Nanny For The Alien General by Athena Storm
Gurtal
The arms of the Pi’rellian dancer cling to me even as I try to shoulder my way through the milling throng on the promenade of Jartok II. I’m sure that she can tell I’m military even without the uniform, and she probably thinks I have money to spend. This is one of those planets where money talks and power walks.
I do, but not on fleshly pursuits. Still, I feel some regret disentangling myself from her shapely body. My business tonight is not here, where the glitz and glamor of Jartok II attempts to lure tourists and travelers out of their credits. Where I’m going, there’s still plenty of transactions but they’re off the record, so to speak.
The recycled air of Jartok II has a sour tang to it. It’s one of those systems that the Alliance has tenuous jurisdiction over — anything goes as long as you got the money. I find that I actually miss Teranus, at least in this respect. With no real breeze to speak of, Jartok II smells like tens of thousands of unwashed bodies pressed into an ammo locker. And what passes as food… I shudder to think of it. Nothing but reconstituted fare, and I’m not talking about the fancy machines like the one Zerberu has in his kitchen collecting dust. I mean the old school ones where everything has a nutty flavor no matter what it’s supposed to taste like.
Well, you wanted a chance to prove yourself, Gurtal. This is it. Haven’t even gotten to the hard part yet.
I’ve come here in search of a ship that can get me to Jurtik, undetected, and then get me back out. Obviously, chartering a commercial flight is out of the question. Likewise trying to sneak in under false pretenses. Jurtik is sealed up tighter than a drum, and since there’s such a tiny crew of guards they don’t require much in the way of supplies.
Now comes the tricky part. I have to find a drinking establishment which will contain just the right kind of criminal. One who is willing to break the law for money, but one with enough honor not to knife me in the back.
I head into a few different taverns and drop enough hints and money to get me pointed in the right direction. After another ten minutes of walking, I find the dive I’m seeking, a place which caters to unlicensed cargo pilots — some rude people might call them smugglers.
Right away when I walk in the door I realize that this isn’t a great place to mention you’re part of the Alliance. The war against the Coalition takes a lot of resources, and no one’s happy paying their taxes even if it means staving off theocratic rule by an empire of zealots. Quite a few stares get leveled in my direction. Vakutan don’t go into a life of crime much, because it’s risky. Since we were once a slave race liberated by the Trident Alliance, anything that could be construed as being anti-Alliance could cause you to lose teeth, or worse.
But here’s the thing; I’m a big Vakutan. Maybe not the biggest, but bigger than most, and with so much free time on Teranus and so little to fill it with, I use Zerberu’s gym. A lot. I add in a bit more swagger to my walk, and meet each stare in turn with my own. Most of the eyes drift away from my gaze, except for the human bartender.
I saunter up to the bar and order a drink. Then I tip him more than he probably makes in a week and drop my line.
“I hear you bartenders are good for information.”
“Depends on the information, and who does the asking.”
“Mr. Credits is doing the asking.”
“Are you law enforcement?”
“Do I look like law enforcement?”
He doesn’t bat an eye.
“Yes.”
“Damn. Actually, I used to be Alliance military, but I assure you I’m not here on Alliance business. I’m here on my own business.”
“So what’s your business?”
“I’m in need of a fast ship that can get me into tight places and back out of them, without being detected. It would also be nice if the pilot weren’t too offended by human passengers.”
He takes my credits and then juts his tattooed chin toward a gathered crowd in the corner.
“You want Zylan.”
“Which one’s Zylan?”
There is a cluster of ne’er do wells gathered around a table in the back of the bar. An Alzhon and a Vakutan are having an arm wrestling contest, a human sport which has gained popularity among the lower classes of the Alliance species. The Alzhon has a thin-boned face, but broad shoulders and a lean, wiry look. Even though sweat beads on his brow, and a big vein pulses in his temple, he has a twisted smile on his face.
