The Army Of Light (Kestrel Saga) (13 page)

    
Shawn’s limping F-A6 was jostled slightly as Wild Bill’s interceptor screamed
past and blasted the Kafaran who’d dropped the torpedo.

    
“The remaining contacts are fleeing,” Graves said dejectedly. “Our orders are
not to pursue.”

    
“That’s a damn good thing,” Shawn tried not to sound tense. “I’m dragging my
tail right now.”

    
William formed up on what was left of Shawn’s wing.
“Ah,
hell.
It’s only a scratch. Quit your complaining.”

    
“Well, you fly her home then.” Kestrel said through gritted teeth, still trying
with difficulty to keep the Raptor level and orientated at the 
Fahrenwald
’s
landing bay.

    
“No can do, old buddy. My ship works just fine. And as I recall, the last bet
we made was ‘he who had the least damage lands first’, right?” And with that,
Shawn watched as William performed another flawless barrel roll to starboard as
his fighter rocketed towards the carrier.

    
In the end, Shawn had made it back to the 
Fahrenwald
,
but not without difficulty. With landing gear control down, he was thankful
the carrier’s guidance beams had caught his fighter before it had a chance
to smash into the flight deck at nearly half speed. Later that evening, after
the pilots had been debriefed and the action reports had been filed, Graves and
Kestrel shared a quiet drink in the officer’s mess.

    
Shawn’s first remark to William was that, next time, the bet about who’d get to
land first would be much different.

*          
*           *

    
As Shawn finished his story, a wry smile crept across his face as he recalled
the party in the officer’s mess later that evening. The Sector Command pilots
had a lot to celebrate: four squadrons of deck fighters, as well as both enemy
frigates, had been completely destroyed. The Sector Command fleet hadn’t come
out unscathed—losing a frigate and a destroyer themselves—but they’d won the
day, and there would be time to mourn their losses later.

 
   Melissa’s chin floated off her palm as she leaned back in the
co-pilots seat. “That sounds like my father,” she smiled, then looked to Shawn.
“My father didn’t often speak of his missions. I think he was afraid that the
stories might be… too much for me.”

    
“Well, war is never a pretty thing.” Shawn responded solemnly.

    
“I suppose, even in the most humorous of stories, death was always a
possibility.” She folded her arms across her chest as her gaze returned to the
stars, then shivered slightly. It didn’t go unnoticed by Shawn.

    
“That’s what made them memorable.” He reached behind her seat and withdrew a
folded wool blanket that he tossed into her lap. “It gets a little cold up here
sometimes, and the heaters aren’t as efficient as they used to be.”

    
She unfurled the thick green blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. The
contrast of the blankets color to her red hair reminded Shawn of Christmas, a
holiday he hadn’t felt the need to celebrate in a long time.

    
She bundled herself up tightly. “Thank you, Captain.”

    
“After all,” he continued, “war is the great constant in the universe—aside
from the bureaucratic mentality.”

    
She glanced in his direction, pursing her lips and slowly shaking her head.
“Even with all the bureaucracy in the Unified government, I wish father would
have told me something about his current assignment.”

    
“I can’t believe he didn’t give you a hint as to what he was up to, or where he
was going.”

    
Melissa rolled her eyes, cursing under her breath. “It’s all ‘classification
levels’ and ‘need to know’ nonsense, it would seem. Apparently, even an Admiral’s
own daughter doesn’t rate a sufficient explanation. It’s beyond frustrating.”

    
Shawn could almost feel her agitation, realizing this all must be extremely
difficult for her—an outsider to military affairs.

    
“I’m sorry,” he offered genuinely after a moment of silence. “I didn’t mean
to—”

    
Melissa waived a hand lightly and then tucked it back under the blanket. “Don’t
bother, Captain. It’s not like it’s entirely your fault. What’s more important
now is that we find him and save him.”

    
Shawn gave her a cautious look. “What makes you so sure he needs saving? Maybe
he’s just out of communications range. The galaxy is a pretty big,
unpredictable place, you know?”

