Lunar Crisis: Age of Expansion - A Kurtherian Gambit Series (Shadow Vanguard Book 2)

by Tom Dublin

  "Tc'aarlat!" yelled Adina breathlessly as she hammered on the tinted glass of the side window. "What the hell are you doing?"

  The Yollin's voice responded tinnily via a speaker hidden somewhere beneath the craft's gleaming black paintwork. "What does it look like?" he demanded. "I'm gonna shoot down that bastard missile!"

  "You can't!" countered Draven, peering in the window on the other side of the shuttle.

  "Why not?" rumbled Tc'aarlat. "Because I'm not a super-cool hippie pilot like you?"

  "No!" shouted Draven. "Because you'll be flying straight at the missile. I came at it from behind. The thing will most likely hit and destroy you before you can hit the switch to arm the forward guns!"

  Tc'aarlat blinked a few times, obviously thinking this through. Then he shook his head and doubled down on his efforts to complete the checklist.

  With a barely audible click, the turntable reached its destination and Fortitude's rear doors began to open.

  Adina and Draven looked at each other through Pegasus’ windows.

  "He won't listen!" exclaimed Adina. "If he goes out there, he'll end up killing himself and destroying the Pegasus. Then we'll have no way of stopping that fucking missile!"

  Draven thought for a second, then turned his head and spoke aloud. "Solo, what type of main engines do you have?"

  "Pulse-fusion-based ion drives, Draven," Solo replied. "Why?"

  "Do they dump irradiated superheated plasma as a by-product after they've fired?"

  "Yes, they do," Solo replied. "I use the plasma to power the ship's internal heating system."

  The Pegasus II began to rise as the rear doors edged closer to fully open.

  Adina glanced at the clear blue sky beyond them and saw the missile as it streaked toward them.

  "Can you reroute that plasma and exhaust it through the waste ports connected to the main engines?" questioned Draven.

  "Yes, of course," responded Solo. "But I don't see why I would ever—”

  A metallic CLUNK rang out as the doors locked open and Tc'aarlat begin to pilot the Pegasus II toward the exit and the heat-seeking missile.

  "DO IT NOW!" bellowed Draven.

  Almost immediately a surge of gas burst from the ship's twin engines, flooding the air behind the Fortitude with a fine fog. The vapor partially blocked the incoming missile from view, but Adina could still hear its engine roaring as the deadly weapon flew closer.

  As quickly as the mist had appeared it evaporated, to be replaced by trails of pale-blue goop. They spat from the engine vents in viscous trails that converged on the missile as it shot toward them.

  "DOWN!" cried Draven.

  He and Adina threw themselves to the floor behind the Pegasus II just as the heat-seeking missile exploded. A blast of red-hot air filled the hangar, peeling the paint from the body of the shuttle and singeing the fine hairs coating Adina's arms.

  Everything fell silent.

  7

  ICS Fortitude, Rear Cargo Bay

  "How the fuck does he do it?" spat Tc'aarlat, stomping up and down the empty cargo bay. Mist watched her master with interest from a metal beam high above.

  Jack glanced at Draven, who was applying burn salve from the first aid kit to the singed skin of Adina's arms and face. He took care to ensure there was enough cream left for himself. "Do what?"

  "Stop a sodding heat-seeking missile with no more than an idea and come out of it with a motherfucking tan?!"

  Jack frowned. "I wouldn't call it a tan exactly. He and Adina were burned by the blast of scorched air that blasted into the hangar after the explosion."

  Tc'aarlat's eyes were bulging. "Does he look burned to you?"

  Jack looked back at the Etheric Federation pilot. "No, not really." He chuckled. "He may be sore for a few days, but it does look good on him."

  He raised a finger to stop the Yollin before he could continue his rant. "But they were both very fortunate not to have been badly hurt. Look at what the blast did to the paintwork on the front of the new Pegasus."

  "That's another thing!" moaned Tc'aarlat, eliciting an exasperated sigh from Jack. "Nathan's going to do his nut when he finds out we've totaled another multi-million-credit space cruiser."

