Death Drop (59 page)

A quick but thorough search of the remaining rooms showed that the ship had been ransacked. All of the gadgets in engineering, every weapon in the armory, even the supplies in the infirmary were gone; and worse, there was no sign of Simon or Diodojo. Dezmara descended the cargo ramp and jumped down, her eyes trained on the green sand. Her head panned left and right for signs of footprints, but there weren’t any—the wind had seen to that. She rounded the ramp to her right and stopped dead in her tracks. Her chest heaved as an uncontrollable sob leapt from her gut. She felt like her beating heart was being pulled through her ribcage. Dezmara wobbled down to her knees, putting one hand on the ground to keep from collapsing, and stretched out with the other. She reached down with trembling fingers and plucked the blood-spattered goggles of Simon Latranis from the slickened, red sand.

“NOOOOOO!” she howled into the coming darkness as she gripped the lenses in her hands. Her mind was slipping away as rage and exhaustion conspired to rip her psyche to shreds, when something brought her senses back from the precipice. Beep. Beep. Beep. The kranos was flashing. “What the fuck?” she said between sniffles. She tapped the kranos and zoomed in on the details. Just shy of twenty kilometers to the north, someone was transmitting. She was wrecked, but this was the only lead she had and the signal was close. It couldn’t be a coincidence. The bastards sending the transmission were the same ones who had taken Simon and Diodojo—she could
feel
it—and she was going to find them and kill them if it was the last thing she ever did, but she had to get moving before they were gone.

She rambled back into the
Ghost
and searched the galley for something to refuel her body. Fortunately, the thieves had left the food stores mostly untouched. Dezmara ate light—quickly devouring a Bauktarian boar sandwich and two shots of talsey to calm her nerves before wrapping up some of the meat, slipping it into her jacket, and scampering out of the cargo bay. The nourishment, along with the hope of finding Simon and Diodojo alive, lifted her spirits as she set out at a quick clip into the darkness.

The night brought an unbelievable drop in temperature. Dezmara zipped up her flight suit and jacket, put on her gloves, and slipped the kranos over her head. The dark-vision from her helmet made it just as easy to navigate the desert at night as by day, but Dezmara was pushing right up to her physical limits. It had been more than twenty-four hours since she had slept, and it was catching up to her. She lost her balance and tumbled, head over heels, down a large dune, sliding to a stop in the valley below. She got to her feet and tried to walk on, but finally, she could go no further.

Dezmara dropped to her knees and then reached into her pocket and removed one of the shiny cylinders she had retrieved from
The
Firebug.
She slapped the bottom of the device with one hand and it gave out a low beeping sound. The noise increased in frequency and pitch as Dezmara arched her arm up and then jammed the butt-end of the apparatus into the sand. She teetered clumsily from side to side as she backed away. The bar in front of her gave out a long final beep and Dezmara turned her head. A blue translucent dome glowed brightly around the stick and then vanished with a loud thwoomp! She stumbled forward and plopped down at the edge of a three-foot circular indentation in the ground. Its sides were smooth and curved down like a large bowl buried in the sand. At its center sat the open end of the cylinder, now flush mounted with the bottom of the bowl and issuing a large flame. Dezmara tipped over onto her side and fell into a deep and troubled sleep.

Dezmara drifted away from the warmth of the flame and into the cold black of her dreams. She saw herself alone, calling out to the emptiness, and although there was no answer, she felt like she was being watched. Something menacing and dark stood over her and surveyed her with hunger and malice. She could hear breathing, and each breath was like the sharp slicing of a sword in her mind. Then the presence in her dream growled a vicious, guttural rumble that crawled across her skin and made her shiver. Dezmara was scared, and suddenly she was floating up. At first, she didn’t know where she was going, but then she saw an orange glow in the distance.
“The fire,”
she thought.
“Back to the fire where it’s safe and warm and…wait a minute…”
She felt a sudden rush of cold air on her face, and she was drifting up uncontrollably, struggling to retreat as the fire split and became two raging orange eyes that set her body ablaze.

