Call of Courage: 7 Novels of the Galactic Frontier

by C. Gockel

  Wake ran back towards the bridge, pushing even harder than before. He was almost close enough to signal the driver, but the vehicle was dangerously close to the point of no return. Wake started waving his arms frantically in an attempt to signal the operator of the vehicle. They weren't stopping. He knew he was close enough now for the driver and his backup to see him, but obviously they weren't paying attention. Damn auto-nav!

  The lead vehicle passed the weakened cable and the structure gave a massive shudder, girders and supports moaning under the strain. In less than a second, a huge section of roadway tipped down, the lead vehicle barely holding traction on the tilted surface.

  Wake fell as the deck steepened and started sliding towards the drop off. As he shot past an upright, he tried to catch it. It jerked his body to a violent, bone-snapping stop, yet Wake felt no pain. He looked down at his arm, caught between two parts of the upright. The limb was obviously broken. The sight of it made Wake nauseous.

  A soft moan escaped his grimacing mouth as he disentangled himself. He didn't understand why. His arm didn't hurt, so it wasn't from pain. It was like he was watching everything happen through some amazing POV cam, feeling no physical sensation.

  Somehow, even with the tilting bridge and broken arm, Wake managed to get to his feet, pulling himself up using his good right arm. He took a few precarious steps, supporting himself on the bridge framework. He looked towards the vehicles and found he was close enough to make eye contact with the people inside. As he did so, an overwhelming sense of foreboding flooded through him.

  Somehow the people weren't right. It didn’t make sense. Then, he noted the second vehicle was gone. It hadn't fallen off the bridge, he knew that much, but it had vanished. He turned his attention back to the people inside the cab: one man, two women, one child, an Entho, and a huge dog. That was incorrect for a standard mining crew, not to mention absurd. Crews consist of men, maybe a woman or two, but never children, dogs, or non-humans.

  Breaking out of his troubled thoughts, Wake realized the situation was worsening as seconds passed. The deck angle was growing steeper, and soon the transport's tires would be unable to hold on to it. He had no idea what he could do to save the people in the transport. As his mind was grasping at a plan, the bridge segment shuddered again, then began falling. Wake, along with the transport, plummeted down into the icy maw of the crevasse.

  Screaming, Wake's eyes flew open. He frantically looked around the dark room. It took a moment to realize he was no longer falling, that he was stationary and warm. He took long, shuddering breaths, wiping the sweat from his face onto the lower part of his shirt.

  This wasn't the first time he'd had the dream, but this occurrence was different. In the past, it followed the events of that disastrous day quite faithfully. Why did it change? Why did I fall into the crevasse? This time had shown strange personnel in the vehicle, not the crew who had actually been there. Wake didn't know what to make of it. He didn't recognize the people who replaced the mining crew, yet he could see their faces in his mind as if they were close friends.

  He climbed out of his narrow bed and walked over to a small basin on the far wall. Using a tap, he dispensed water into a small cup and swallowed. He filled the cup again and drank. His hands shook from the dream’s remnants.

  Wake let out a long sigh. His feelings during the day were bad enough, but the dreams were worse. Setting the cup down, he walked over to the nearby window. It was small, but still allowed him to see the stars and some high clouds moving by. Who were those people? He wished the dreams would stop. He had enough to deal with at the moment without them. His trial date was fast approaching.

  09 - Felar

  Felar's throat felt like it was full of gravel. Her head throbbed in sync with her heart, big painful pulses that made her queasy. She opened her eyes slowly and blinked several times, trying to remove the gritty feeling. She experienced a stab of panic when everything remained black, but then realized her vision was fine and it was just a dark room.

  As she regained full consciousness, the illumination came on. The sudden light nearly blinded her, but Felar quickly adjusted. A tall, dark skinned combat physician walked in a moment later. He began checking the various machines hooked to her, making notes on a handheld terminal. The man looked in his middle years, which was old for the position his fatigues denoted. He had a fit, elegant grace Felar interpreted as an ability to handle himself in any situation.