The Vakutan, who I assume is Zylan, is on the heavier side. I don’t doubt he’s strong but I wouldn’t put him on duty guarding the food provisions, if you know what I mean. He also appears about to win the arm wrestling match, bending the Alzhon’s wrist toward the table until it’s mere inches from touching the metal surface.
“The Alzhon who looks like he’s about to lose.”
“I’d say it’s definite.”
“I’d say you need to keep watching.”
I’m disappointed that Zylan isn’t the big, burly Vakutan, but I guess he doesn’t have to be a great arm wrestler to be a great pilot. As I stalk across the smoky, dimly lit bar, the Vakutan grits his teeth and shoves Zylan’s arm down another inch. Those onlookers who have bet money on the Vakutan cheer uproariously, while many of those who did not wager on him look disgusted.
A small, furtive movement catches my attention. Suddenly, there’s an eight legged bundle of ugly the size of a small melon on the Vakutan’s shoulder. Like the hideous crossbreed of an arachnid and a bird of prey, only with spiky hair instead of feathers. As I said, ugly. My fellow Vakutan turns his gaze enough to see it, screams, and leaps up from the table.
The ugly little critter disappears, apparently hopping away too fast to be seen. Zylan smiles and drags the pile of credits across the table toward himself.
“What are you doing, Zylan?”
He glances up with an innocent smile.
“I’m just collecting my winnings. You forfeited the match.”
“I was attacked by a, a monster. It wasn’t a fair contest.”
“If you want a fair contest, you came to the wrong place.”
The Vakutan kicks his chair over and storms off. Most of the throng goes with him, seeking out other entertainments. I come up to Zylan’s table and sit down uninvited.
“Sorry, friend. My arm is too sore for another match. Come back tomorrow, maybe.”
“I’m not here for a match. I’m here to hire you and your ship.”
Zylan glances up at me for the first time. His lavender eyes run up and down my form, and then they narrow.
“I got nothing to say to law enforcement.”
Why does everyone think I’m a cop?
“I’m not law enforcement. I need your help.”
“My help doesn’t come cheap.”
“I didn’t come with empty pockets. Name your price.”
“Whoa, slow down, cowboy.”
“Cowboy? What’s a cowboy?”
“It’s a human term I picked up. Don’t worry about it. There’s no way I can set a price without knowing the cargo, or the destination, you feel me?”
I start when the ugly little ball of spiky grossness hops up onto Zylan’s shoulder. He doesn’t even flinch, but he does reach up and scratch the little spheroid thing on its… its neck, I guess. Does it have a neck?
“Don’t mind Kleid. He doesn’t bite. Hard. What’s the situation?”
I glance around to make sure no one’s listening. I don’t know why, with how loud the music is. You could probably murder someone in here and no one would hear it.
“Have you ever been to Jurtik?”
“Jurtik?” Zylan starts, and the little critter on his shoulder matches the movement. “Not if I can help it.”
“But you could, if you wanted to.”
“Maybe.” His eyes flash. “Are you looking to do a little prison break?”
My hopes rise a little.
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
He takes a drink, closing his eyes as the burning fluid goes down his throat.
“Then I’m not interested. Most of the scumbags who go to Jurtik have it coming, if you ask me. Child killers, murderers, girl ruiners.”
Girl ruiners, huh? I think this guy might have a secret chivalrous streak. Instantly, I decide I like him better.
“What if I told you, we’re heading there to break someone out who’s completely innocent. A human woman.”
His eyes widen, and he sets the glass down and fixes me with a firm stare.
“If she’s innocent, what did she do to get shut up in this prison in the first place?”
Sighing, I go into the whole sordid story. Zylan listens quietly, occasionally feeding bits of his grilled meal to Kleid. At length he holds his fist out over the table.
“I’m in.”
“What? Really? So easily? We haven’t even haggled about price.”
“I can already tell you’re not spending your own money. Besides, I’ll be a legend if I break this companion out of Jurtik. I just hope she can hang on somehow until we show up.”