Dezmara woke with a start, sucking in air as though she had been drowning and had managed to reach the surface not a moment too soon. She propped herself on one forearm, and it took a moment for her to recognize that she was no longer facing the fire pit. “Must’ve rolled over in the night—hell’uva dream…” She looked down and saw the kranos lying on the ground a foot from where her head had been, then she turned and stared at the tracks in front of her. They looked like Diodojo’s footprints, except there were only two and they were much bigger. Dezmara could see that the padded feet, each with five toes crowned by five indentations she guessed to be claws, had stood less than an inch from her stomach and chest as she slept. She looked around, but there weren’t any more tracks—nothing leading up to or away from the spot where she had been sleeping. And then the wind scattered the two marks and they vanished as silently as they had come.

She looked around nervously as she patted her body. Her guns and ammo, her blades, and all of her supplies were still there.
“What the hell’s goin’ on?”
she wondered as she unzipped her jacket and pulled out her breakfast. She ate a chunk of boar meat and washed it down with a few swigs of water. It was still early and the air was cool, so she slipped the kranos back over her head and kept her jacket zipped up. Her heads-up display showed that she had twelve more kilometers to go before she arrived at the coordinates of the transmission. She just hoped that the bastards were still there.

She walked on, and as the sun rose into the sky and torched the green landscape in its fiery wrath, Dezmara was back to tying the kranos to her hydro-pouch and her jacket was knotted around her waist again. As she approached her destination, she stayed clear of the dune ridges to keep from stirring the ‘thunder-sand’ and possibly alerting anyone to her approach. It was just past midday when she crested a dune and saw a familiar sight—a faint wisp of smoke curling into the air ahead. She charged up and down the next five dunes and then slowly crept up the back side of the sixth on her hands and knees.

As she peered over the top of the ridge and into the valley below, the wind gusted up the face of the dune and pelted her with an endless supply of granular missiles. Dezmara clenched her eyes and jerked her head away. “That was smart,” she said as she rolled onto her side and untied the kranos. She slipped the hood over her head and crawled back into position. Now that her eyes were protected, she spied without fear over the crest, and what she saw made her blood boil. There, crashed and wedged in the sand below, was a ship she thought she’d never lay eyes on again. It had a gaping hole in its flank where it had been rent open by cannon fire, and smoke was still seeping from the wound. She didn’t recognize any of the crew from Luxon, or anywhere else for that matter, but she didn’t care; she knew they were murdering, thieving bastards. The proof of their ill deeds was sitting right there in the sand next to the outstretched cargo bay door—four containers taken from the
Ghost
, one with Dezmara’s harpoons still sunk through its sides. There was no sign of Simon or Diodojo, but if they were still alive, they were somewhere inside the belly of that monster ship.

“You goddam pirate bastards are going to die!” she seethed. She pushed herself away from the edge and slid back down the incline on her stomach. When she reached the bottom, she stood and climbed two dunes back just in case the pirates decided to patrol the area. Dezmara knew ships, and that hole in the flank would take at least eight more hours to patch. She also knew revenge and that it was a dish best served cold, so she drew her blades, hunkered down in the sand, and waited for the cold desert night to come.

Chapter 39:
A Voice in the Dark

“A
dmiral?” a voice called in Rilek’s sleep, but it was rough and scratchy—not at all the melodious lilt of a pleasant dream—and he shook his head, trying his best to change the station. “Admiral?!” the voice croaked again despite Rilek’s attempts to influence his subconscious. “ADMIRAL!”

Rilek’s eyes blinked open. He was face down on the portside wall of the conning tower, and he could feel the smallest traces of heat beginning to seep through the barrier. The com was working again, and the voice of his engineer was blaring over the speaker in desperation. The admiral got to his feet. He quickly glanced to his left and accounted for his crew plus the Dissenters. Everyone was groaning and slowly moving to an upright position, except for Malo, who lay in a crumpled, brown heap on the viewing pane. “Major,” Rilek said firmly, “would you and Ensign Nori please move Malo to the other side of the control console.”