  “Don't try to speak,” he said, noticing her open eyes. His voice was deep, melodious, and rich. “You sustained a severe head and neck injury. The medications we’ve been giving you have noticeable side effects. Nothing too serious, but one of them causes inflammation of the vocal cords. We are no longer administering that particular drug, but the inflammation will take a day or two to diminish. In the meanwhile, use this,” he pulled another hand held terminal out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Use it to communicate as necessary. I'm Doc Hase, by the way.”

  Felar began typing on the terminal screen with quick, precise strokes. As she completed each line, a voice emitted from the computer. “How long have I been unconscious? Where am I?”

  “To answer to your first question, you have been in a drug-induced coma for two weeks.” A slight frown crossed his mouth as he spoke. She began to type on the pad once again, but he caught her wrist gently and continued, “I know what you are going to ask. Let me save you the time.” Letting go, Hase walked over to a small window.

  “No one knows what happened. A few witnesses saw you inside an Init training facility on Ashamine-4, but no one is willing to say who assaulted you. Someone found you in a side corridor, unconscious and in need of medical attention. Medics were called and you were brought to the training hospital.”

  Anger filled Felar as she heard his words. No one knows what happened? How is that possible? She typed furiously on the pad, the auto-correct working hard to fix her mistakes. “How could no one know? That building is full of Inits and officers. And why can't I remember anything?” Her synthetic voice lacked the emotion Felar felt, and this only increased her anger.

  “You'll have to speak to the investigating officer. He can explain the details. I only know medical specifics. You sustained a blow to the back of the head, as well as several minor internal injuries. The cranial trauma erased your short-term memory. Thankfully, all scans show your mental functions are normal. It is unlikely you will experience long-term effects.” Hase gave her a consoling smile, eyes soft.

  “Thank you,” she typed, and he nodded in response.

  “Since no witnesses stepped forward, Command decided it best to get you off Ashamine-4 and away from your attacker. I told them it was unlikely you would regain memory of the event, but the attacker wouldn’t know this, so there is a danger he might try to silence you. Command issued transfer orders for a new tour of duty, effective as soon as I clear you for combat. I think they hope to catch the perpetrator by the time you complete your new assignment.”

  The thought of her attacker being free made Felar angry. She was glad Command had transferred her, thankful she would have separation from the person or persons who’d done this. Given her new assignment, Felar now had more questions than ever, so she began to type. As she finished the inquiry, the synthetic voice intoned, “Where to?”

  “Haak-ah-tar, one of the former Entho worlds. Things are getting messy in-system. Apparently, the Enthos are gathering forces on the edges of Haak-ah-tar space and seem to be prepping for something. We, in turn, have been sending ships there in an effort to maintain the blockade. I've also heard the Enthos landed forces and are engaging our troops. It would be the first time those alien buggers actually put up a resistance. It's strange, we take the planet from them, and they wait over fifty years to try to take it back. Now, they face a massive buildup of forces.”

  Feeling relieved, Felar began to type again, “I'm happy to hear they aren't putting me on some blighthearted admin duty. When do I ship out?”

>   Hase chuckled, his big smile also shining in his eyes. “Strange you ask. I'd think an experienced grunt like yourself would feel the ship's worm drive powering down, but you're still groggy. We’re already in Haak-ah-tar space. The Separate Commander said we will arrive on-world in a few standard hours.”

  10 - Lothis

  “Arise,” the atonal voice demanded, interrupting Lothis' trance-like sleep. He could feel he’d gotten his three hours rest. His vibrant orange eyes flicked open and he was instantly aware of his surroundings. The room was his world, and the world never changed.

  But today something was—different. Lothis could feel it, sense it somehow. He couldn't see it, but the weight of it was all around. Something is wrong.

  There was a new sound. I’ve never heard that waveform before. His routine contained only a few noises other than those emanating from himself. The commanding voice and the occasional sound of faint footsteps were all that intruded into his space.

