And so, new projections are made based on existing SPC data, and new dates are set to worry about.
On the other hand, the Atlantis planetary system is still struggling to achieve its new gravitational equilibrium after the addition of the Ghost Moon. So far, the weather tech systems on the surface have barely managed to reduce the severity of regional storms and tidal activity.
“It’s a work in progress,” climate scientists and weather tech experts proclaim on the news shows. “We are doing everything possible to save lives, property, and crops. . . . And we are still actively studying the material makeup, physical properties, and orbital mechanics of this new moon before we can incorporate its accurate parameters into the planetary model.”
When the fifth week of Red Pegasus ends, culminating with the Atlantean holiday known as Burning Night on Yellowday, Red Pegasus 22—filled with bonfires in city parks and rowdy celebration, and an easing of martial law for one night—almost all the pegasei have been accounted for and released. Now, their great liberated flocks hang all over the skies of Atlantis, mingling with the recent crop of out-of-control clouds that got past the weather tech.
Even now, their songs fill our waking minds—those of us who are attuned to them—with wonder and glory. . . . It’s an unobtrusive, constant sound of nature, like living next to a waterfall. The rush of falling water is always there, but it blends in, has become a part of the natural landscape.
A few captive pegasei are still out there. During this final stage of pegasei liberation, only the most difficult, well-hidden cases remain—the illegal ones, sorrowful entities hidden away in the most remote places around the globe. These are the ones even the well-trained Communicators miss, unable to pinpoint their locations successfully.
For some reason I’m still better at it than anyone else. I can always hear the pegasei voices crying out to me. . . . Their haunting song tugs at my gut with a visceral power, pulling me toward them like the needle of an inner compass.
And so, it falls upon me to handle this closing stage of the process. Because martial law is still in effect everywhere, because there’s still pushback and the possibility of violence—and because I’m the Imperial Wife of the Crown Prince of Atlantida and we’re literally responsible for starting this whole thing—I am assigned an extra-large PRT unit to assist me.
On the morning of Red Pegasus 26, the final day of the month, I can hear the faint, plaintive song of the remaining small group of bound pegasei, coming to me from the distant northwest.
It is somehow appropriate—last day of a Pegasus month, last pegasei to be liberated.
My directional instinct is correct. The request for assistance with the pegasei comes to us from the ally nation of Khenneb, located to the northwest of us, on the same Upper Continent. The leader of that country, Bakar Ramajet, the Hetmet of Khenneb, specifically requests my help with a difficult retrieval of pegasei from an illegal subterranean facility, portions of it in caves carved from inside a mountain.
Unfortunately, Aeson cannot come with me on this mission because there is alien light grid activity predicted for today—or tomorrow, or the following day—they can’t be sure, but the general time frame is now. Tammuz is on the highest alert level it has been in days, and the SPC high command must be ready for military action.
We discuss it, and Aeson is extremely unhappy about it, but the mission cannot be postponed—we urgently need all the pegasei liberated so that they can play their part in closing the dimensional rift for us—and neither can he abandon his SPC command duties to accompany me. For that reason, Aeson insists I get the best and the biggest team, in addition to my usual security detail.
And so, before I head out to Khenneb on behalf of the last captive pegasei, I get to meet my new teammates.
Chapter 88
Tuar Momet and my four usual guards surround me as we take the Palace elevator downstairs, and then emerge in the park and walk a short distance to the Imperial airfield.
For safety and anonymity purposes, I am wearing an unobtrusive plain grey uniform that is worn by Imperial Palace staff, but I have a layer of viatoios armor underneath. My guards are similarly attired, to blend in with me.
It’s seventh hour and thirty daydreams of Ra exactly, and the PRT unit waits for us near the main hangar, next to a very big transport ship.
Apparently, we’re taking an ankhurat.