    
Melissa scoffed. “Unlikely.”

    
Knowing William as well as he did, a part of Shawn couldn’t help but agree.
“Well, you said yourself. He’d been working on some kind of classified project.
Who knows what could have happened to him. What section of the government was he
working for, exactly? I still have a few friends with ties to Sector Command
and—”

    
Melissa abruptly turned in her seat to face the captain. “I thought I hired you
to help me find my father, not offer up wild theories as to his disappearance.
No matter what he was doing for the government, they’d never have delivered
this letter to me if he was still able to follow orders.” She turned her eyes
back to the stars ahead. “No, Mister Kestrel. Something is afoul here, and I
intend to get to the bottom of it.”

    
Stunned at her abrupt reaction, he looked briefly back to his instruments and
verified that the navigational computer was still functioning normally. “Well,
arguing with one another isn’t going to make our task any easier.” He let the
sentence sink in before he spoke again. “Or, if we’re trying to kill each
other.”

    
She slipped him a sideways leer,
then
rolled her eyes
in resignation when Shawn remained silent.
“Agreed.”

    
“Good,” he smiled. “That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

    
She glared at him, almost saying something she’d possibly regret, but then the
ship’s light drive engines suddenly decelerated and a small, pinkish planet
filled the view port. She watched as Shawn placed a communications headset over
his ears and began speaking.

    
“Port of Welga.
This is Captain Shawn Kestrel
onboard 
Sylvia’s Delight
. Registry number is 459-Zed-Zed-Alpha-9.
Requesting clearance to land.”

    
Melissa spied a set of worn headphones laying on the console to her
right.  She gave them a light dusting before placing them over her ears.
At first she heard only light static, but soon a male voice came over the
airwaves.

    
“Roger, 
Sylvia’s Delight
. This is Welga control. Your
identification code classifies your vessel as a
Hypervarion
Mark-IV transport. Clearance to land approved, Captain.
Taxi
to bay seven upon arrival and await further instructions.”

    
“Roger on bay seven, control,” Shawn said before signing off of the
communications channel.

    
“Is there any significance to bay seven?” Melissa asked.

    
Shawn smiled as he reached for the breaking thruster control. “That’s where all
the illegal stuff happens.”

    
“Fantastic,” she muttered.
“More pirates.”

    
“Relax. It was only a joke. I’ve never actually landed there before.”

    
“Uh-huh,” she replied, but remained unconvinced.

    
Sylvia’s Delight
 made a high, sweeping pass over the busy space
port. The main complex—a large, hollow, semi-circular structure about
three-quarters of a mile wide—was the same beige color as the surrounding
terrain it was built from. In the open center were several large tents of
various colors and patterns, erected to cover the merchants as they plied their
various goods, giving the appearance that a three-ringed circus had come to
town. Around the outer perimeter of the port, Melissa noticed dozens of
civilian and merchant craft—wearing paint schemes in a spectrum of colors and
patterns—docked directly with the structure or neatly parked in rows beside it.
On the far side of the port, protruding into lush vegetation that bordered the
facility, were a series of long buildings running parallel to one another, each
nearly a half a mile long. When Melissa inquired as to their purpose, Shawn
informed her that they contained warehouses, cafes, and various other ship
supporting facilities, and that one of the more remote ones was their intended
destination.

    
The buildings closest to the space port looked to be in good repair, with
people bustling about as they bought and plied their various commodities.
However, as 
Sylvia’s Delight
 crossed over the warehouses
furthest away from the station, Melissa could see that their corrugated steel
construction materials had seen better days. At the furthest point from the
main complex, there were large spots of rust on most of the doors, and some of
the walls had begun to peal themselves away from their support framework. The
captain currently had the Mark-IV hovering between two such dilapidated rows,
sending up a small cloud of dust that pelted the seemingly forgotten buildings.

