Half Human
Spaceship Huey Adventures Book One (A Shifter Space Opera)
Copyright © 2021 John Hundley
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission of the author.
Contents
Half Human
Prologue
Escape
Sanctuary
Scientists, Technicians, and Forgotten Heroes
Orientation
It’ll Never Work
Face Lift
Mission (Out of) Control
Mission (Damage) Control
The Pleasure Dome
Dungeons and Werewolves
A Gilded Invitation
Lloyd’s Gala
It Hits the Fan
Good News/Bad News
It’s the Stick I’m Going to Beat You With Exclusive Content for Subscribers
The Forward at the End
About the Author
Half Human
“Everyone who is half human claims to come from Earth.”
-Ancient Proverb
The saying, in common use throughout human colonized space, has several layers of meaning. On the surface, it refers to the propensity of those who can trace their ancestry back to Old Earth having a sense of superiority and entitlement. It has also taken on a “buyer beware” connotation, warning the listener to be wary of grandiose claims that cannot be verified or substantiated.
Example: The tour guide says he grew up here and knows the area better than anyone, but I’m not sure. Like they say, everyone who is half human claims to come from Earth.
Fae (def) -
The generic term used for an eclectic group of non-humans that lived or vacationed on Old Earth before humans evolved. Among those included in the group are the dragons and the elves.
Prologue
Clifford sat in the co-pilot’s seat, peering out the side window of the shuttle as the vessel settled to the ground with a shudder. The pilot cut the thrusters but kept the engines running. He looked over Clifford’s shoulder at the desolate view. “Good news and bad news,” he announced. “Bad news is, we’re in the middle of nowhere.”
Clifford turned to look at him.
The pilot grinned. “That’s the good news, too. Whoever’s looking for you, they’ll have a hell of a long way to come find you.” He pulled from his pocket a small plastic card. Clifford recognized it as one of the chits issued to the crew of which he’d recently been a member, used for communication and financial transactions. He held it out to Clifford.
“This one hasn’t been registered,” explained the pilot. “I synched the map software with the planet’s GPS. It’s not likely anyone will track the signal but use it sparingly.”
Clifford took the chit. “Thanks,” he mumbled, feeling the inadequacy of his gratitude as he uttered the words. He didn’t know the shuttle jockey but he was aware the man was taking a huge risk making this clandestine side-trip. So was Clifford’s friend, Ensign Sarah Delorencia, who had talked the pilot into it. Clifford wished them both the best for their efforts.
“And, speaking of being tracked,” the pilot hinted, “the sooner I get out of here, the better.”
Clifford took the hint, unbuckling his seat belt and extricating himself from the co-pilot’s seat. As the hatch slid open he gathered his duffle and another, more awkward-looking bundle, a large, framed piece of art wrapped in a paint-spattered drop cloth. The painting was the only thing he had left to remind him of Emily, a shapeshifting alien with whom he never should have gotten involved, and of their unfortunate affair, which had left him jobless, penniless, and hunted once more. Clutching the items in each hand, he paused in the
hatchway and looked back over his shoulder at the pilot. “Thanks, again, for everything, um …. Sorry, I don’t know your name.”
The pilot reached for the throttle. “No, you don’t,” he agreed. “Good luck.”
Clifford nodded, stepping through the hatch and dropping lightly to the ground a few feet below. As the hatch closed behind him, he felt the hot splash wind from the thrusters. He scampered towards a huge tree about fifty yards away to get clear of the inevitable blast.
The pilot must have been watching, because as soon as Clifford was clear, he hit the throttle. A great cloud of dust kicked up, obscuring the shuttle for a second or two before the vehicle lifted above the cloud, slowly ascended for a few hundred feet, then hurtled into the empty sky. Clifford watched the shape of the vessel become a distant speck and disappear completely from view. He stood still as the dust cloud settled and dissipated in the light breeze before taking in his surroundings.
The tree under which he stood looked to be the sole survivor of a huge clear cut of forest. It stood three-quarters of the way up a denuded slope outlined with dense vegetation on three sides, the closest of which was downhill, two or three hundred yards away. The tree provided shade from a white-hot sun in a cloudless sky and cover from any possible overhead surveillance, so he decided to stay put for a while as he assessed his situation.
Downhill was the most likely direction to find a stream for both water and to follow towards civilization, but he should probably ascend the hill to see what the view afforded before risking the GPS. Either way, it would involve hiking, for which neither of his bundles was designed. He looked at the painting, the one thing he had saved from among his possessions on the ship, the rest of which would most likely be auctioned off by the Trump, Hendrix, and Eng Corporation as salvage. Cursing THE Corporation for the umpteenth time, he dropped to his knees and began to rummage through his duffle for the spool of twine he had packed.
“That painting is going to be awkward if we have to move fast.”