  Jack pulled out his tablet and swiped through the photographs of the damage to the Pegasus II Solo had taken to send back to the Meredith Reynolds. In addition to the scorched paint, the metal framework at the front of the craft had buckled from the extreme pressure of the blast and the toughened glass of the windows displayed radiating burn marks.

  "It's hardly totaled," he countered. "The damage is superficial at best. Plus, the thing was strong enough to save you from being hurt."

  "Pffft!" spat Tc'aarlat.

  Jack raised his eyebrows. "Pffft?" he questioned. "What's 'Pffft?'"

  "I'd have been fine," the Yollin asserted. "Exoskeleton, remember?"

  "Is that why you've been chugging painkillers like candy for the nasty headache you got when you fainted earlier?"

  "Yollin skulls are delicate!" Tc'aarlat protested, reaching up to prod the back of his head tenderly. "And I didn't faint."

  "Yes, you did," countered Adina as she and Draven joined them. "I was there."

  "You two have finished oiling each other up then?" Tc'aarlat scoffed.

  "Don't be like that!" warned Adina. "We'd have all been floating around in tiny pieces if it hadn't been for Draven."

  "That's true," agreed Jack, reaching over to shake the pilot's hand. "We're all very grateful for your quick thinking."

  "Pffft!"

  Jack glared at his Yollin counterpart. "We're all grateful."

  "Suppose so..." muttered Tc'aarlat glumly, reluctantly taking Draven's outstretched hand. "But I still say—”

  "Excuse me, Captain Marber," interrupted Solo. "You have an incoming video communication from Nathan Lowell."

  "Oh, shit!" Tc'aarlat grunted. "He's heard about the Pegasus already!"

  "Don't be ridiculous," Jack said, turning to face the EI's avatar on a nearby wall screen. "Tell Nathan we're on our way."

  Moon of Hann, Red Light District, Back Alley

  The stolen police shuttle landed in a deserted alley deep within the red-light district, its telescopic legs digging holes in the poorly-maintained tarmac.

  The pilot's-side door opened with a hisss and Vimor Malfic climbed out, stretching his arms wide. He took a deep lungful of air and grinned somewhere beneath his thick black beard.

  "Can't you just taste the depravity?"

  "All I can taste is whatever had soaked into that filthy rag you stuffed into my mouth at the prison parking lot!" complained Nerk Wassel.

  Malfic stooped to peer inside the shuttle. The guard he had taken hostage during his escape was sitting uncomfortably in the copilot's seat, his wrists and ankles bound with strong plastic zip-ties.

  The felon flipped the catch on the ship's glove box and rooted around inside until he found a knife, presumably confiscated from some prior passenger.

  Wassel stiffened as the blade swished across the front of his body, cutting the restraint binding his hands together. He then repeated the action with the guard's feet.

  After spinning the knife in his fingers, Malfic straightened and slipped it into the waistband of his sweatpants.

  With permission to use the prison's conjugal rights trailer, Vimor Malfic had also been allowed to change out of his prison-duty orange jumpsuit into something more comfortable—and less ardor-dampening.

  "So, is that it now?" the kidnapped guard asked as he rubbed the red marks on his wrists. "Am I free to go?"

  "What do you think?" growled Malfic, delving into the glove box again and producing a radio scanner. He flicked the power switch and, after a sharp burst of static, confirmed that he was able to listen in on communications between police headquarters and patrol officers.

  He switched the radio off to conserve the battery and gestured for Wassel to get out of the ship. "Let's go, little piggy!"

  Wassel s
ighed and opened the door on his side of the ship. "Yes, sir," he muttered as he clambered into the night air and looked around to try to get his bearings.

  He'd only been to the Moon of Hann once before, on a long weekend with some of his fellow recruits while they were at the police academy on Taglen.

  The six law enforcement rookies had saved their meagre trainee-level pay for several weeks while they waited for their time off to align so they could jump on the free public transport offered by one of the large casinos.

  They'd begun the weekend confidently, accepting complimentary drinks from and flirting with the attractive waitresses on the short spaceflight to the moon.

  Once on Hann they had quickly immersed themselves in the decadent ambience, following every gaudy ad tempting them to drink deep, party hard, and win big.