The vessel, hovering several feet above the ground, is metallic slate-grey with a secondary sheen of gold in the morning light of Hel. It is shaped like a double headed wrench on the short end, and then extended, so that the outline of the wrench stretches for a hundred meters, forming a flattened plane which is the hull. It appears heavy as an anvil, a strange imposing machine of war. On the long side of the aircraft the entrance hatch is raised, showing a wide opening, with a ramp lowered.
I recall that the ankhurat, nicknamed “Ankh, the Life Giver,” is a 100-crew military transport boarding fighter vessel, the largest and most heavy-duty of the fighters. It has six pilots and is equipped with six heavy-caliber guns and ten missiles.
I feel a twinge of fear at the sight of it.
I turn to look at my crew, one hundred strong. The troops stand in order, lined up sharply in two blocks of fifty, wearing the SPC special ops uniforms in black and grey, with helmet insignias in gold. Their captain stands before them in a grey and gold uniform, and immediately acknowledges me with an impeccable salute.
Off to the side I see my six pilots.
And now, I’m amazed. . . .
Brie Walton stands with a grin on her face, wearing the same uniform, sans helmet, which she holds in the crook of her arm as she cranes her head mockingly at me. Next to her is Blayne Dubois, looking sharp and cool in his uniform, levitating astride a narrow, custom hoverboard which he is riding in his usual near-upright stance.
Then, three people I’ve never met, but my gut tells me they might all be Earthies, or shìrén. The first is a stocky blonde and blue-eyed girl with short hair. The second is a muscular Asian boy with shoulder-length black hair gathered in an Atlantean-style segmented tail. The third is a tall, lean Caucasian teen with brown hair and green eyes.
And then, the last person—a curvy, vaguely familiar Latina. . . .
It’s Claudia Grito.
Holy crap!
I blink and freeze momentarily, not quite believing my eyes. I think my mouth parts stupidly.
Let me repeat that. The person in the Star Pilot Corps uniform standing across from me, with her raven-black hair drawn in a tight head-hugging ponytail, and most of her piercings missing the jewelry, to comply with Fleet regulations, is none other than Claudia Grito, the bully girl from Qualification.
The last time I’ve interacted with Claudia was over a year ago—inside the ancient subterranean tunnels during the Qualification Finals on Earth. She and I were both on Team C, and I saved her sorry ass, along with everyone else, by using voice commands and hoverboards to wall us in and keep us from drowning.
I haven’t seen her since. Had no idea whether she Qualified, and didn’t care to know.
And now, here she is, on my PRT, on Atlantis.
WTF?
A million questions rush through my mind, evoking some long-repressed old memories. . . .
But I get no chance to space out or stare, because the PRT unit captain approaches me and introduces himself as Captain Valel Siduaz. He is young, medium-height, with deep bronze skin, short black hair, and black eyes.
“It’s an honor to handle your mission, my Imperial Lady,” he tells me in a no-nonsense, curt manner. “We are an elite unit and will support your efforts today in Khenneb. These are your mission pilots. They have been specially chosen because of merit and familiarity, to best accommodate you.”
Captain Siduaz points to the six and makes introductions, even though I already know half of them.
The short, blond Caucasian girl is introduced as Yana Svoboda, the muscular Asian is Li Jie, and the tall brown-
haired teen is Darius Harrod. Just as I thought, all fellow shìrén.
When it’s Claudia Grito’s turn, she steps forward and names herself—just in case I’ve hallucinated it and mistook someone else for her—and it’s confirmed.
“Cadet Pilot Claudia Grito, at your service.”
I look into Claudia’s serious, unblinking eyes and say, “Claudia, what are you doing here?”
There is a pause.
Claudia pulls herself up even more and stands perfectly straight. She faces me without changing her fixed expression and says, “Imperial Lady Gwen, I volunteered.”
She used to call me Gwen-baby and made every effort to torment me. . . .
All kinds of strange thoughts are passing through my mind.
She volunteered? Why the hell is she here?
