The Fleet (9 page)

“Alright men.
Let's get your hands out of your pockets and get to it.” Dalton
ordered. Passing by the group with purpose as they prepared to
board the fleet's most solid shuttle.

But you were
the one holding US up?

As the shuttle
began to lift from the firm push of thick steel flooring, Dalton
felt nerves. It was only natural. He'd seen a lot in his time. He'd
survived wars – even walked away from two different crash landings.
Both times promising himself and anyone else who would listen, that
he'd never again set foot on anything that pulled his feet from the
ground.

Lies, of
course, but he always was slow to learn his lesson.

This was
different. He didn't fear having to survive a third crashed ship,
though another go around with that would have been a bitch.

Dalton thought
of a brand new race awaiting his presence. A race that could have
presented humanity with futuristic technology. Perhaps even a cure
for diseases which they'd been unable to find. In particular, the
disease which had maddened so many infected below and turned them
into a zombie-like state.

“When we get
there. Nobody starts shooting unless I start shooting.” Dalton
said.

“Do you really
think there will be shooting, sir?” one of the human soldiers
asked.

“We'll,
there's sure to be drinks. That's usually what happens at a sit
down like this,” Dalton replied. “Whenever there's drinks, that
leads to shooting. Be it shot glasses or gunfire,” he added. “And
like I said. Nobody starts shooting until I do.”

As he grinned
a bit, sitting back in the chair built for durability – not
comfort, Dalton felt like a proud poppa among such men. Their
youthful eyes stargazing at a man who'd walked the walk many times
before.

“Are we to
follow you?” one of the two Husk asked.

“Stay with the
shuttle. Both of you,” Dalton replied. “You hear gunfire, you get
on that damn radio and let the good folks on the God of War know.
They'll tear the Viscion a new asshole.”

“Understood.”
the mighty Husk replied.

They were
monstrous in appearance. The Husk had always been viewed as such,
resembling Orc of mythology. Large, abundant in muscles and
gleaming a set of large, wiry teeth that only a mother could
love.

Their
appearance was enough to force many in the human race to walk the
other way. Not Dalton James. He'd fought shoulder to shoulder with
Husk for many years. Losing the first war of Glimmeria and winning
the second.

Lighting a
badly wrapped cigar, Dalton grinned a bit. Quickly filling the
shuttle's cabin with smoke. Irritating every soldier with him,
while never giving a damn.

*

Nearly a year
aboard ships in the black nearly brought Adam down. Especially
while frantically searching for his son. It made the moment all
that much sweeter as Adam carried Avery from the shuttle. The rest
of their group walking ahead as fresh air swooped in and brushed
across Adam's face.

It felt like
paradise. A bit cold, certainly nothing of the sandy beach
lifestyle – but manageable. Enough to live year round wearing no
coat, though he'd already started picturing Dalton draped in brown
leather and cigar smoke.

As expected,
Adam had gotten almost no sleep while flying to Second Glimmeria.
Thinking of a love that once was – and the moment he ended it with
a single bullet.

Sarah Blaine
had been his soul mate. Sure, he'd married Sasha and fit in well
with the Benzans around her. Their simple and remote lifestyle very
satisfying to Adam. But never, not once, did the man of so many
walks ever forget about Sarah Blaine. Ever stop longing for her
presence. Her touch.

Seeing her
nearly killed his inner soul. The queen of vampires with no
intentions of walking away. Adam had understood that their love, no
matter how explosive, was not meant to be. There was too much
history there. Including the theft of his son.

It was an act
that Adam considered over the line. His love for Avery far greater
than a love for any woman could ever be. He had not pushed Sarah
into the life of the undead, and he certainly wasn't going to walk
away without getting his son back.

It had to be
done. Though Adam regretted the fact that her blood was on his
hands, she had to fall. Not that it would lead to sleep-filled
nights for him anytime soon.

“They have us
in building 4-1-6-A.” one of his soldiers announced. Having stopped
to deliver the news to Adam and the rest of his crew.