  Everyone was out of cash a little over an hour later.

  The remainder of the weekend had been spent in the single dreary hotel room they had booked for all of them, believing it would only be used as a base to freshen up, change clothes, and exchange high-fives as they passed each other en route from one exciting conquest to the next.

  The room had then been a temporary home to the six hungry and nervous young men, who survived on a diet of free crackers and ketchup packets while hiding from the pimps who managed the girls they'd leered at on the street corners.

  The lowest point of the weekend had come when the police recruits had been arrested for scavenging through dumpsters behind a twenty-four-hour Shrillexian restaurant and shipped back to the academy in a police transport vehicle.

  One swift dismissal later, Wassel had found himself on the fast-track to life as a low-paid guard at the prison on the Moon of Persha.

  His first visit to Persha's sister moon was something he had worked hard to forget.

  This second visit wasn't shaping up to be much of an improvement.

  Malfic gestured for Wassel to follow and strode confidently down the alley, making no attempt to stick to the shadows. The escapee even began whistling. It was as if he were daring the authorities to find and arrest him.

  When they reached the end of the alley, the two men stepped into the street and were immediately assaulted by the sights, sounds, and smells that pervaded the Moon of Hann.

  Everywhere they looked there were flashing neon signs advertising everything from gambling dens to strip-clubs, and much more.

  Bass-heavy music pounded from inside just about every building, almost—but not quite—drowning out the shouts of rowdy revelers and the screams of those enjoying worse fortune.

  The moon's artificially-heated air was thick with competing aromas: fast food, cheap perfume, and even cheaper alcohol.

  The Moon of Hann was a debauched cesspit of deviance, lust, and greed.

  Vimor Malfic felt right at home.

  "Move it," he growled, pushing a path through the throng of alien carousers swarming the sidewalk.

  Wassel briefly considered allowing himself to be swept along by the tide of thrill-seekers, getting lost in the crowds, and finding somewhere to call the authorities and hide out until he could be rescued.

  But every time he prepared himself to dart into some dark doorway, almost all manned by some kind of scowling lifeform that looked like a cross between a killer shark and an angry mountain, Malfic would glower at him to ensure his hostage kept up.

  So he did.

  Both sides of the street were lined with brightly lit windows, behind which gyrated men, women, things with tentacles, and in one instance what appeared to be a dense cloud of vapor in a pink leather bikini.

  There was even one block populated entirely by raunchily rotating robots, causing Wassel to picture an assembly line of exhausted and bored engineers putting these degenerate droids together while computer techs in an adjoining room coded stilted conversations crammed with come-ons and assorted erotic moans and groans.

  Each goldfish bowl-like cubicle sported a bed, a rack of costumes, and an array of bizarre toys and props designed to boggle the mind and titillate every other part of the body.

  Yet, despite their suggestive expressions and lewd gestures, the cavorters showed little to no enthusiasm for the various depravities offered behind the thick panes of glass.

  Gangs of sightseers crowded outside these windows giggling and drooling at the provocative displays put on by the sex-workers within, each gesturing for the tempted tourists to step on up and take a swift yet expensive trip to the heavens and back.

  Every now and again one of the randy revelers would nod to the feisty figure behind the window. At that point an equally transparent door would open to allow them inside with their fists full of cash and the rest of their bodies overflowing with pent-up lust.

  The alien on offer would slide a faded red curtain across the proceedings, and the gathering outside would move as one to another of the gaudily-lit displays of flesh and fulfillment.

  Despite the ongoing hostage situation, Wassel found himself enjoying the chance to ogle these purveyors of pleasure as he trailed along behind Malfic. He wasn't sure where his captor was headed, but he began to wish his need to get there was less urgent so that he might have more time to peruse the delights on offer.

  He was so engrossed in one window—behind which a Jagwa and a Skaine were wrestling in an inflatable pool filled with gravy—that he failed to notice Malfic had stopped and walked into him hard.

  "Oof!"

  Malfic sneered down at the distracted guard before rapping his knuckles on a narrow wooden door wedged between two of the glass cubicles.