He jumped, startled despite himself. The voice spoke to him from his own mind. The ghost that had been his almost constant companion for centuries, having abandoned him for over twenty-four hours, had suddenly returned. “I was thinking of strapping it to my back, somehow,” he answered, silently thinking his words. “Christ, you scared me. Where the hell have you been, Claire?”
“Assessing our options.”
“Anything good?”
“I think so. Not sure how you’ll like it, though.”
“Any idea where the hell we are now?”
“In relation to our general position in the galaxy and the CSS Aberdeen, yes. In relation to civilization on this planet, no.”
He tapped his breast pocket where he had stored the chit the pilot gave him. “Supposedly, I have maps, but I don’t want to risk using GPS just yet. I thought I’d hike to the top of the hill first.”
“Good thinking. Even if we can’t see anything, the elevation will make it easier for me to cast about for something. Let’s go.”
He looked at the painting. “Let me see what I can do about this first.”
“You’re wasting time.”
“We’ve got all the time in the world,” he argued. He stiffened. Maybe not.
“I smell it, too,” she said.
He lifted his nose to the breeze. “Human,” he assessed. His nostrils flared. “And not human,” he added.
“I’ll check it out,” she volunteered. She was gone.
He stood and faced the breeze wafting down the slope. There was a slight metallic tang mixed with the organic.
She was back. “Cyborgs,” she announced, her tone urgent, “six of them. They’re wearing uniforms with the Lloyd crest, headed this way.”
Gerald Lloyd, the most powerful oligarch on the planet and the original owner of Emily’s contract, was the reason he’d had to sneak off the cargo freighter, Aberdeen, before it landed on Corsair. “Shit,” he muttered, “that was fast.”
“So are they,” she said. “Look, up there.”
Claire couldn’t point, but she didn’t need to. His gaze rose up the slope, just in time to see a line of six tall humanoid figures crest the hill.
“If we can make it to the bottom of the hill, I bet I can lose them in the woods,” he speculated. He reached down and hoisted the duffle over one shoulder. He grabbed the painting with his other hand.
“It’ll just be in the way. Leave it here,” Claire urged.
“I want to keep it,” he said, through gritted teeth, turning his back to the cyborgs and heading downhill. He took two steps and stopped, dead in his tracks, as six more figures emerged from the line of forest at the bottom of the hill.
“Yeah, moot point,” Claire noted. “What do you want to bet we’re surrounded?”
He looked left and right. Sure enough, two more groups emerged from the forest on both sides, breaking into a run as soon as they cleared the trees. His stomach knotted. I’ve been set up!
“Looks like it,” Claire agreed. “Stay alive as long as you can, okay? I’m going for help.”
“Help? Where are you going to find help?” he asked.
There was no answer and no time for speculation. The four groups had formed a ring and were closing fast. There was no chance of escape and it was two-dozen-to-one. He could see they wore burgundy uniforms, but he saw no evidence they were carrying weapons. Hell, they were cyborgs; they were weapons.
He wasn’t great at talking his way out of a fight, but it was worth a try. He dropped the duffle, leaned the painting carefully against the tree, and stepped out of the shade to great them. “Hello, officers. I hope I’m not trespassing, or anything. I should have suspected the shuttle pilot wasn’t on the up-and-up when he quoted such a low price. Sure enough, he dropped me here and took all my valuables except these,” he indicated the stuff at the base of the tree trunk. “I have no idea where I am.”
The largest of what he could now discern, despite the conformity of their uniforms, was a very motley crew, spoke up. “Cut the crap, Crane. We ain’t cops,” he grinned, “and we know who you are.”
“Crane who? You must be mistaken, I’m …”
The cyborg stepped forward and backhanded him. White light exploded behind Clifford’s eyeballs as the force of the blow hurled him several feet in the air. He landed on his back with a grunt.
“Ha,” laughed the cyborg. “Clifford Crane, the big, tough werewolf. By trying to sneak down here, you just saved Mr. Lloyd the trouble of having to drag you through the courts. We’re taking you directly to him.” He clapped his hands together. “And I get to watch.”
Clifford raised himself to his elbows and shook his head to clear it. He could feel his wolf, now, close to the surface. Calm down, he told it. These aren’t the greatest odds. Let’s choose our battles carefully.
Clifford could tell by the cyborg’s stance he was itching for a fight. But something was holding him back. They probably had orders to bring him in alive, since they hadn’t killed him already. Clifford rubbed his jaw. “You pack quite a wallop, there, friend,” he said. He held up his hand. “Not necessary, though. If your boss wants to see me, I’ll go peacefully. I won’t cause you any trouble.”
The cyborg’s face fell. “Shit,” he sneered, “that’s too bad. I was hoping you’d put up a fight.” He turned and motioned to some of the others. “Get some cuffs on him. You two, grab his shit.”
One of the cyborgs reached over his shoulder, disconnected something attached to his back, and walked over to Clifford, unraveling what turned out to be four metal shackles connected by a chain. “Hold out your arms,” the cyborg said. Clifford obliged.