Adam offered
no reply, but had already noticed each building being tagged with a
combination of numbers and letters. Red spray paint easily visible
against the sandstone color of the buildings which stood across the
city.

He would have
his son to their quarters soon enough. Even though Adam was
exhausted, he'd spend a bit of time looking around their new home.
Feeling guilty about his lack of knowledge when it came to the
city's history, while feeling blessed enough to have made it here
alive – his son in his arms.

Several larger
tower-shaped buildings cascaded up to the heavens. Nearly touching
the low-laying clouds above. Meanwhile, hundreds of smaller,
square-shaped buildings spread across the rocky terrain within the
city. And they appeared to be built just as sturdy. The husk having
taken their time building this jewel of a city many centuries
before.

Adam looked
across the reaches of landscape. Vibrant green hills rolling in the
backdrop of his sight, while large rocks lay in many of the open
areas. Giving the area a mountainous feel.

It looked
almost like a medieval setting, if not for the piles of travel
weary spaceships which had landed and were undergoing repairs.

Adam still
hadn't learned the city's name. He knew nothing of New Glimmeria's
staying power, or even where his designated building was. But he
knew one thing from beginning to end when it came to both him and
his son.

They were
home.

*

As Dalton and
his group of very-reserved soldiers eased their shuttle into the
large warship of the Viscion, immediately they began to notice
differences.

Much of the
ship's interior looked transparent. Made of crystal, almost, though
it held together like steel. Complete with the rivet of bolts.

Several
computer screens were integrated within the ship's walls, each of
them seeming a bit milky as bright led light flashed across in
vivid coloring. A language written – though none of Dalton's crew
understood a bit of it.

Several of the
Viscion stood tall, rifles of some sort resting in their arms as
another similar to them awaited the shuttle's landing. This one
appearing to be in charge – his outfit a little less combative and
trimmed more properly.

“Well boys,”
Dalton said as he threw the smoldering cigar stump to the floor of
their shuttle. Stomping it out with the thick of his boot bottom.
“It's go time.”

Though none of
the crew understood his words, each syllable brought with it fame.
A phrase uttered by Dalton James when the shit was about to hit the
fan, so to speak. It was his admission that the cuffs were off, the
whiskey had ran dry and hell was about to be raised. If need
be.

“Commander
James,” the Viscion said. Lowering himself a bit. “My people are
honored by your visit.”

The snapping
of tongue made Dalton and his men feel a bit awkward. The Viscion
speaking a very slow and direct language. As the translation boxes
mounted to their shoulders processed and cleaned up the language
for human ears, however, Dalton seemed to ease up. Just a
little.

That ease
quickly vanished as the Viscion soldiers aimed down on them. Rifles
of a strange design sighting them up as a precautionary
measure.

Small red
triangles flashed onto their chests. A warning by any language that
one wrong move would be the last.

“What the hell
is this about?” Dalton angrily asked.

“My apologies.
It is standard procedure to disarm any boarding party that lands on
this ship.”

Dalton glanced
hard at the beast, knowing nothing about their race or intentions.
Fighting back the urge to slap teeth from its mouth with as little
as a shady blink of the eye.

“You have my
word. No harm will come to you or any among your boarding
party.”

Whipping his
shotgun around quickly and bringing the entire confrontation to an
alarming moment; Dalton spun it a bit to hand it over to the
Viscion soldier. The rest of his group slowly following their
painfully sober leader's actions.

“This way.”
the Viscion said. Walking from the landing bay of the unusual
looking ship – his soldiers ushering Commander James and company
along at rifle point.

Meanwhile, the
Husk both remained at rifle point. Their oversized arms extended up
and completely at the mercy of a race they knew nothing of. A fact
that did not sit very well with the proud race of warriors.

“You're
weapons are a bit heavier than we are used to.” one of the
escorting Viscion said. Tasked with carrying each of the weapons
handed over by Dalton and his group.

“So is my
drinking habit.” Dalton replied.

