quintin to become a great diplomat, a spokesman for peace within the Federation. But after he died and Jiri was reassigned to Moebius as the Methuselans’ custodian, Quintin had quickly set his sights on the exciting life of a hunter.
“We’ll talk about this later, Son,” said Jiri. “Right now I need to speak to the others alone.”
Quintin stood and walked toward the door. “Yes, sir.”
As he passed the others, Robert put a comforting hand on his shoulder and gave him a warm smile. Quintin did not return the smile, but stepped through the door and into the hall. He yanked the elastic band out of his hair and let the auburn locks cascade down around his face. He leaned back against the door and slowly slid to the floor.
He sat in complete stillness for a moment before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, gray device. He peeled a thin, clear disc from the back and placed it against the door. Tiny filaments glowed blue within. He tapped an icon on the device and slipped one of his earbuds into his right ear, immediately filling it with Robert’s crystal clear voice.
*****
Robert smoothed his hair with his hand and took a deep breath. “Look, Jiri, I know what you’re going to say, and I can a
ssure you—”
“Sit down, Robert,” said Jiri. “All of you. This isn’t about Quintin.”
Robert pulled up one of the various chairs strewn about the room and sat in it backward, resting his arms on the chair’s low back. Rene and Cherry sat on the couch, making sure to sit as far away from each other as possible. Jiri sighed, and for a moment the only sound in the room was the soft whirring of his ocular implants.
“I have re-established communication with TDC Command on Earth,” he said finally.
This announcement was met with a joyous outburst from the humans, but Jiri silenced them with a raised hand. “The news is not good.”
“What is it?” asked Robert.
Jiri took a deep, calming breath. “Three Terran cycles ago, TDC Command was attacked and suffered significant damage. The long-range inter-planetary communication system was among the equipment damaged in the attack. It took them this long to repair the unit. Once the communications link was re-established, Amaadoss contacted me.”
The humans nodded. They knew all about the Terran Defense Corps, and, as a favor to Jiri, they never mentioned it in front of Quintin for fear that he might learn the truth about his origins.
“Who attacked them?” said Cherry. “Were they discovered by Temujin?”
Jiri shook his head. “That, Cheryl, is what hurts the most. They were betrayed by one of their own. The Replodian science officer apparently malfunctioned and attacked the others. During his rampage, he managed to disable several defense systems and wounded one of the other Replodians.” He saw the distress on Cherry’s face and held up his hand. “Quintin’s brother is fine, but the operation is still severely crippled and the TDC is grossly outnumbered.”
Rene sighed. “Could this get any worse?”
Birthright: Book I of the Temujin Saga Page 10