He tensed as the cyborg began shackling his wrists and ankles together, then relaxed when the first metal clamp closed against his skin. Whatever the alloy was, it contained no silver. He wouldn’t have any trouble breaking free, for whatever good it would do him. Most likely, the chance of outrunning these things was minimal.
From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the other two gathering up his things. “Careful with that,” he called to the one who grabbed the cloth-wrapped painting. “Please,” he added.
“Careful?” questioned the cyborg in charge. “Give that to me,” he said, striding towards the one holding the painting.
“Don’t,” Clifford warned.
The cyborg stopped and turned. Something between a grin and a sneer spread across his face. “I want to see what’s so precious.” He turned back to the painting. “Hope I don’t damage anything cutting this twine,” he added, lifting his forearm into the air. He opened his hand and a six-inch blade shot from his wrist and locked in place.
Clifford reacted without thinking. His wolf burst forth, shredding his clothing, and bursting the three shackles clamped around his hands and ankles. His would-be shackler shouted a warning as he scrambled away from the eight-foot monster that had taken Clifford’s place.
“Don’t touch that,” Clifford said. Of course, no one understood his words, since it came out as a snarl, but he got his point across. The cyborg in charge turned from the painting and smiled. “That’s more like it,” he said. He held up a hand to the others as dozens of weapons suddenly appeared in the hands of the cyborgs who remained in a ring around them.
“Come on, Joe,” one of the weapon holders pleaded. “Don’t mess around with this thing. Let’s just taser him and take him back to Mr. Lloyd.”
Joe shook his head. “Don’t you dare. It looks like he wants to play. And so do I.” He began to peel off the blouse of his uniform. His chest and torso rippled with muscle where not covered in metal.
Clifford dropped to all fours. He lowered his head and snarled.
“That’s a fuckin’ werewolf, Joe,” warned the weapon holder. “Don’t underestimate him.”
Joe chuckled. “I’ve been wantin’ a challenge. I’m tired of beatin’ up on you pussies.” He crouched and flexed. “Watch this.” He launched himself, low and fast.
Clifford figured the cyborg was quick, and based on the blow he’d already received, he knew the thing was powerful. He had no intention of meeting him head-on. He side-stepped, twisted, and drove a set of claws into one of the fleshy spots on the cyborg’s side. There was a bone-jarring shock to Clifford’s forearm as his claws hit something hard instead of the expected internal organ, but Joe’s eyes widened with a grunt of pain.
Clifford used the cyborg’s momentum to fling him into the air, planted himself by digging his rear claws into the hard soil, and slammed Joe’s body to the ground. Before the cyborg could gather himself, Clifford’s jaws closed on his jugular, tearing half his throat away and releasing a geyser of blood and other fluids. Clifford spat out a mouthful of flesh, bone, wiring, and arteries as the first taser blast hit him.
Every muscle in his body spasmed as the voltage ran through him. He heard a voice yell, “Hold your fire. Lloyd wants him alive.” He crumpled in a heap on the ground and lay still. He could feel the vibrations of their heavy footsteps through the ground as the ring closed in on him.
“Check him out,” ordered a voice.
“Me?” another voice complained.
“Be careful,” the first voice encouraged.
Clifford felt the hard muzzle of some weapon prod his shoulder. He remained perfectly still. He felt a hand grip the same shoulder. He sprang into action.
“What th’ …,” exclaimed the cyborg, as Clifford clamped his jaws onto his forearm and jerked him off his feet. The two rolled across the ground several times before Clifford jumped to his hind legs, gripping the cyborg to his chest as a shield.
“Wait, don’t shoot!” pleaded the cyborg, in vain, as high voltage from several tasers hit him at once.
Clifford hurled the limp body at the nearest in the circle and dove in the opposite direction, rolling under the legs of another and upending him. A few taser blasts missed Clifford but found their mark with other cyborgs. “Hold your fire, you idiots!” rose a voice above the screams.
Having broken through the ring and bolstered by the luck he was having so far, Clifford decided to make a run for it, after all. He took off full speed in the direction of the closest line of trees.
He hadn’t taken three strides when he remembered. The painting! Dammit, I can’t leave it here. He pivoted back in the direction of his belongings just as an explosion blew a gaping hole in the ground behind him.
That wasn’t a taser, he realized. So much for taking me in alive.
The painting lay on the ground near the base of the big tree, still wrapped and bound. He skidded to a halt, scooped it up, and ducked behind the tree trunk as a second explosion took off a low-lying limb. Hugging the bundle to his chest, he pressed his back against the trunk as the cyborgs opened fire in earnest. Tremors rocked the ancient wood as projectiles took off chunks and blasted holes in the ground on all sides.
