Eternal Horizon: The Chronicle of Vincent Saturn (Eternal Horizon: A Star Saga Book 1) (17 page)

“What’s there?” Vincent asked reluctantly.

Exander ignored Vincent. “Are you sure?”

Damocles shrugged. “We’ve no other choice. He’ll be more valuable this way.”

Vincent was perplexed. “What am I to do?”

“Down the tube to the room beyond the next,” Exander said as he jumped up, slashing. A portion of the pipe fell to the side, creating an opening.

“And then what?” Vincent hesitated.

“
Quickly!
Gaia should meet us there in minutes!” Exander said as Vincent climbed Damocles’ shoulders. “Blast the panel that has Duell chained and wait for us.”

“You make it sound so easy… I mean, what if—”

“
Just go, damn it!
”

“Hurry up, will you?” Vincent said and disappeared into the pipe.

The twins then ran up to the middle gate.

“I hope he’ll be able to do this,” Damocles said.

“It’s not such a hard task after all…” Exander mumbled quietly, clasping his sword.

“You seem worried… what’s the matter? You still don’t trust him? After all, you saw the fire in his eyes as he shot that guard. I cannot express it, but it was that of a fierce warrior.”

“It’s not the human I’m concerned about,” Exander said. He then looked at his brother. “Do you think Na’ar will be there?”

“I doubt it,” Damocles responded after a moment. “It’s a big ship.”

“If he is there…” Exander said, sinking his teeth into his lower lip. “We’ll have to kill him.”

Another moment of silence.

“Aye, perhaps,” the big guy said. “Do you think we’re ready?”

“I’m certain.” Exander smiled. “Well, brother, they’re waiting for us. How should we greet them?”

“Let’s give them hell!”

*

Spaide hurried down the endless corridor, pushing the cart. All the panels, the frames, and the multiple doors were similar, one after another—same, same, same again—as if he were stuck in some awful videogame. He must’ve traveled at least a mile without meeting a single soul—just the same, dull tunnel.

The creepiness of the silence devoured and agitated him. Countless thoughts started to run through his head as his anticipation for action was not satisfied:
Where is Oryon or Duell? What of the twins and the Princess? Was it a good idea to let them go on their own?

“You’re losing it, Spaide,” he muttered.

Eventually, he saw a bright light ahead. As he approached it, he could visibly distinguish its source: an open bay for fighter jets. He slowed down as he heard three distinct voices arguing over a certain subject. He stopped at the entryway and peered around the corner.

The bay had an opening into outer space barred by a translucent plasma shield. Next to the opening was an oversized contraption—the magnetic beam.

I have to plant an explosive in this room
, Spaide thought.

To his left were three soldiers examining a hover jet. Although no more guards were in sight, there was no way for him to cross the room without catching their attention. So he decided to lean back and listen to their squabble.

“I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with this piece of junk!” complained one of the guards, striking the jet’s open engine.

“Why didn’t you get it checked?” shouted the other soldier, whom Spaide supposed to be the commander due to his reddish armor. “We’re about to take off! Now we’ll have to walk again, you incompetent idiot!”

“I was held up!” the former replied in defense. “I thought I’d catch one of the mechanics in the spaceport.”

“Well, why didn’t you, then?”

“I told you… I was held up.”

“That’s bunk, and you know it,” continued the latter. “We’re here for nearly an hour, and for the past thirty minutes you’ve been dragging behind me, pestering me with your stupid anecdotes, all the while neglecting your top priority!”

“Which was to fix the jet?”

“Yes, to fix the damned jet!”

“What seems to be the problem, fellas?” Spaide took the men by surprise as he approached with his cart.

“
Halt!
” The stunned guards pointed their weapons at the Dirsalian.

“Whoa, guys!” Spaide raised his arms, upholding his flippant smile. “I’m with the
Nabulian
maintenance crew.”

“Na… Na—what?” they repeated the odd calling, trading glances.

“
Nabulian
. I was just
passin
’ by when I noticed you’re havin’ a problem with the
injectoturbolator
.”

“The
injecto
—who?” asked the confused commander.

“Here, I’ll show you.” Spaide shoved the guns aside and approached the engine as the curious soldiers piled up behind him. “The
injectoturbolator
is attached to
interratory
power cells, which don’t seem to be transferrin’ power to the plasma modulator, which, in turn…” Spaide was making stuff up as fast as he was running his finger up and down the engine, pointing at various tubes and distracting the guards. With his other hand, he discreetly reached into the cart, pulled out a round device, and attached it under the jet’s hull. Continuing to blabber out fabricated technical jargon, he pulled out some wires, twisted a few, connected them, and shut the engine cover before managing to stick another device inside.

“That’s it!” he said, going around the jet, caressing it with his hand. “Doriorrian model? Nice.” He then went back to his cart and said, “Well, crank her up, gentlemen.”

“There’s no way you fixed it,” the commander said, pushing the button on his remote. The engine revved, and the jet lifted itself a few feet over the floor.

“AUTOPILOT ON,” announced the jet’s computer.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the commander said, shutting off the vehicle. “Where—” He couldn’t finish his sentence as he turned around to see the two soldiers staring at him without the Dirsalian in sight. “Where is he, you idiots?”

