Empire: Book 2, The Chronicles of the Invaders (The Chronicles of the Invaders Trilogy) (6 page)

CHAPTER 10

P
aul’s first thought upon falling was: I am going to die.

His second thought was: I don’t want to die.

He rolled as he hit the sand, and was on his feet almost before he registered the impulse that caused him to react so quickly. It was as though his limbs were working faster than his thoughts, realizing what was required of them before his mind could spur them into action. He was aware of sand churning behind him, but he did not look back. The shuttle pad was only a few feet ahead of him, with its ramp raised. It stood about six feet off the ground, so that the pad was slightly lower than Paul’s head. He sprang, gripped the edge, and used his back muscles to raise himself, grateful for the long hours spent performing pull-ups as part of basic training. He heard gunfire as the survivors on the ramparts tried to hit whatever was pursuing him, but by then he had flung himself flat on the pad. He turned on his back, drew his Colt, and prepared to shoot between his knees, but nothing appeared.

“It’s too short!” shouted Steven. “The creature—it can’t raise itself high enough to reach the pad.”

Paul sank back on the metal. He tried to swallow, but he had no moisture in his mouth. His head ached from thirst and, he knew, barely suppressed panic and fear. It was all that he could do not to curl into a ball and wait for someone to rescue him, but he knew that
he
was the rescuer, and his comrades were depending on him, coward or not.

He forced himself to rise, and saw that Steven was already hurriedly drawing the cable back. One of the creatures made an ineffectual snap at it, but it didn’t seem as interested in the metal as in the humans. Once he had the end in his hands, Steven flung it toward the pad, and
Paul caught it before it could slip off the edge. He wound it tightly around the shuttle’s landing, looping the cable back on itself so that it held the anchoring strut in place.

“All right,” he called to Steven. “Down you come.”

Steven slid off the rampart, curling his feet over the wire and moving hand over hand down its length. He moved fast—faster than Paul had done. Not for the first time, Paul noticed how his brother’s baby fat had fallen from his body in recent months, leaving him lithe and rangy. He would be taller than Paul when he was fully grown.

Suddenly the landing pad shuddered. The impact was so strong that it sent Paul stumbling against the hull of the shuttle. The vibration traveled up the wire, but Steven managed to retain his hold on it and keep going. The creatures had felt movement on the pad but were unable to reach Paul. Just as with the walls, they were opting instead to bring him down to them. The beasts were smart, he had to give them that. He’d still happily have seen them wiped out of existence, but there was no denying their intelligence. From somewhere below the sands came a grinding, and the pad canted about five degrees to the right. The creatures were buckling the central support. It wouldn’t be long before they sent the shuttle sliding to the sand.

Steven dropped down beside his brother.

“You took your time,” said Paul.

“Well, let’s just hope they didn’t lock the doors.”

The blood drained from Paul’s face at the thought that, after all his efforts, they might be undone by some security-conscious scientists, but Steven simply winked at him and hit the door release with his fist. The door opened with a hiss, and Paul permitted himself a ragged breath of relief.

“That wasn’t funny,” said Paul.

The pad juddered again. This time, the shuttle seemed to slide slightly to the right.

“Just get in and fly the damn thing,” said Paul.

Steven disappeared into the shuttle. Paul followed him. It was much smaller than the Military craft that was now lost somewhere beneath the sand. It could take six passengers and crew at a push, and even then
they’d be crammed inside. Paul tried not to think about what might have happened if they’d all survived the initial attack by the creatures. Would they have been forced to draw lots for their lives?

Steven started the engines, and prepared for a vertical takeoff. As he did so, the shuttle began to slide in earnest, and it didn’t stop. Paul lost his footing, and banged his head painfully against the shuttle’s hull.

“Hold tight!” said Steven. “This will be a rocky one.”

He hit the thrusters, boosting the starboard thruster to compensate for the angle. The shuttle seemed to stagger into the air, but Steven kept it under control. Paul looked out of the window nearest to him to see the pad collapse and silicate alien forms thrusting at it in the vain hope that their prey might not have escaped.

“Not this time,” said Paul, and the faces of the dead flashed before him. “You’ve taken enough of us today . . .”