He looked across the denuded landscape to the forest and fading promise of escape. Unlike his original destination, the line of trees on this side of his cover was much further away. Carrying the painting, he’d have to go on hind legs only, which would slow him down. If I run in a zig-zag pattern …? He winced as another projectile brought a limb crashing next to him.
A fearsome and ancient war cry split the air, sending a tremor through his bowels.
The firing stopped. “What the hell was that?” asked a shaky voice.
Clifford knew that cry, all too well. Claire had found help after all. Not the kind he’d hoped for, of course, but it would do the job, for sure. Claire, what the hell have you done?
The war cry reverberated through the air once again, and Clifford peeked from behind the tree trunk just in time to see a huge pair of wings swoop over the crest of the hill. The white sun reflected off shiny dark green scales, temporarily blinding him, as, perched at the top of a long, graceful neck, the head of a huge dragon scanned the landscape, spotted its target, and dove.
Frozen in awe but for a moment, the cyborgs turned their ineffectual weapons on the creature as it bore down upon them. The dragon drew a deep breath.
Oh, shit. Clifford broke from the cover of the tree and bounded clear, on all fours, as dragon fire swept over the hapless cyborgs and engulfed the tree.
“Are you alright?” Claire asked.
Clifford followed the dragon’s flight path as it rose above the tree line at the far end of the clear cut, banked and headed back towards
him.
“Yeah,” Claire continued, in spite of his lack of response, “you seem okay.”
“What’s he doing here?” Clifford complained.
“Saving our ass,” she explained, “that’s what. Grateful much?”
Clifford clamped his jaw tight against an angry retort. “I mean, what’s he doing on this planet? I thought he was off in the center of the galaxy, looking for his home world.”
The dragon settled gracefully to the ground about fifty yards away, surveyed the damage, and nodded to himself in satisfaction. He folded his wings and ambled towards them.
“He was,” Claire answered, “but after what went down at the hearing, I had a gut feeling we’d need some help, so I went and called in a favor. He got here yesterday, actually, before the … um … incident.”
The “hearing” to which she referred was the decision by a threejudge panel of the Aberdeen’s senior officers to approve the voiding of Emily’s contract with Gerald Lloyd, allowing Clifford and Emily to pursue a relationship of their own. Although less than a week had passed, it now seemed like a lifetime ago. The “incident” Claire referenced was Emily’s bizarre death the day before, for which Clifford had been unjustly accused.
“Wait,” he said, confused. “Pieter owed you a favor?”
“Well,” she hemmed, “no, not yet. He has a favor to ask you, first.”
“Dammit, Claire.”
The dragon settled on his haunches in front of Clifford, angled his great head so he could fix the werewolf with one eye, and said in a deep baritone voice that echoed disconcertingly in Clifford’s mind, “Greetings, Oktallu.”
“Don’t call me that,” Clifford griped.
“Sorry,” Pieter apologized, his great brow ridges descending into a frown, “I forgot you object to your true name.” He lifted his head and took in their surroundings. “I was saddened to hear of your recent difficulties. My condolences.”
“Thanks,” Clifford muttered begrudgingly.
Pieter fixed him again with a single eye. “I also hear that you are freshly unemployed. I have a proposal for you.”
“Of course, you do,” Clifford sighed.
“Hear him out, Cliff,” urged Claire. “It’s the least you can do.”
“But first,” said Pieter, lifting his head to the sky, listening, “we should leave this place quickly, I fear. There are others coming.” He looked down at Clifford. “Quite a few of them, actually. I suggest you gather your things.”
“Good idea,” Clifford agreed. He turned and trotted over to the smoldering tree underneath which his duffle lay, singed but miraculously intact. The painting, which he had propped against the tree trunk, had not fared as well. “Oh, hell.”
“Sorry,” boomed the dragon’s voice. “Was that something you wanted to keep?”
Clifford sighed. “No, it was nothing.”
Pieter flattened himself to the ground and extended a wing in offering. “Climb aboard, then, and let’s be off.”
“Sorry, Cliff,” whispered Claire.
“Right,” Clifford murmured. He slung the duffle over his shoulder and climbed onto Pieter’s back. The dragon launched himself into the air, inadvertently fanning the flames with his great wings. The painting and its frame collapsed into ashes as dragon and rider shrunk to a distant speck in the sky.
---
Gerald Lloyd’s eyes narrowed as he watched the video recording for the second time. The man on the screen, his quarry, was getting safely shackled before being brought to him, when the prisoner politely asked someone off-camera to be careful with something. The camera angle abruptly changed to reveal one of his uniformed cyborgs holding what might have been a framed piece of art wrapped in a paint-spattered drop cloth.
“Careful?” asked a voice as the camera approached the object in question. “Let me see that.”
Lloyd closed his eyes. “You moron,” he muttered, shaking his head. His eyes remained closed as he listened to the rest of the
recording. He began tapping a slow rhythm on the desktop with the fingers of one hand.