“We thought you were watching him, boss!” the guards cried out.

“Well, he was in a hurry.” The commander relaxed, seemingly satisfied. “The ship’s taking off at any minute anyhow.”

“That’s right, boss,” they agreed with him before he sent them on patrol.

Spaide was hundreds of feet down the other tunnel by the time the guards realized he’d left. He was completely unaware of the time or how much of it had passed and just continued pushing the cart, beginning to run. The silence was getting to him once again. A part of him wished for the soldiers to pursue him—he was ready for some action. Yet nothing happened.

As he was about to start his soliloquy once again, the ship began to takeoff. He dashed to the wall and gripped one of the protruding pipes while holding onto the cart. When the tumult stopped, he continued, planting explosives all along the tunnel. Then, within minutes, the alarm began blaring.

“All right.” He sighed in relief, stopped, and took off the uncomfortable jumpsuit. “Let’s get it over with.”

There were still too many bombs in the cart to leave it behind, so he kicked it down the path in front of him—his hands fidgeting over his blasters, his eyes scouting for a target. Two guards materialized around the corner, running in his direction. Not drawing out the revolver from its holster, Spaide pointed it at his assailants and shot twice from his hip. The guards fell to the cold floor with a hole in their helmets emitting vapor. Spaide then withdrew both of his guns and rushed past them, continuing to kick the cart. Several droids and more soldiers appeared in the distance, but they were mere target practice for the Dirsalian; he took them out in fractions of a second.

A few of the flying drones were headed for him. As Spaide blasted them away, several blasts zapped beside him, coming from behind. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw four soldiers on his tail. He jumped up, turned, and sat on the cart’s handles, strolling down the tunnel while facing his enemies. He aimed and pulled the triggers, twice on each pistol. The blasts found their targets, and the troops collapsed face-first. Then a hail of bullets passed over his head, forcing him to lean back and fall into the moving cart. He instantly stood up, guns blazing. Two robots were ahead, armed with primitive, lead-firing weapons. Their heads exploded in an instant, leaving husks of metal blocking most of the path. Spaide crouched down, and the cart easily passed between them.

More blasts came from behind. This time, the soldiers were atop hover bikes, enclosing the distance between them and the Dirsalian. Spaide turned around and shot them all, causing a great explosion as the unrestrained bikes shattered into the robots.

The tunnel flowed into a dock where an entire battalion of soldiers ran up to greet Spaide with an array of blasts. Firing at the welcoming party, he jumped out of the cart, rolled on the floor, and hid behind a large crate.

“
He’s behind the crate!
” one of the guards shouted.

“Damn it,” Spaide fussed and came out of hiding, running towards the docked vessels as hundreds of blasts and bullets whizzed around him. He only managed to shoot at the crowd a few times before hiding behind a hefty jet but still managed to take out seven of his assailants.

“
He’s behind that jet!
” the same guard, apparently the leader, continued shouting orders. “
Surround him! We will—
”

“Got ya!” Spaide peeked out and shot once, penetrating the commander between the eyes. Before the rest of the guards could understand what was happening, he took them all out, waving his guns like a conductor.

Shouts of another approaching party were heard.

Spaide stowed away one of his pistols, grabbed a crate, and dragged it to one of the ships. He set it down, hid behind it, pulled out his small computer, and began tampering with the vessel’s engine.

“Okay, boys,” he said. “If you aren’t here within the next few minutes, uncle Spaide’s gonna die, cuz I’ll be damned if they take me alive.”

*

Seconds within the alarm, the room was filled with several dozen soldiers wielding the best Imperial weaponry. Two of the Destroyer-bots also made their way into the room, as well as the smaller fighter droids. Now, minutes later, the soldiers were exasperated, pointing their weapons at the gate with no attempt to proceed. The cameras in the
locked
room were out, thus there was no way to tell what was happening in there, but they knew the essentials: Oryon Krynne and his posse were beyond it. That name alone made their bodies quiver and caused sweat to cover their foreheads, fogging their visors.

The Destroyer-bots stood over twelve feet tall, their base a platform consisting of wheels and chains that maneuvered the colossus and gave it the ability to fully rotate around. Instead of limbs, the robots had two chainguns which released blasts big enough to vaporize someone’s head off.

Behind the automatons, on a stage ten feet above the floor, was the door leading to the room where the prisoner was held—the same prisoner the intruders attempted to rescue. Five soldiers stood astride atop the platform, blocking the entryway. They donned frightening auburn armor: breastplates, greaves, and pads engraved with ancient symbols; wrist guards with sharp black blades; and helmets crafted in the shape of skulls. Their armament also contained an entire arrange of weapons: blasters, explosives, daggers—but in their hands they held electrically-charged quarterstaffs. The officer in the middle wore a long purple cloak attached to his shoulder plates, signifying him as the commander of the Imperial Centurions—the elite commandos of the Republic. They were there before the twins made their presence, Commander Hellion and four of his best. It took him twenty years of laborious work to achieve his prestigious position. Now, in front of him, was an opportunity to reach the upper echelons of the military. He saw the assailants for a mere second on the monitors, but that didn’t frighten him. The training he endured for decades would certainly pay off, and the team composed of his best students was more than ready; they would kill the enemy, thereby raising their master’s rank.