“Okay,” I say. “Well, I’m glad to see you Qualified.” And then I don’t say anything else, because, really, how weird is this? What else can I say?
Also, does the captain—or any of the others—notice our awkward tension?
Looks like, not. The only person who seems to be somewhat aware of the weirdness is Blayne Dubois. Blayne actually knows Claudia the same way I do, from our Pennsylvania RQC-3 and Qualification. And even if he didn’t recognize her at first, he has to remember her now, and not too fondly.
And so, I switch my attention to Blayne who gives me a little knowing smile but then follows it up with a proper salute, and says, “Cadet Pilot Blayne Dubois. Good to be here, Imperial Lady Gwen.”
“Blayne! So happy to see you on this mission.”
“Me too,” he replies. “My LM Forms skillset is apparently needed for this one.”
“Oh, really?” I ask.
He nods. “Flying through cramped spaces, high possibility of close-quarters combat with limited maneuverability, underground cave system. Et cetera. More during the briefing.”
Next, Brie steps forward, and her ironic smile again shows up. “Cadet Pilot Brie Walton, retrained and reinstated in the Fleet,” she announces. “Toldja.”
“Hey, Brie!” I smile. “Um . . . congratulations? Not sick of being on another Team Lark?”
“Not in a million Atlantean turtle years.”
I chuckle and stand back, trying not to stare sideways with my peripheral vision in Claudia’s direction. Claudia remains poised and serious, still standing at attention.
This is so damn weird.
Introductions are over, and the captain now steps aside again and addresses the troops unit, barking a command.
In moments, the two sections of fifty break rank and hurry up the ramp, entering the ship. The rest of us follow.
I walk up the ramp after Captain Siduaz into a familiar Atlantean vessel interior. Fleet vessels tend to adhere to a standard look on the inside. It could be just another ark-ship hallway on ICS-2.
Here, however, the ramp opens directly into a wide, rectangular deck. Seats on both sides of the long hull walls are full of troops. There are large bins of equipment stacked in regular intervals, and wall control panels everywhere, with three weapons stations interspersed with troops seating along both sides of the hull, lengthwise—for a total of six gun stations.
On the short ends of the ship are the two main pilot sections, front and rear. A pilot is stationed at each wrench “head”—two in the front, two in the back—and two remaining pilots are on standby, ready to relieve any of the activated four.
I step inside the deck, with my guards flanking me, and last of all, the six pilots come after. The exterior hatch lowers, sealing us in.
Blayne maneuvers his board with great skill, singing the tone sequences quietly, and flies directly to the front section where he swaps himself off the board and onto a chair, taking the pilot station on the right. Claudia turns in the opposite direction and goes for the rear, taking the right side also.
Darius Harrod joins Blayne up in front and claims the left station. Yana Svoboda joins Claudia in the remaining rear left station.
The two standby pilots are Brie Walton and Li Jie, and they remain with me. We find seats in the center of the deck, in the command station seat circle next to the captain’s chair.
Tuar sits down next to me, while Brie takes my other side. They nod friendly greetings to each other, speaking past me.
“Good to see you, Walton.”
“Same to you, Momet.”
Li Jie observes us silently, not a man of many words.
We buckle ourselves in the usual harnesses that descend like snakes around us.
And then the captain nods to me and engages the control panel hovering before him. “Pegasei Retrieval Khenneb Mission, initiate takeoff.”
The seated troops grow silent. In that moment four voices rise in eerie harmony from each of the four pilot station corners, as the pilots sing the keying sequence, and call up their holo-grids and projection view screens.
Moments later, golden lights race in fine lines along the hull, and a deep hum rises from the ship’s walls.
With a sudden sinking feeling in my gut due to the pull of gravity, I feel the ankhurat take off. There’s a lurch as it moves horizontally, parallel to the ground, to distance itself from the hangar.
And then it rises like a heavy missile into the sky, heading for orbit.