“Don’t,” said the voice of his quarry.
“I want to see what’s so precious,” sneered the off-camera voice. There was a pause. “Hope I don’t damage anything cutting this twine,” the off-camera voice continued. Lloyd’s finger tapping increased in tempo.
He heard the snarl of a beast, followed by the off-camera voice saying, “That’s more like it.”
“Come on, Joe,” said a different voice, “Don’t mess around with this thing. Let’s just taser him and take him back to Mr. Lloyd.”
“Don’t you dare. It looks like he wants to play And so do I,” said the first voice. Lloyd’s fingers upped their tempo even more.
“That’s a fuckin’ werewolf, Joe,” warned the second voice. “Don’t underestimate him.”
The first voice chuckled. “I’ve been wantin’ a challenge,” it said. “I’m tired of beatin’ up on you pussies.” There was a pause. “Watch this.”
Lloyd’s fingers abruptly stopped their tapping. He opened his eyes and swiveled his chair to regard the uniformed officer sitting on the other side of the desk while the sounds of grunts and snarls continued in the background. Captain Prine’s face was ashen with fear. “Why did you put that moron in charge, Captain?” Lloyd asked.
Prine swallowed. “I’ … it was an error in judgment, sir,” he stammered.
“I know that,” Lloyd snapped. “I asked you why.”
Prine took a deep breath. “It was our most seasoned team, sir. Joe was their team leader.”
Lloyd looked back at the screen. The camera was angled towards the sky, a single drifting cloud being the only indication it had still been recording. Lloyd clicked off the video. “And he was the only one with a body cam,” he stated, unnecessarily.
Captain Prine chewed at his lip.
Lloyd steepled his hands together and shook his head. “I’m disappointed in you, Captain Prine. Extremely disappointed.”
“Sir,” began the captain, “I …”
Lloyd raised a hand to cut him off. He rose slowly from his chair and began pacing, with his hands clasped behind his back. The captain remained seated and still, only his eyes following the movements of his superior. Eventually, Lloyd came to a stop in front of the captain’s chair and looked down at him.
“I’m relieving you of your duties, of course,” Lloyd said.
“Sir,” repeated the captain, “I …” This time his words were cut short when he discovered Lloyd’s hand suddenly clasped around his throat.
“Don’t!” snapped Lloyd, tightening his grasp. “Say!” he spat, squeezing harder. “Anything!” He watched the captain’s eyes bulge as he squeezed harder The man’s face began to redden, then take on a purplish hue as he clawed in vain at Lloyd’s hand, trying to loosen the vise-like grip. Abruptly, Lloyd released his hold.
The captain began to gasp and cough. Lloyd waited until his complexion began to return to its normal color before he delivered the first blow. He noted the startled look on the captain’s face when the blood began to spurt from his crushed nose. The second blow snapped the captain’s head back, and the life dropped out of his eyes.
Lloyd continued to deliver blow after blow, caving the man’s skull into a bloody pulp. When his fury was spent, he straightened and held his fist up in front of his face, inspecting the knuckles where the skin had been torn away to reveal the metal underneath. He sighed.
He walked calmly to the other side of the desk and took his seat. He pulled a clean cloth from a drawer and wrapped the damaged hand. He pressed an icon on his computer screen, and a voice responded, “Sir.”
“Charon,” he said evenly, “Clifford Crane is running loose, somewhere on the planet. Call in every favor you have outstanding with the authorities and get out a global all-points bulletin. I want him found. Contact the Linham Police Department and have them ready when the CSS Aberdeen docks. I need everyone on that ship interrogated.”
“Immediately, sir,” replied the voice.
“And Charon?” Lloyd added.
“Sir?”
“Get maintenance up to my office right away,” he ordered, looking across his desk at the bloody corpse slumped in its chair. “The place is a mess.”
Escape
The door of the freight elevator opened. Ensign Carolyn Swank picked up a duffle and a covered birdcage from the floor of the car and stepped cautiously into the eerie quiet of a darkened and deserted cargo bay. The elevator doors shushed to a close behind her, blocking its interior light and leaving her eyes unadjusted to the dark. A rush of adrenaline coursed through her at the sudden sound of three chimes, followed by a voice of indeterminant gender, which broke from a speaker somewhere behind.
“The ship will begin its atmospheric entry and landing sequence in three minutes. Passengers and crew, please see that yourselves and your belongings are secure.”
She took a deep breath and let it out, slowly. Easy, girl, she told herself.
“Hey,” hissed a voice. Carol peered into the gloom to locate the sound. “Over here,” the voice confirmed, as Carol’s eyes adjusted to the dim silhouette of her bunkmate, Sarah, waving her forward. Carol shouldered her duffle and held the birdcage carefully away from her body as she shuffled over to where Sarah waited.
“What’s that?” whispered Sarah, pointing at the birdcage. “Don’t tell me you brought the parrots. If those things start squawking and cursing, it’ll lead someone straight to us.”