Otto hesitated for a moment, partially because he was still a little dazed from being slammed against the wall, but mostly because there was no way he and Nori could move Malo anywhere—it would take the entire crew plus a small crane to lift the Moxen giant. Before Otto could open his mouth, however, Rilek gave him a brief, annoyed look and then turned to Nori and nodded curtly. The ensign’s body glowed and blurred, then glowed and blurred again; and again once more. When the light show was over, eight Noris marched double-time to Malo’s body and surrounded him. Otto was still shaking his head in amazement as he squeezed between them and placed his hands underneath his friend.

“On the count of three,” one of the Noris said.

“One,” came the call from another Nori.

“Two,” from another.

“Three!” another said.

The sounds of struggle moaned from the surreal group flanking the body of the Moxen, and at first, Malo didn’t move. The group was fighting the weight of the body and the turbulent shaking of the
Lodestar
as the atmosphere outside battered the ship. In the end, Dr. Weiloonyu squeezed in and, despite her objection, a beat-up Booktu slipped his one good arm under Malo, and he was finally deposited on the other side of the control console as ordered.

“Admiral?!” the voice on the other end of the com squawked impatiently.

The admiral knelt down and reached around to the front side of the console and punched the com at Booktu’s station. “Rilek here, go ahead, Kriegel!”

“We’ve got about thirty seconds before this bucket is a pile of melted scrap! What the hell is going on up there?!”

“Navigation controls are smashed,” Rilek said as calmly as if he were ordering a drink at his favorite pub.

“Dammit! Another damn thing to fix—it never ends around here!” the engineer said more to himself than Rilek. There was a brief pause and then Kriegel spoke again.

“I’ve cooked up some crude flight controls—should be enough for me to put us down in one piece—but I need you to patch me into the navigation computer. There’s an access panel in the deck in front of the helm and an auxiliary cable for diagnostics inside. Plug it into an open port. You’ve got fifteen seconds.”

“On my way,” Rilek said, then he slid over the jostling console and leapt toward the shattered helm. He gripped a section of the wheel with his left hand and hung in the air as he unfastened the access panel. The windows in the conning tower no longer showed starshine or the blue luminescence of Clara 591 but blazed an intense orange. “Shutters full, Mr. Nori!” Rilek shouted as he continued to brandish the pronged end of the diagnostic cable at the elusive, bouncing port.

“Shutters full, aye!” Nori replied and the windows vanished.

“Everyone to the front of the control console, and brace yourselves,” ordered Rilek.

“Two seconds!” Kriegel called over the com. “One second!”

“Got it!” Rilek cried.

The
Lodestar
rolled right-side-up almost instantly, and the bow lifted. Everyone but the admiral was thrown to the deck, and as Otto picked his battered body up off the ground, he regretted not listening to his cautious side and getting out of his seat. With hardly any of the helm left to hold on to, Rilek was now buckled into the chair Malo had left empty. “All hands, emergency landing measures!” Rilek shouted. Nori—who was back to his single self again—and Booktu stumbled to their stations and secured themselves as Dr. Weiloonyu scampered across the quaking deck and arrived at an empty seat to the right of the admiral. Otto bounded from his position and secured himself to the chair on Rilek’s left.

Otto looked sadly at the dark mound lying across the deck. Unfortunately, there was nothing they could do for Malo. He hoped that somehow his friend’s comatose state would protect him from the coming impact, but he doubted it. His heart sank lower every second they charged on, and his sadness turned to dread as he thought of watching his friend bludgeoned to a pulp in the coming seconds. Otto was mortified, but his fears were unfounded. Kriegel had control of the ship, and the
Lodestar
stopped shaking and sailed true as they slowed.

“Find a place to set down, Nori, then relay the coordinates to Kriegel.”

“Aye, Admiral.”

It didn’t take long for Ensign Nori to find a safe location and pass the coordinates to the engineer stationed somewhere in the depths of the ship, piloting them to the surface with a contraption slightly more complex than the screwdriver and flashlight Otto was picturing in his head—but not by much.

“Admiral,” Kriegel shouted over the com, as if he knew Rilek was across the room, “I can’t whip up anything to lower the skids. I’ll have to belly land her.”