I consider his hand for a moment, and then slam my fist into his own with a meaty thwack.
“Finish your lunch, Kleid,” Zylan says. “We got ourselves a run.”
If I'd been expecting Zylan's ship to be somewhat shabby in appearance, I'd have been wrong. The reality is very shabby. It's an old livestock ship of Alzhon design, roughly crescent shaped with the pilot compartment in the center. The arms of the crescent used to be coupled to cylindrical sections that housed the living cargo. Without them, the ship is certain to be fast, but won't have much space for storage.
Not that we need much to transport a little human woman. I try to hide my lack of enthusiasm about boarding the rickety looking ship, but apparently I fail because Zylan claps me on the shoulder.
“She may not look like much, but she'll get us there and back in one piece.”
“So how are we going to get close to Jurtik? I doubt you have stealth tech on this hunk of junk.”
“Won't need stealth tech. Now why don't you come on board instead of blabbing out our itinerary to the rabble?”
He has a point. In short order we're leaving Jartok II station behind and making the jump to superluminal speed.
“What's the plan, Zylan? We're away from prying ears.”
“The security grid surrounding Jurtik is top of the line, there's no way that anything but the most advanced stealth tech could get close. The good news is, we're not going to try to hide who we are. We're going to broadcast it loud and clear.”
I look at him, with that stupid, cocky grin, and the ugly as hell critter on his shoulder, and I wonder what I've gotten myself into.
“Is it too late for a refund?”
“Relax. I'm going to broadcast our transponder signal as code seven one seven.”
“Am I supposed to know what that means?”
“It's the Sector Governor’s personal transponder code. Specifically, it's the one he uses when he's traveling incognitus... like say to a pleasure planet.”
“You're going to pretend like we're transporting the Sector Governor? We'll be executed if we get caught.”
“We won't get caught. Relax, one of my ex girlfriends used to live on a station near Jurtik. It's how I visited her all the time.”
We drop down to subluminal speed, and there's that moment of disorientation you always get when the stars stop streaking past you into infinite lines. Then I get my first look at Jurtik. It's an ugly planet, with deep red sands and little in the way of cloud cover. I can only spot one inland sea, and I'm willing to bet it's not fresh potable water. Hell planet indeed.
“See? The transponder code is working fine. Those auto defense drones think we're the Sector Governor.”
“Zylan, those auto defense drones just went hot according to your sensors.”
Zylan moves his feet, which had been on top of his console, and gapes at the data coming in.
“What? No way. Unless...”
“Unless what?”
“Unless my ex was more bitter than I thought that I slept with her sister and told the authorities about my fake transponder code.”
“If we survive this, I'm going to kill you.”
“And leave Kleid an orphan? Strap yourself into your crash webbing, we're going in.”
“Past those missile salvos? That's crazy.”
“It's actually our best chance. Can't outrun those missiles, they got insane acceleration boosters. Better strap in.”
I move toward the empty seat as we careen through the atmosphere. The drones fire their missiles, and while a good amount of them fly harmlessly past, one catches the left crescent. I tumble to the deck, smacking my head on the edge of a console. When I look up at Zylan, I see two of him.
“Hull breech. Engine failure on starboard side. Hang on, Kleid.”
A big chunk of the hull tears off and smashes the cockpit's viewing panel. Instantly I am tossed about the cockpit, slamming against the walls several times before the vortex sucks me out into the air.
For a time I see dark red sand and navy blue sky marred by the black smoke trail of Zylan's ship. Then the ground rears up and I slam into a sand dune.
I'm lucky. The dune's slope lets me eat up momentum so that I don't break any bones in the fall. Still, I have patches of skin missing the size of my thumbprint on my back. A big plume of smoke in the distance must be the crash site.
Even if Zylan survived, he's probably hurt, leaving me marooned on a prison planet with no way off.
To be continued.Read the full book by clicking here!