The flight to Khenneb is short. We achieve orbit, then traverse the distance from Imperial Atlantida to Khenneb. Once we’re directly over Khenneb, the vessel plummets through the atmosphere back to the surface.
There are no windows in this craft, only the small viewports projected before each pilot, and I sit too far from any of them to see what kind of surface features await us. I’ve been told there will be mountains.
“I have been advised of minor weather effects at our landing coordinates,” the captain says to me, as he checks his controls. “High winds and periods of heavy rain.”
“Okay,” I nod. “Is this going to affect our ability to land?”
“No, simply a nuisance. However, there is another item of concern. The Hetmet of Khenneb just transmitted a warning message to me: several groups of local fighters and militia units are converging on our location. They have been called by the quasi-legal owners of the pegasei facility to protect their interests.”
“So, these people are armed and hostile?” I ask.
“Yes, unfortunately.” The captain scans the incoming data on his screen. “They will be waiting for us when we land, and at the entrance to the mountain facility.”
“How many hostiles are we talking about?” Brie asks. “A handful? Several dozen?”
“Likely, more,” Tuar answers instead of the captain.
Brie raises her brows. “So, are we talking ant infestation levels?”
The captain gives her a quick uncomprehending glance but does not reply, because he has more data scrolling on his display.
“What about their weapons capability?” Tuar asks.
“Expect standard mid-caliber energy firearms obtained on the regional black market. Some heavy plasma guns added in the mix.”
Captain Siduaz pauses, checks something else on another smaller window. Then he pushes the hovering physical controls aside and calls up his own holo-grid within a cube of teal-blue light.
This particular grid displays a 3D topographical map of the region. Teal lines project a surface covered by craggy hills and valleys, and one prominently larger elevation which is in fact our mountain destination. Several white moving circle dots are added, designating the approaching hostiles. Our own ankhurat is designated by a larger golden dot, seen landing vertically at the foothills of the mountain.
“According to the current snapshot, the hostiles are sufficiently far away,” Tuar says. “Do we have a time estimate when they will arrive?”
“The Hetmet is sending the projection data to us now,” the captain says, manipulating the grid. “It should populate the map in moments.”
And seconds later, the holo-grid refreshes to show a superimposed additional image, this
one in red, indicating the time-elapsed projection of the hostiles’ movement.
“According to this projection, we have less than two hours before we are overrun.”
“Is there any way to reason with them?” I ask. “Will the fighting be unavoidable?”
“Unavoidable, Imperial Lady.” The captain looks at me with a resigned expression. “These locals will not give up their pegasei without a fight.”
“Then we need to hurry,” I say.
And we continue our descent to the surface.
We land at a slightly different set of coordinates, in order to save time. Khenneb is a coastal nation, and our destination is inland, at the foot of a small mountain, but still not that far from Liant Bay with its high crags looming over the charcoal-silver-mauve waters of the bay.
The ankhurat plummets and comes to a hover stop at the edges of a small rocky valley lined with sparse shrubbery and occasional trees, with the mountain looming before us. We emerge into windy drizzle and partly overcast skies. It might be the height of Red season but it’s cooler here than in Atlantida, due to the high northern latitude.
“We have a short hike, no more than half an hour before we reach the cave opening,” the captain tells me and my guards and shìrén pilots, even as half the PRT unit troops form a tight human chain and begin moving out into the wilderness ahead of us. Meanwhile the other half waits for us to start moving, to bring up the rear. Two guards remain posted near the ship (which is secured with an active force field) to relay real-time information to us about any on-site activity.
“Watch your step, my Imperial Lady,” Tuar warns me, pointing to the rugged terrain.
Good thing I’m wearing solid boots. The rain is making things slippery.
We start walking at a good pace, with Blayne flying evenly alongside us on his board while my guards and pilots surround me. Everyone looks around often, checking the perimeter and the distant hillsides for any sign of hostiles.
Survive Page 95
