Bellator: An Anthology of Warriors of Space & Magic Page 25
“I don’t think there’s anyone else out there,” he told the child, looking into her wide eyes. “I think we’re it.”
“But you don’t know for sure,” accused the child. “Not for sure.”
Benny turned away, staring at the tactical plot that showed the two warships, and now a stream of suits and small ships heading back to the Caca vessel.
“We don’t have time to do anything else,” said Benny, gesturing toward the tactical holo. “We’re about one minute away from having missiles fired up our ass.” Benny felt bad as soon as the words left his mouth. But he hadn’t been around children all that much.
The child nodded, not looking very happy, but accepting what he had said.
And here we go, thought the Marine as the last object left the ship and he waited for the tracks of missiles to appear. He was surprised when the ship started to shake from a light amp hit, and the tactical plot picked up the brief track of incoming particle beams.
“Looks like they’re not going to waste missiles on us,” said Benny. Smart, since we’re really not going to be able to dodge, or defend ourselves.
The ship shook again, and Benny thought for a moment about what he was going to do. Missiles would have made the decision easy. Once they were on the way he would have known exactly how long the ship had to survive. With beam weapons, he would have no idea how long they had until something vital exploded in the battle cruiser. Something like the antimatter containers in the engines. So I’ll just have to depend on luck, again, he thought with a mental laugh. And just how much can I depend on that lady? Not that I have any real choice.
The ship whose hangar the shuttle rested in was shaking from multiple beam hits, as light amp or protons converted mass to vapor, pushing the vessel. Okay, thought Benny, opening the heavy doors to the hangar, which fortunately faced away from the enemy vessel. That didn’t mean they wouldn’t see it, but it was his only chance. The doors slid open, just enough to allow one shuttle out at a time, and he sent the activation code to the other one first.
The naval transfer shuttle rose up on its grabbers and moved through the opening, all systems activated and giving off signals a blind man couldn’t miss. His decoy, if all worked out. A moment later he lifted the assault shuttle and headed out at a slow, ten gravity boost, low enough that his radiated heat signature would not be detectable against all the other nearby sources. All stealth fields were activated, and any active sensors would be absorbed by the field, while the ship would appear invisible to most electromagnetic sensors, including visual. Infrared was the big problem, and the shuttle was set to radiate as much as possible away from the enemy ship.
“Hold on,” he told the child as the ship flew out of the hangar. He shifted the boost to twenty gravities for a couple of seconds, adding three hundred and twenty-two meters per second to his separation velocity. He cut back to ten gravities for ten more seconds, then cut all thrust and coasted away with a minimal energy signature.
Benny kept a close watch on the battle cruiser on the holo as his shuttle moved away at one point three kilometers per second. In one minute he was seventy-eight kilometers away, far enough to survive, maybe, if the ship’s antimatter stores detonated.
“Missile launch,” called out the shuttle’s computer as a vector arrow appeared on the holo.
“Is it going to hit us?” asked the panicked child.
I sure hope not, thought the man, looking at the vector arrow that indicated a missile in the initial stages of tracking, which at that point could have gone after any of three targets. He sweated for a moment as the vector arrow started to turn, on a heading for the other shuttle. He let out his breath, watching as the acceleration figures showed the missile, almost as massive as its target, pulling eight thousand gravities. And putting out enough gravity waves to cover his next maneuver, he hoped.
He pushed the boost forward, making it the third most radiative object in this section of space, after the missile and the naval shuttle that was pushing six hundred gravities. Eleven seconds at fifty gravities added another twenty-four and a half kilometers per second to his velocity. At that moment the battle cruiser exploded into a cloud of fast moving plasma and pieces of hull and armor. Fast enough to catch his shuttle.
At over three hundred kilometers distance, there was not really much of a blast wave, the plasma spreading with the square of the distance from the center of the explosion. There was some slight turbulence, followed seconds later by some objects, small solid pieces striking the shuttle. A couple of warning lights came on the schematic of the shuttle that popped up on a side holo. Some minor hull damage, a few dings to one of the grabbers, but nothing to sweat. At that moment the missile hit the other shuttle, and its grabber transmission went off the plot, along with that of the missile.
“We’re going to make it,” he told the child again, looking over at her and smiling. The shuttle was coasting again, all systems powered down that weren’t absolutely necessary. That didn’t include the passive sensors, as he wanted to keep a track on the enemy battleship.
Ten minutes later, that ship translated up to hyper VII, leaving the shuttle by itself in normal space. After giving it a few minutes, he activated the systems on his ship and started to decelerate for a return to the place where the battle cruiser had blown, listening in for any rescue beacons there might be in the area. There were none, and Benny had to come to terms with the prospect that he and the child were the sole survivors.
Two hours later, he activated their rescue beacon. They could survive on the shuttle indefinitely, but they only had enough energy to get up to ninety percent of light speed, and the nearest inhabited system was over ten light years away.
Four days later that concern was moot, as a destroyer translated into normal space a couple of light days away. Their signal had already reached that area, and the tin can jumped again, then came out within a couple of light seconds of their position. Soon they were docked in the destroyer’s hangar bay, and Benny found himself pulled from his suit and transferred to the infirmary.