  After a brief moment a shrill whiny voice called out from the other side, "What's the password?"

  "Open this fucking door right now or I'll ram it right up your rusty sheriff's badge!" spat Malfic.

  There was a hurried sliding back of bolts and unfastening of locks, then the door creaked open a few inches and a pair of dull and partially crossed eyes peered out of the shadows within.

  "Well, you took your damn time!"

  ICS Fortitude, Bridge

  The Fortitude's three permanent crew members settled into their seats in front of the main viewscreen and Draven folded down a temporary seat fixed to the rear wall.

  "Thank you for joining me, Shadows," began Nathan once everyone was settled, "and Draven, of course. There's something very important I need to discuss with you."

  "The new Pegasus is fine!" Tc'aarlat blurted.

  Nathan blinked and was silent for a few seconds. "I'm glad to hear it," he said, his brows furrowing. "Let's hope this model manages to stay in one piece for more than one mission."

  The Yollin's eyes went wide and he began to laugh a little too loudly. "Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! Good one, Nathan! Very funny!"

  Nathan looked quizzically toward Jack. "Is everything okay, Captain?"

  After throwing Tc'aarlat an angry glance Jack nodded. "He fell and hit his head earlier," he explained. "Please continue..."

  "We've gotten reports of a break-out from a maximum-security prison on one of the moons of Taglen," said Nathan, tapping the screen of his tablet. "The escaped prisoner, Vimor Malfic, is an extremely nasty piece of work."

  The viewscreen split vertically with Nathan's video feed on one half and a mugshot of the heavily bearded and sneering Malfic on the other.

  "Gott Verdammt!" cursed Adina. "He queued up twice when they were handing out the ugly, didn't he?"

  "Malfic is incredibly dangerous," continued Nathan. "He murdered at least one individual during his escape, and he won't have any compunction against killing again."

  "Do you know where this guy is now?" asked Draven.

  "Not exactly," Nathan replied. "According to our latest intel, he stole a police shuttle from outside the prison and blasted off as his guards gave chase. The ship he took is not a long-range craft, so it's likely he's still somewhere in the local system."

  "How can we help?" queried Jack.

  "You're not too far from a gate which will take you to within an hour'
s flight of Taglen and its twin moons," Nathan’s fingers danced on the screen of his tablet again. "I'm sending over everything we have on the world and on Malfic. Get there and see if there's anything you can do to assist the local authorities."

  "Will do," agreed Jack, pulling out his tablet as it dinged to acknowledge the arrival of Nathan's files. "We'll keep you updated."

  "Good luck," Nathan offered and the video feed ended.

  "Well, it looks like you'll be with us a little while longer," Jack said, spinning his chair to face Draven.

  "Are you sure?" Tc'aarlat asked. "I mean, there's nothing to keep him from going back to his official duties, whatever they are, if we can drop him off somewhere on the way to this gate."

  "Hey, I don't mind staying a while," Draven relayed with a grin. He gave a wink in Adina's direction. "I like hanging out with you guys, and who knows…I might even be able to help you with this mission."

  "Always good to have another pair of hands," Adina remarked.

  "It depends what you plan to do with them," murmured Tc'aarlat as he turned back to his section of the bridge's control console.

  Jack set his tablet aside and looked at the face on the main viewscreen. "Solo, plot a course for the gate Nathan recommmended."

  "Of course, Captain," the EI responded. "Just as soon as all personnel have fastened their safety belts and harnesses."

  Draven opened his mouth to comment, but Adina spoke before he could. "Just do what she asks. You'll never hear the end of it otherwise."

  Shrugging, Draven buckled in while the rest of the crew attended to their harnesses.

  Safely secured, they waited for Solo to display the map of their calculated route and fire up the engines.

  But nothing happened.

  "Is there a problem, Solo?" Jack asked.

  "Not at all, Captain," Solo replied. "I'm just waiting for everyone to secure their safety equipment before embarking."

  Jack glanced around the cramped bridge, checking that everyone had properly fastened their belts. "All four of us are strapped in, Solo."

  "That is correct, Captain. However, the young girl hiding in the level-three food storage unit is not."