•  •  •

They got De Souza on board first with the help of Thula and Peris. Still, Paul had to haul him up, and despite his drug-induced sleep, De Souza moaned as his butchered arm struck the door. Rizzo climbed in mostly under her own steam, and only reluctantly accepted Paul’s help at the last. Finally, it was the turn of Thula and Peris, the latter barely getting on board before their section of the wall finally collapsed. Paul closed the shuttle door, and the craft did one final circuit of the platform. Far below, the creatures rose up in frustration, their eyeless heads turned to the sky, their jaws snapping at vibrations in the air.

But now the storm was almost upon them. It would engulf them if they didn’t find shelter from it. They couldn’t outrun it—there wasn’t enough time. Paul joined his brother, taking the copilot’s seat to give the others more room in the shuttle bay. Steven took them up, then hovered in the face of the approaching wall of sand.

“What are you doing?” asked Paul.

“Thinking. Supervisor Peris, sir?”

Peris came forward.

“What is it?”

Steven removed a small cylinder from the inside pocket of his flight
overalls. He pressed down hard on the top, and the cylinder clicked open at the other end, revealing a red button.

“What is it?” asked Paul.

“It’s the self-destruct mechanism for my lost shuttle,” said Steven. “Permission to activate, sir?”

Peris looked at him.

“That’s an expensive facility,” he said.

“They killed five of us,” said Steven, and Paul noticed that he counted Faron among the “us.” Whatever his faults, Faron had been one of them when it mattered.

“Yes, they did,” said Peris. He nodded. “Permission granted.”

Steven hit the button, and held it down for ten seconds as he ascended to a safe altitude. Even then, the explosion rocked the little craft, and the blast was like a new sun being born at their backs.

Paul closed his eyes.

Vengeance, he thought. Always vengeance.

•  •  •

To the south stood one of the massive rock formations that dotted the Tormic landscape like the spires of great, primitive cathedrals. If they could find a place to land on its southern aspect, they could wait out the sandstorm under its protection. Steven steered them toward the rock, the storm a maelstrom of impending destruction at their backs.

“Inform
Envion
that we’re going to seek shelter from the storm, and then we’ll be on our way,” Peris ordered.

But the
Envion
had troubles of its own.

CHAPTER 11

O
ne of the reasons why the Illyri had looked upon Torma as a promising source of mineral wealth, in addition to its breathable atmosphere and its apparent absence of hostile indigenous life-forms—now, alas, revealed to be a fatally flawed assumption—was its proximity to the nearest wormhole. The best wormholes were those that opened close to star systems—although far from the dangers of asteroid belts or collapsing suns—and with easily reachable worlds that could be explored and, where possible, exploited.

It was now clear, though, that the wormhole near Torma was less gravitationally stable than might have been wished. The exploration vessel that dropped the drilling platform and research team on Torma had sustained minor damage both entering and leaving the system, while the lighter, faster
Envion
had endured even more of a pounding. Torma, it appeared, would not willingly give up its treasures. While the repairs on his vessel continued, Commander Morev reflected that, when something appears too be good to be true, it usually is.

He watched while Galton, his chief officer, coordinated the ongoing work, his voice and manner never once betraying his torment at the loss of his lover. The truth was that, with the
Envion
virtually crippled and the remains of a unit marooned on Torma, there was simply no time for grief. In the end, it might be for the best: the gravity of their situation meant that Galton was forced to keep going, and in doing so perhaps he would realize that he was stronger than he thought.

The commander noticed that, like so many humans, Galton wore religious tokens around his neck, in his case a medal of Saint Jude, the Catholic patron saint of lost causes, and Saint Sebastian, the pa
tron saint of soldiers. Some among the Illyri hierarchy—mostly the Diplomats—disapproved of such displays of belief, but Morev, being of the Military, knew that all soldiers have their talismans, even among the Illyri. Now he wondered if Galton took comfort from the thought that Cady might continue to exist in another form, instead of accepting that her atoms were merely being scattered and recycled by the cosmos. If so, good luck to him: let him find comfort where he could.

And now it was Galton who was breaking into Morev’s musings, Galton who was informing him of activity at the mouth of the wormhole.

“Sir, we have a ship emerging,” said Galton.

“A ship?”