  This sound was different. It was too loud to be imagination, but not strong enough for him to discern its origin or source. He could feel the rumbling bass frequencies in his chest. It came from all directions. The vibration set him on edge, filled him with a sense of foreboding.

  And the air—something was different about the atmosphere. He had never noticed the air before. Strange.

  Another disturbing development: The room was moving. That was impossible. The room never moved. How can it move?

  Curiosity flooded his mind. What is causing this? Why is it happening? And then a new thought materialized: Where am I? That question felt dangerous and he shied away from it.

  In his whole existence, he could not remember a time when his life had been different, where any day had even the slightest change within it. Strange events were happening, with new thoughts and concepts assaulting him. He realized his respiratory rate was faster and shallower than normal. My heart rate is also elevated. Clinging to routine, he walked to the lavatory and cleaned himself. The act didn't bring the calm focus it normally did.

  With this task complete and his attention no longer buried in routine, Lothis’ mind quickly returned to his plight. The air was still different, the rumbling noises and oscillations still came and went, and he still felt a foreign emotion. Fear. He sat down in the angular metal chair and waited for the voice to instruct him. He waited. And then waited more. It was certainly past when the voice should tell him to start, but silence prevailed. Just as his panic began to spill over and take control, the voice spoke.

  “Lowwwwwthhhhissssssss leeeeeesoooooon beeeeegiinnnnnnnn,” it said, tone slurred and deepened, words drawn out almost to the point of being undecipherable. Lothis stared at the terminal, horror etched on his face.

  The screen began displaying images, but they too were wrong. They scrolled slowly, the symbols and colors distorted and meaningless. Odd bleeps and bloops issued from the console, sounds Lothis didn't recognize. Then, as if some strange mechanical heart was pumping its last, fading beats, it all slowed further, then stopped.

  Lothis’ panic quickly escalated to a level he could no longer control. He leapt out of the seat, a cry of terror bursting from him. Hearing that sound come from his own mouth scared him even more.

  He had to get away from the terminal, but didn't know where to go. He ran a few steps, then fell, his head striking the edge of his raised metal sleeping surface. Immediately, a new sensation filled his head. Pain, he thought dully, then wondered what the word meant. Pain was abstract, something he had learned about, but had not personally experienced. Is this what it feels like? Is this what pain actually is? It’s horrible!

  The sensation in his head was growing, demanding more attention. Blood started to stream down his face, and he worked up the courage to touch the wound. “Ahhhhhh,” he yelled, the sound surprising him as much as the surge of pain.

  Lothis had no idea what to do. Change was everywhere. He couldn't cope. Before he even realized or understood what he was doing, he blocked everything out. He shut the blood, the pain, the sounds, the air, and the memories of the voice that was not the voice out of his mind.

  Sitting down on the metal bed, he decided, for no particular reason he understood, to go back to sleep. It was abnormal, but at least the action itself was familiar. He laid down, closing his eyes. End daily cycle 3,793, he thought, trying to ignore his throbbing head.

  In the short seconds between wakefulness and sleep, Lothis speculated the events of this cycle might only be a dream. Then he wondered, in the instant just before sleep, what a dream was.

  11 - Maxar

  Blighthearted game is finally over. Maxar felt deeply relieved. He wasn't happy, but this was as close as he came these days. That was… Interesting, he thought, remembering the final seconds before victory. Good thing Benson took out that sniper or I'd have been buggered. His whole body hurt and he walked with a limp. The games were always exhausting and this one was no exception. He was just glad it was over. That was all that mattered.

  Finding a seat in the personnel transport vehicle was easier than he would have liked. We lost too many guys out there. From both sides, he thought, slumping into the most comfortable position the hard composite seat allowed. It's blightheart! We accomplish nothing but empty entertainment. At least if we are to die, send us out against a real enemy like the Enthos. He began to curse under his breath. None of the vehicle's few other occupants noticed.