    
“That’s the place down there,” the captain said, pointing across Melissa and
down to the warehouses below. Thankfully they still had an hour or two before
night fell. The periphery loading docks at Welga were no place to find
yourself
after sundown, and not much better during the
daylight, he’d told her. She could see that, every fifty feet or so, large
numbers were painted on the various heavy doors leading into the structure.
After bay number six, the painted number seven seemed to be curiously missing.
There were several abandoned vehicles lying around—one of them upside down in a
large crater—along with a handful of damaged crates and a small, overturned
crane. A landing pad near what was probably bay seven, its perimeter red lights
slowly pulsing, looked to have been recently cleared.

    
“It looks a bit rough down there,” she said as she turned her head towards the
captain. “Think you can handle yourself?” She followed her statement with a
single raised eyebrow and a smirk.

    
The captain didn’t take his eyes from the controls. He merely nodded his head
in agreement and patted the area beneath his coat where his pistol was
holstered.

*          
*           *

    
After Shawn had taxied the ship to the landing pad and shut down the engines,
he noticed that no one was outside the ship waiting for him. At least, no one
he could see. He asked Melissa to stay aboard until he had fully ascertained
the situation. Shawn pulled a small pistol out from under his seat, handed
it to Melissa, and instructed her how to seal the door behind him once he’d
left the ship. Hoping that she’d heed his instructions this time, they stepped
out of the control deck and into the passenger lounge. He opened the portside
hatch to exit the ship, but then turned to give Melissa some last minute
instructions.

    
“If anyone starts shooting,” he began in all seriousness, “I don’t want you to
hesitate for a second. I want you to—”

    
“You’re bravado is unnecessary, Captain,” she replied halfheartedly. “I’m not
going to leave this planet without you.”

    
He gave her a puzzled look. “Who said anything about you leaving?”

    
She looked back at him in confusion. “Weren’t you about to tell me to get to
the controls and take off for my own safety?”

    
“Are you joking? I want you to get your ass out here and start shooting back.”

    
A gentle breeze brought the tangy smell of abandonment into his nostrils as his
feet touched down on the hard, cracked surface. In the distance he could hear
the sounds of metal panels creaking and moaning in agony, as if the structures
around him would collapse if the wind gusted any harder. There were very few
windows visible on the structures, and what little glass remained looked as if
it’d been painted over long ago. In several sections, the large corrugated
metal skin had fallen away, giving the captain inviting glances at the rusted,
lattice-like skeletal remains of the derelict warehouses.

    
Shawn hated these kinds of transactions. With the proper planning, he could
have easily dropped off his cargo inside the secure confines of the main
trading post. At this distance, Shawn doubted that anyone in the main port
would be able to discern a small explosion, let alone weapons fire in the
vicinity of warehouse number seven. There were too many places here to be
ambushed from, and it was all Shawn could do not to turn his head at each
offending sound that wafted into his ears. The only other person who knew he
was there was the landing control officer who’d informed him where to touch
down, and it was anyone’s guess where his allegiance lay.

    
A door creaked opened near where the large number seven should have been
painted, and out strode two iridescent scaled
Denarian’s
.
That is, Shawn knew their true coverings to be iridescent. The creatures were
almost entirely cloaked in dark, projectile proof leathery suits and matching
helmets. One of the creatures was noticeably taller than the other by a good
two feet. It was the taller one that removed its open-faced helmet first, and
Shawn immediately saw a large pink scar etched across its angular left cheek.
As
Denarian’s
went, these two were not the best
looking representatives of the species, not that such a creature actually
existed who could lay claim to that distinction. Their faces looked like a
ghastly joining between a human and a turtle. Their shimmering green and black
scales were pitted and, in some cases, peeling away entirely. Yellow eyes
beamed from sockets set deep under their angular brows, with jaws strong enough
to bite through thick tree branches. The taller being had a laser rifle slung
against his shoulder, while the shorter of the two had its three clawed hands
in its trouser pockets—but was no doubt armed as well.