“They’ll be fine as long as I keep the cage covered,” Carol defended herself. “Are you sure we have to do this? Captain Sanchez is the only one who knows we helped Clifford escape. He won’t rat us out. But, if we sneak off the ship, we’ll be prime suspects for sure.”
“The captain’s sure someone is leaking information to Gerald Lloyd,” Sarah insisted. “We’re already prime suspects.”
“Do you think Clifford’s okay?” Carol wondered.
“Probably,” Sarah speculated. “Else why would the cops be looking for him? But Carol, we need to worry about ourselves. Come on. We can hide in here until we land.” She opened a small hatch in a low rounded protrusion from the wall and motioned Carol inside.
Carol had to unshoulder her duffle and duck sideways to make it through the hatchway. It was cramped and even darker inside. Sarah followed, folding herself against her own duffle and closing the hatch behind her.
“It’s dark as hell in here,” Carol complained. “What is this place, anyway?”
“It’s one of the wheel wells for the landing gear,” Sarah explained.
“Are you insane?” Carol hissed. “This is dangerous. Won’t we fall out when it opens?”
“Not if you stay right where you are.”
“Jesus.”
“This is the safest way to get off the ship. We can crawl down the landing gear and haul ass away before we get to the docking bay in the hanger, which will be swarming with police, according to the captain.”
“We’re going to jump out of a moving spaceship?” Carol squeaked.
“Don’t worry,” Sarah murmured, “it’ll be fine.”
Three more chimes sounded, followed by the genderless voice, muffled now, since there was no speaker inside the wheel well. “Atmospheric entry and landing sequence will begin in fifteen seconds. Please remain secure until the captain gives the all-clear.”
The two huddled in silence until a shudder ran through the ship. “What was that?” Carol squeaked.
“We just hit atmo,” replied Sarah. “The Kennington drive doesn’t monitor the environmental conditions in this part of the ship, so we felt it,” she explained. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. Might get a little warm in here, that’s all.”
“How warm?” Carol inquired, as the floor began to vibrate disconcertingly
“Not sure,” Sarah offered. “Not enough to damage the gear, I guess.”
“What about us?” Carol squeaked again. Sarah chuckled. “Don’t worry.”
Carol did her best to stay calm. After all, Sarah was an engineer. She knew the ship as well as anyone, and Carol trusted her. As the floor began to vibrate in earnest, however, and the temperature began to rise, so did her unease and that of her birds. A chorus of squawks arose from the cage.
“Dammit, Carol, why did you have to bring them?” Sarah complained.
“They’re my pets,” hissed Carol. She turned to the cage. “It’s okay, babies,” she cooed.
Suddenly the vibration stopped, and the squawking ceased.
“See?” both women said, in unison.
The pressure in the wheel well plummeted and a blast of cold air whooshed in as a section of the floor slowly dropped away. Carol gasped and pulled the cage and her duffle closer for fear they would be swept out the opening and fall into the forested canopy miles below. “I really don’t like heights,” she groaned.
“Hang tight. We’ll be on the ground in no time,” Sarah assured her.
“I just hope we’re still inside the ship when that happens,” Carol said, noting the muscle tension that extended all the way up her forearms. She tried to relax the death grip she had on her possessions.
“Oh, wow!” exclaimed Sarah. “Look at that!”
Carol peeked over the edge of the opening. The forest below was much closer and there was a sudden break in the tree line ahead, after which a featureless expanse of tarmac stretched as far as the eye could see, broken only by a faint skyline of buildings on the horizon from which a thick plume of smoke ascended into a hazy layer of sky. She was struck by the stark contrast of human encroachment against the verdant forest they had just passed over. “Oh, my God,” she whispered.
A loud thump sent another shudder through the compartment as the landing gear mechanism jolted into motion. A huge wheel assembly detached from above and began to descend through the opening next to them. A high-pitched whistle grew from the air
passing around the descending struts that set the birds to squawking again. Sarah gave her the evil eye.
“Oh, come on,” Carol shouted over the whistling, “there’s no way anyone could hear them over this noise!”
Sarah snorted, but she had to admit the truth of Carol’s assessment. The whistling and squawking reached a crescendo as their landing path leveled off and a line of buildings grew on the horizon, the tallest of their structures topped with blinking red warning lights. She glimpsed a field of long buildings with high arched roofs that must have been the hangars of the spaceport, just before the horizon was cut from their view. The ship touched down with a screech from the wheel coverings as inches of tire tread were torn away and deposited in long black streaks on the tarmac. The noise began to die as the ship settled onto each of the wheels of its sixteen landing struts and its speed diminished.
When Sarah figured she could be heard, she shouted at Carol, “This port is a little different than the others we’ve been to! The ship will taxi to a stop and a tug will pull us to an assigned bay in one of the hangars! Everyone will be distracted while the tug is hooking us up! That’s our best chance of climbing down without being seen!”