The ship’s Marine Detachment commander visited him there, the second lieutenant looking down on the resting trooper. “Hell of a job you did there, Marine,” said the officer, sitting beside the bed. “We looked over the vids from your suit, and you were an honest to God hero. You’ll get a medal out of this, and a promotion.”
Benny looked down at his legs, the stumps of which were encased in casts that were starting the regrowth process. “And how is the little girl?” he asked, looking back up at the lieutenant.
“As well as could be expected, after losing her mom and dad. She’s alive, thanks to you, and that’s saying something.” The officer stood and made to walk away, then turned back. “I’ve got one question for you, Marine. How in the hell did someone like you get the tag Slacker?”
“Mostly because I was one,” said Benny with a frown.
“Well, that won’t be your tag from now on, Sarge.”
* * *
About the Author: Doug Dandridge has been making up stories since he was in grade school, but didn't get into serious writing until 1996. Doug is a veteran of the US Army and the National Guard, and has always had a keen interest in military history. He has degrees from Florida State University (psychology( and the University of Alabama (MA, clinical psychology). He currently has twenty novels published on Amazon, and in less than two years has sold 90,000 books. His Exodus: Empires at War series, from which Universe his story slacker is drawn, has made the military science fiction and space opera bestseller lists at Amazon, books 3-5 of the series reaching number one in the UK, and top ten status in the US. Book 6 was launched in April of this year and was also highly ranked and reviewed.
Connect with the Author:
http://dougdandridge.net
http://dougdandridge.com
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Laight bless thee an’ keep thee.
Laight descend upon ye in its mercah.
Laight, give us peace in tha face o’ adversitah,
Strength in tha face o’ feah,
Courage when tha dahkness rises,
An’ Justice when mah dutah is done.
Amen.
“Tha Laight bless thee an’ keep thee...”
Blade rang on blade, the ringing sound coursing through the moonlight as if a symphony was being composed one strike at a time. The steely clash was filled with years of war, years of hatred, years of strife and glory and honor. It was filled with heartbeats that had stopped in so many thousand chests, of memories forgotten in the silence of the Nether. To the tune of the symphony, two souls were locked within the motions of the dance, the passion of young lives flaring into raging flames that could only grow with precious time.
There were no words bantered back and forth, as if a match of spirit to test the others’ experience. There were no foul epithets of hatred and loathing, befitting a true fight of mortal enemies, but those that might witness it were not fooled. This was a combat of two sides to the same tale, to be sure.
The larger of the pair staggered back from the force of another resounding blow, blood staining the creases of his weathered face. He showed the effect of too many years sitting idly by, letting dust and age wear him down; his sweat-matted hair silvery with the years that had passed him by without his assent. His hip ached with flames no magic had caused, his lower back spasming in protest to the rigors he now put it through.
His opponent limped backwards in the crisp clearing, his pair of long knives held up by experienced hands. He looked no better for the passage of time, age spots mottling his smooth, bald head. He was panting heavily, his leggings stained with the source of his limp.
“Ya can’t do this forever,” the man with the twin knives rasped, thanks to the puckered scar that still marred his throat.
“Niethah can ye,” the swordsman growled in response, his blade held before him in a sure grip, despite the aches and pains all over his body that threatened to send him to the ground.
“How long have you been wantin’ this?” Thellan Magrand rasped, twirling his blades slowly as he limped in a circle. “It’s been how long since I took that eye of yours?”
Jolstraer Taborwynn kept his blade leveled at the old rogue as he moved, his lone blue-grey eye as cold as the depths of the Northlands. “Tae long.”
“And it’s only now that you wanna give me a little payback?”
“It’s somethin’ moah’n jus’ personal revenge.”
Thellan stopped a moment, straightening slightly. His white shirt hung from bony shoulders, though he was spryer than his aged form would tell you. It was the scarlet emblem on the chest of his tabard that had drawn Jol from his seclusion to this night. Jol’s own tabard seemed to soak up the night, letting the moon reflect brilliantly off of the silver starburst on his chest.
“I’m tired of waitin’ for it,” Thellan said finally, with almost a hint of resignation in his voice. “Let’s be done with it, eh?” He flourished one of the knives, the metal glinting sickly in the light. Jol knew another scratch from that poisoned blade would end him. He could already feel its effects working through his system. The Light’s healing had faded from him long before now. He just had to withstand it a little longer.
“Aye. Let’s be done.” Straightening slightly, Jol relaxed the deathgrip on his sword, lowering it partway to his side.
A sharp intake of breath. That was the only signal needed. Without the roars and battle-cries that might have plagued their younger years, the two ancient warriors charged. Time stretched as they prepared to meet for the last time, and in that stretching, all of the moments that had led up to this flashed in Jol’s bitter memory. He whispered softly.
“Tha Laight bless thee an’ keep thee...”
* * *
“...Laight descend upon ye in its mercah...”
.: Five years earlier... :.