Morev couldn’t keep the relief from his voice, or the surprise. An exploratory drone had been sent back through the wormhole to inform Military Command of their situation, but even with the system of relay stations to boost its signal, any help would have taken time to reach them. Perhaps an Illyri vessel had been in the vicinity of the wormhole when the drone emerged, although Morev had not been aware of any activity scheduled for that sector. Still, any aid that could be offered would be gratefully accepted, especially if it meant that they could mount a rescue on the Tormic surface. If the arriving ship had a shuttle, or its commander was willing to enter the atmosphere of Torma . . .

The
Envion
’s scanners identified the ship from its contact signal as soon as it came within range: the
Dendra
, smaller even than the
Envion
, and with a crew of no more than six. It must, thought Morev, have endured an unpleasant trip through the wormhole. It was a wonder that it was still in one piece.

“What’s a Civilian vessel doing out here?” wondered Morev.

Civilian ships were rarely found far from the vicinity of Illyr. The great Illyri Conquest of the universe was in the hands of the Military and its rivals, the Diplomatic Corps. Civilians merely represented the masses in the Illyri Council, siding with the Military or the Diplomats as the need arose.

Galton pointed at the screen.

“Sir, take a look at that scan. She’s a wreck.”

The
Dendra
was fortunate to still be in one piece. It had not been designed for long-distance travel, and the wormhole had taken its toll. The ship was barely functioning. An adjustment to the scan revealed further damage to the starboard hull.

“Wormhole?” asked Morev.

“No, those look like weapon blasts, and recent too. She’s been attacked.”

“Hail her,” said Morev.

“This is the Military destroyer
Envion
calling Civilian transport
Dendra
,” Galton transmitted. “Respond,
Dendra
.”

“This is Alis, pilot of the
Dendra
,” came the reply. “We’re very glad to see you,
Envion
.”

“And we’re surprised to see you, Alis,” interrupted Commander Morev. “We had no notification of your intended use of the wormhole.”

“We came under attack. It was a last resort.”

“Attack from whom?”

“Unknown vessels. I think we shook them off, but it was a close thing.”

“What is your mission, Alis?”

This time, it was not Alis who answered. Another voice came over the speakers. It sounded unusually calm, despite the aftermath of an attack and an unanticipated wormhole trip.

“
I
am the mission, Commander. My name is Councillor Tiray, Civilian representative on the Illyri Council of Government, and I request sanctuary on board the
Envion
.”

Certain rules of behavior governed the Illyri, particularly when it came to vessels in deep space. One was that a request for sanctuary, or for assistance from a troubled ship, could not be ignored. To do so was regarded as a serious crime, and led inevitably to imprisonment. Under the circumstances, Morev had no option but to reply as he did.

“Your request is granted, Councillor,” he said. “Approach at will.”

•  •  •

Morev and Galton watched the
Dendra
draw closer. The
Envion
’s docking bay had been cleared, and the
Dendra
would land in the space that had once been occupied by the shuttle lost on Torma. The ship was close enough for the cockpit lights to be visible. Galton could almost make out the pilot’s face.

An alarm sounded through the ship, and a voice from the command deck came through to Morev’s receiver.

“Commander, we have two more ships emerging from the wormhole. Scans reveal no identifying markers, but they’re armed.”

The
Envion
’s artificial intelligence system immediately produced an image of the approaching vessels. They looked battered and old, and even less capable of boosts than the
Dendra
. They should not have been able to come through the wormhole, but the scan revealed that their appearance was deceptive. Beneath their exteriors, they were heavily shielded, and boasted massive engine power.

“They look like Nomads,” said Morev.

Nomads: those who had rejected Illyri society, either out of idealism or, more typically, because they were outlaws, or deserters. They had bases—little more than temporary communities hidden in forests and mountains—on some of the outlying worlds of the Illyr system, although for the most part they preferred to keep on the move, for the Illyri authorities always raided their settlements when they were found. Nomads scavenged for parts and supplies, their ships resembling floating scrap heaps, but the most daring were not above attacking lone freighters. On Earth, the worst of them would have been termed pirates.

“But Nomads wouldn’t dare—” Galton began to say.

Morev was no longer listening. His soldier’s instincts had kicked in.

“Battle stations!” he ordered, his voice ringing through the ship. “Prepare for combat!”