Carol nodded. She began chewing at her bottom lip, glancing at the tarmac rushing by below them. The ship’s wheels were on the ground, but the hard concrete was a good two stories below them. They might not survive a fall. She wondered if it might not be too late to just return to her quarters and face the music. She took a deep breath, puffing out her cheeks, and blew it out slowly. Probably too late, she decided.
The ship jerked to a stop. Sarah slung her duffle across her shoulders and tightened the strap across her chest, freeing her hands. Following Sarah’s example, Carol tightened her strap and peered over the edge of the opening in front of her Biting her lip, she looked at her bunkmate. “You go first,” she said.
Sarah eyed the birdcage. “How are you going to climb with that?”
Carol swallowed uncertainly. “I’ll manage.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Let me get situated on that strut,” she pointed, “then hand it to me.”
Carol frowned, then nodded, “Okay.”
Sarah stepped nimbly out of the wheel well and descended hand-over-hand a few feet below. Checking that her feet and handholds were secure, she extended one hand back towards Carol, who cautiously passed the covered birdcage to her. Sarah acknowledged she had the cage secured with a nod and added, “Don’t dawdle.”
Easy for you to say, Carol thought. She took a deep breath. “Here goes nothing,” she muttered as she stepped into empty air. She was surprised and relieved when her foot found the rung of a ladder cleverly concealed along the length of the wheel strut assembly, which explained how Sarah had negotiated it so nimbly Of course, the designers of the ship would have anticipated the need for maintenance and provided a way for someone to access the assembly when needed. Being an engineer, Sarah had assumed something like this would have been common knowledge and had not considered the need to inform her. Carol sighed. She descended to the rung just above Sarah and took hold of the cage while her bunkmate descended a bit further.
Slowly, they made their way down the ladder, passing the cage back and forth and only once nearly dropping it. Surprisingly, the descent went smoothly, and the birds kept quiet. Nevertheless, by the time they reached the bottom, Carol’s nerves were shot and her limbs were shaky from a steady flow of adrenaline. As she handed the cage one final time to Sarah, who was now on the ground, the ship was suddenly jerked into motion when the tug, having completed its attachment, began to haul it away.
Carol’s grip was torn from the rung of the ladder, and she fell, flailing her arms wildly in midair before landing on her back on the tarmac, her fall cushioned by her duffle.
“Are you okay?” giggled Sarah.
Carol lay on her back, her eyes closed, sending up a prayer of thanks to the gods of her youth, with whom she had not communicated in years. “I’m great,” she sighed.
“Come on,” Sarah said, extending her hand, “Let’s get out of here.”
Carol allowed herself to be helped to her feet. She assumed custody of the birds, and the two of them trotted off in a different direction from the tug and the ship. Their only witness was a small inspection drone, sent as standard procedure from the spaceport, along with the tug, to examine the exterior of the incoming ship. Not being programmed to look for crew members escaping through a wheel well, it sent no alarm to its custodians. It merely recorded two females in THE Corporation fatigues scurrying out from under the shadow of the ship, and it saved the video for later inspection, if needed.
---
Clifford had ridden on the back of a dragon only once before. The one time had been enough, and he cursed the desperate circumstances that forced him to do so a second time. The smooth, graceful flight of the creatures when viewed from the ground translated into the wildest of roller coaster rides when experienced from his current precarious perch.
Each downstroke of Pieter’s great wings hurled dragon and rider thirty to forty feet in the air and was followed by a gut-wrenching free fall of half that on the upstroke. Vertical and horizontal wind shear threatened to tear Clifford from his seat. There was nothing to hold on to save the spiny protrusions running the length of the creature’s back and tail, which were in constant motion as the dragon angled them back and forth to stabilize his flight. Trying to keep the duffle from being torn from his grasp added to Clifford’s difficulties.
His wolf was extremely unhappy. Even in an enclosed cockpit, it was best not to fly in wolf form. This was nothing less than an exercise in terror for a creature most comfortable with four paws on the ground. Too bad he had not had time to transform back to human form before climbing aboard. “Easy boy,” he told his alter ego.
“We’ll be on the ground soon,” echoed Claire’s ethereal voice. For once, Clifford was grateful for the presence of his ex-lover’s ghost. Claire was the one who had first turned him four hundred years ago. She had helped calm his wolf after his first transformation, and the wolf still responded to her soothing voice.
“You’re welcome,” she sniggered, reading his thoughts as she always did.
Thankfully, her observation was correct. Despite the harrowing ride, the flight went quickly. Before long Pieter reduced his speed and settled into a long glide, banking smoothly into a wide descending arc as the forest far below began to thin and the ground approached.