  The match had lasted 48 hours. He had not slept that whole time and hadn't received much to eat or drink. Midway through, when they normally would have gotten a nap and a meal, the game’s coordinator announced High-Elder Hatcholethis was watching and desired an endurance test. They hadn’t given the fighters anything, and the match went on. What a bastard, Maxar thought in disgust. How could someone promote the suffering of fellow humans this way, even if we are convicted criminals? As a result of the High-Elder's presence, the game had been far more brutal than usual. It was undoubtedly a spectacular show, but had come at a cost. Almost all the participants had been killed in the intense underground, surface, and near-space fighting.

  “Hatcholethis should burn in the fires of the black star,” the man next to Maxar mumbled, mirroring his thoughts. Everyone within earshot nodded, curses and expletives flowing freely. It was widely known that the High-Elder enjoyed viewing the games. Whenever he watched in person, there was an unusually high death count. It was rumored he’d made large Ashcred donations to Bloodsport. Probably why they let him modify the match rules whenever he likes.

  As Maxar drifted in thought, the personnel transport abruptly stopped. “Buggering blighthearted Founder's cursed reception,” he swore under his breath, unable to muster the energy to say it any louder. He despised the meeting more than the match itself. The most powerful fans would be there, asking lots of stupid questions. Just the thought of what he had to do made him want to puke. Having outsiders glory in his pathetic existence felt humiliating. And the thought of the body restraints made him even more nauseous.

  Maxar exited the carrier, his stomach tied in knots, on fire, and pierced with daggers. All the surviving combatants made their way from the debarking area into the prep room for the reception. They had done this many times before, but few actually enjoyed it.

  Restraints were placed on Maxar along with the rest of the group, and a Bloodsport official moved him into the meeting hall. Maxar ending up at the back of the line. Maybe, since I'm last, they'll be tired of asking questions and will leave me alone. The thought was a bitter hope, unlikely to be fulfilled. His stomach continued to ache and churn as the line crept forward. He wanted to hold his belly and hunch over in agony, but the restraints limited his movement.

  The group of combatants crossed the length of the room to where a line of well-dressed people waited eagerly. Maxar immediately picked out the pudgy High-Elder Hatcholethis along with his stunning wife. They were at the front of the line of VIPs. The two groups met and slowly passed each other, each member of the VIP group
getting as much time as he wanted with each fighter.

  Time dragged by. Maxar failed to recognize any other VIPs, but he wasn't surprised. Most of the really high profile Ashamine officials didn't have time to visit Bloodsport. He waited in agony, his stomach pains rolling like waves of fire. Finally, Maxar stood before the High-Elder and his wife.

  “That was an amazing performance you put on. Simply amazing! The way you were able to sneak up and kill that man with your bare hands without anyone else noticing! You were featured on all the terminals at that moment. A few of us were following you before then. It was going to be such a good moment that we told everyone to switch to you. Simply amazing! How does it feel to kill a man like that? Good? I should think that...”

  The man is insufferable. I don't want to relive that. I'm not like him. It was as if Hatcholethis' words were a poison, a sickness being injected into Maxar. It was more than he could bear and there was no way to escape the verbal onslaught.

  “Blood everywhere! It was fantastic!” Maxar heard the High-Elder say, his gruesome accolade never-ending. Maxar physically couldn't endure any longer. His head throbbed, his guts burned, and this fool wouldn't leave him alone. Then, he felt the rising bile. He began to strain against the body shackles, but they wouldn't permit Maxar to turn away from the High-Elder or his wife. If he spewed his partially digested rations all over this official, his life would certainly be forfeit, good performance or not.

  His throat began to spasm. Clamping his mouth shut, Maxar tried to calm his stomach, fighting the urge with all his might. Still, the convulsions and spasms continued. He could feel the acid working its way up through his esophagus.

  “By the Founder!” High-Elder Hatcholethis blurted in the middle of his never ending description of blood, gore, and killing. “I think this man is ill. Someone call for aid! He is a champion specimen. I don't want my winnings forfeited because of some technicality.”