Steel-shod hooves rang loud and clear as they thundered down the smooth paving stones, one of many small monuments to the rebirth of this once grand place. The pace with which the hooves rang spelled urgency; a need to move as fast as swift legs could carry the message which burned the young man’s heart.
The wind from what was once called the Dead Pass was crisp and clean, hinting at the flowers that now grew amongst the crumpled scar of land. Songbirds wheeled and dove amidst the sagging willow boughs, letting in more light in these past few years than they had since the time of the land’s plague. There was peace here now, pure and clear as the mountain springs that fed the lowlands. Peace interrupted only by those steel-shod hooves.
The hooves clattered abruptly, skidding to a halt before the simple stone building that proclaimed the hamlet’s proud town hall. Booted feet hit the pavement with a thud, and with impatience inherent in youth they rushed inside, uncaring for the important business of town and council that might be taking place.
“...an’ Ah will nae have farmahs payin’ fer taxes on lands that are theirs, by tha Laight,” Magistrate Taborwynn spoke from the dais at the head of the hall, his broad frame mantled with the thick cloak of office. “A man’s privilege is tha land an’ tha familah he’s tryin’ tae raise on it. Ah see nae raight o’ a town tae demand annah form o’ payment fer a man prosperin’ on somethin’ he owns outraight.”
“But what o’ tha costs fer distributin’ tha watah from tha springs, an’ keepin’ tha roads safe fer travelahs?” one voice asked amongst the mill of prominent townsfolk.
Jol raised a lone eyebrow, his steely countenance regarding each wealthy merchant and craftsman evenly. “House Taborwynn will—“ Jol began, then paused as a shudder reverberated through him. His stomach felt as though it had dropped to his ankles, and he lurched forward. Pain shot through him, but it felt distant, as if happening to someone else. Someone else...
Surprised murmurs were raised, but Jol’s attention was removed from the spectacle when he saw who had entered the main hall. The nauseating feeling ebbed enough for a frown to crease his brow as his son, Tarven, came quickly down the center of the hall, disregarding all but his father before him. The worry that covered Tarven’s face made the bile in Jol’s stomach rise again.
“Father!” Tarven’s voice cracked as he rushed forward, taking the older man by the arms and helping to hold him steady. “Father, you must come quickly! It’s Mother!”
Jol’s cold blue eye did not widen, as it was as wide as it could go already. He knew. Deep down, that sense he felt, it was her. Something was wrong.
Steeling his nerves, Jol forced the wretched feeling down with years of practice finally reclaiming him; the bond, the oathspell that had linked them across any distance, was telling him. How long had it been since he’d had need to feel what dangers might arise? Too long.
Without any word of adjournment, Jol hurried down the length of the hall behind his son. Tarven leapt astride his horse as soon as he was out the door, but the need kept rising in Jol. It rose so frighteningly fast. Words came to his lips without his thinking, incantations that had not been uttered in years. With a reverberating whinny, Light flared to life to the shock of nearby townsfolk. The newly appeared, bespelled warhorse reared, and Jol was already heeling the flanks hard for home. Need.
Tarven’s gelding worked hard to keep up with the imbued spirit that Jol now rode, both mounts thundering down the roads to the massive manor that overlooked the town. Past the stone gate and up the path to the front door they rode, Tarven sawing the reigns to keep from taking the horse straight through the front door. Jol did not think, simply hitting his feet in a dead run as the charger crossed the threshold and shimmered away in the blink of an eye. His one blue eye, more grey now with age, was taken over by a blazing golden light.
Forcing himself up the steps as fast as he could, he ignored the protestations of his heart and lungs, unwilling to submit to their will to stop. Down the marble hallway he stormed, feeling that the Light couldn’t bring him to their bedchambers fast enough. That wa
s where she was, he knew.
Crashing through the door, the small crowd of maids milled out of the way, as well as their children. Their glorious children. Jolstraer Taborwynn fell to his knees beside the bed, taking up Miahala’s small hand in his.
She looked so frail. Unnaturally so, as if she had aged a hundred years in the span of a day. Jol could not fathom why; she was over ten years younger than he, and working with the arcane arts had smoothed her features against the passage of time. But now...
“What happened?” he asked hoarsely, looking up and around to those gathered.
“Cilli found her like this, and she won’t wake,” Sadira said, wiping tears from her eyes. “She had a visitor this morning, but midway through had to excuse herself. She said she wasn’t feeling well. She came to lay down, and when Cilli came to check on her...”
Jol turned back to his wife of so many years, his hands gently rubbing hers. They were so cold. “Cilli, send riders tae tha cathedral! Tha rest o’ ye, out...” he said, his voice still scratchy, “Everybodah, out!”
One by one, sobs filling the air, the bedchamber emptied until only he and she remained.
A shaky hand reached up to brush back the dark strands of hair from her forehead, and he leaned over to gently place a kiss there. “Mia, love...don’t do this tae mah...wahtevah this is, please, gimmah a sign...”
Silence answered him. Despite all of the adventures they had endured together, despite being her shield against the dangers of the shifting world, he was helpless now. A tear leaked down his leathery cheek. He bowed his head in prayer.