“Welcome to my
ship Commander Dalton,” a similarly dressed, but heavy decorated
man said. His clothing solid white as many symbolic medals were
pinned to his chest. “I am Commander Ryalk.”

“Not happy
about having my weapons taken.” Dalton replied with a bit of
zest.

His words
filtered into the strange devices which seemed to mount to the
collar over every Viscion. Funneling back out to the alien race in
their native language.

“You would not
have done the same?”

It was a damn
good question, primarily because they both already knew the answer
was yes. Making Dalton question why he'd come along in the first
place.

“Our people
could stand to learn a bit from the other. Yes?” Ryalk asked.

Their language
was enough to run chills up the spine of most. Very comparable to
that of a savage tribe. Very deep toned with loud clicking on the
tail end of most words.

“Depends on
the subject we're learning?” Dalton replied with a question of his
own.

Secretly, he
also questioned why the hell their meeting was taking place in the
middle of a large hallway. One that was constructed of seamless
white walls and plentiful overhead lighting. Bright and white.
Everything was just so damn white, in Dalton's opinion.

“Well,” Ryalk
said. “I would first begin by asking why a race of people remain
aboard their ships when so many habitable planets sit below.”

“Here's how
this is going to work,” Dalton stated. “I'll answer your damn
question. Then you're going to answer mine.”

“Alright.”

“Long story
short, our race is dealing with a plague down there. The people on
my ship are uninfected, but the worlds below us are overrun with
infected.” Dalton said.

“I see.”

“Now,” Dalton
said, drawing a bit closer, much to the disapproval of several
Viscion soldiers. “Why did you follow my shuttle so damn far when
you could have kept going your own way?”

He could see
the question place the commander of such a strange race in a bit of
discomfort.

“Resources.”
Commander Ryalk replied.

“Resources?”
Dalton asked.

“You see,”
Ryalk began. “My people are a race among the stars. Certainly not
born of the stars, but we've been among them for many generations.
Perhaps hundreds. We've certainly had our opportunities to colonize
habitable worlds, but the Viscion are a race among the stars by
choice. It is where we feel free.”

“And living
among the stars takes a lot of resources?” Dalton asked.

“Yes.”

It made sense.
Perhaps at one time the Viscion were even human. It would be a long
shot, but certainly not out of the question. People within the
Skyla System have been traveling through the stars for hundreds of
years. Perhaps even thousands. Along the way there have been
numerous attempts to explore beyond the reaches of the Skyla
System, though most have failed miserably.

It was
entirely possible that the Viscion were descendants of one such
group. Evolving throughout the years. Their skin becoming chalk
white as their bodies reconfigured a bit to adapt to life aboard a
ship.

“What type of
resources are you in need of?” Dalton asked. “Hell, we have plenty
of water down there. If it's fossil fuels you need, we have
that...”

“Food.”
Commander Ryalk replied.

“Well, I mean
we have farms and such down there. Though they are most likely
covered up with infected.” Dalton replied.

A silence
seemed to drape across the entire group for a moment. Giving the
visiting party a very uncomfortable feeling.

“What kind of
food?” Dalton asked.

His question
was simply answered with a look that sent chills ringing down his
spine.

They were
futuristic in their technology and weaponry, though savage and
basic in their need for meat. Cannibals with a fleet of powerful
ships at their disposal.

“Oh hell naw.”
Dalton said.

“Relax
Commander James,” Ryalk said. “I did not bring you aboard this ship
to trap you and harvest the meat from your frame.”

It's a damn
good thing.

“So what is it
that you want, exactly?” one of Dalton's accompanying soldiers
asked.

It seemed a
bit odd to the Viscion that a subordinate had entered the
conversation. But they understood the humans had their own way of
handling things.

Had it been
one of their own. He would have died quite painfully for speaking
out of turn.

“It seems that
you have the resource we seek in plentiful supply down below,”
Ryalk replied. “We could easily cleanse these worlds below for you
in exchange for keeping what we kill.”