They landed gently near a large stand of young trees that looked like they may have been ornamental replacements for the original forest that had once covered most of the planet. As soon as the dragon hit the ground, Clifford leapt from his perch and began transforming. Thirty seconds later, he stood on two human legs, stretched, and dug out a rust-colored robe from his duffle, with which he covered his nakedness, since the clothes he’d worn during his escape from the CSS Aberdeen now lay in shreds where the shuttle had dropped him. Fastening the duffle closed, he turned to address the dragon.
A man he did not recognize stood where the dragon had been. He was taller than at their last encounter and looked perhaps a few years younger. He was dressed well but casually in the latest style from Rhinehold, the planet from which Clifford had shipped out several weeks before. One of the things Clifford had always resented about the dragon was how he could shift his clothing, while Clifford ended up naked whenever he underwent a transformation.
“Who are you supposed to be, now?” Clifford asked.
The man spread his arms and gave a slight bow. “Doctor Leo Peters,” he said, “at your service.”
Great, Clifford thought, it’s going to be hard to remember what to call him, now.”
“I’ll help,” Claire offered.
“What happened to Ivan Petros?” Clifford asked.
“Doctor Petros died centuries ago, Clifford,” Leo explained.
“Still a doctor, though.”
Leo inclined his head. “Of course. But not medical, this time,” he explained. “I have PhD’s in botany and anthropology.”
Clifford grunted. “So, what’s this proposal you have for me?”
“Please be open-minded, Cliff,” Claire entreated.
“I stay open-minded,” he retorted.
“Sure, you do,” she tossed back, getting the last word in, as usual.
“I have a vehicle,” Leo pointed, “just through those trees. Come,” he motioned, “I’ll catch you up on things during the ride to my ship.” He turned and ducked into the underbrush.
Clifford followed. The path they took looked like a recreational trail, because they immediately encountered a small mileage marker and informational posting at a footbridge that had been constructed over a small stream. It was not the kind of thing he would have expected to see, given the planet’s reputation for exploitation of its natural resources.
As if Leo had read his mind, he explained, “Corsair entered a trade agreement with the Central Authority last year.” He turned and looked over his shoulder at Clifford. “Did you know?”
“I heard.”
“Some factions here are even in favor of joining the Authority,” Leo continued, facing forward, “believe it, or not. Anyway, the CA purchased some land in the hopes of setting up an embassy sometime in the future. This little park is the work of the Authority.” He glanced back at Clifford again. “And it provides a convenient cover for your clandestine rescue.”
Clifford nodded, taking in the carefully landscaped ambience. “It’s nice,” he admitted. “It reminds me of Old Earth.”
“I believe that’s the effect they were trying to achieve,” Leo confirmed. He halted, turning to face Clifford. “We’re almost to my vehicle. Is Claire with you, now?”
Clifford stopped, nodding in affirmation.
“Then,” Leo said, “I suggest we continue our conversation telepathically from here on.”
Clifford frowned, cocking his head in a question.
The deep baritone voice of the dragon echoed in Clifford’s mind, “It would only be polite to include Ms. Deerfoot, since she is intimately involved.”
“How courteous,” Claire commented.
Clifford grunted. Pieter, the Dragon, had been the one to bring Claire’s spirit back from beyond the veil, centuries ago. As such, he was one of only three creatures who could communicate with her directly. She could also enter his mind, just like she could Clifford’s. Usually, however, she chose not to, complaining it was too weird in there.
“Also,” Leo added, placing a finger to his lips, “there is a bug in my vehicle. There is no video, so the identity of any passengers cannot be confirmed, but all conversation will be recorded.”
“Okay,” Clifford agreed. He followed Leo the rest of the way in silence, until they emerged from the woods onto a graveled lot where a six-passenger rover was parked in a shaded spot. Clifford noticed the prominently displayed logo on one of its doors. “How is it you’re driving an official Central Authority vehicle?” he asked.
“Pieter works for them, now,” Claire explained.
“As a cover for what?” Clifford asked.
Leo chuckled. “You’ve become suspicious and cynical as you’ve aged, Oktallu.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Sorry,” Leo apologized, “Clifford Crane.” He smiled. “You have also grown more perceptive, which is good.” He strode towards the vehicle. “Actually, I am currently engaged in a completely open and above-board diplomatic mission, having offered the services of my ship to carry Ambassador Darinor here to address Parliament.”
Clifford’s eyebrows rose. “The Elf?”
“The very one,” Leo confirmed. “When Claire suggested you might be getting yourself into trouble, I mentioned to him I was thinking of going to Corsair, and he jumped at the chance to ride with a dragon rather than in close proximity with humans on one of the standard passenger vessels.”
“He would,” Clifford nodded. “So, you came from Rhinehold? We saw Darinor there when we signed onto the CSS Aberdeen.”
Claire elaborated, “The purser told us the Elf had opted to use a cargo vessel to get from Ellindrell to Rhinehold and assume his new post. He acted like he’d already had enough
