#
Down in the greenhouse basement, Marlon played his fingers over the closest of ten plastic drums. "You have two hundred kilograms of ammonium nitrate?" He didn't believe in any deity, but this was some kind of luck.
Grey shrugged. "The modern fertilizers failed, so we tried going prehistoric." He shrugged again. "But you saw upstairs. Nothing grows on this shit but fire."
Marlon nodded. The greenhouse's beds of pulverised minerals were bare. "Your experimentation won't be wasted," he assured Grey, resisting the urge to rub his gloved hands together. "How big is the 'tribute'?" The navy cargo lifter was already being loaded.
"One hundred pods. I have two empties in my quarters."
They dragged two 20kg drums up the stairs and outside. The light towers were off, the deserted square illuminated only by refracted light from the lifter and the stars. They loaded the drums onto a gurney and pushed it forward. The left front wheel squawked and Marlon's heart nearly leapt from his mouth. He froze, listening over the blood roaring in his ears.
No noise, no one rushing from the shadows to shoot or arrest them. Marlon released his breath. "Let's try that again," he said to a pale-faced Grey, inching the gurney forward. They reached Grey's quarters without interruption, brought the drums inside and loaded the empty crystal pods. They reloaded the gurney and rolled it back to the Lifter.
Two guards with pointed rifles stopped them on the perimeter. "Tribute," stuttered Grey – acting? – then continued. "Last two pods."
The guards glanced at each other. "They've already counted the tribute."
Marlon exaggerated his glance behind the guards and threw up his hands. "It's nearly finished for Diety's sake," he said, his tone pleading. "Let us through or we'll get our butts kicked."
The guards shared another glance and their postures softened. Marlon smiled inside: the universal connection between all grunts – getting kicked down by the man above. The guards parted. "Just hurry it up will ya?"
Marlon and Grey complied, racing the gurney toward the loader mech. "Woah there," Marlon yelled. "Two more to go."
"Loading operation complete," came its stilted words. It turned away and waddled inside.
Shit. The loader would have sent an inspection request after finishing. They were out of time. He stared dumbly at the open cargo hatch for a moment then shrugged. He nudged Grey. "Quickly, let's get this one on board." And hope it's enough.
They lifted it up, staggered inside, past the now inert mech and into the cargo bay.
Magnetically restrained in the corner, beside rows or clamped tribute pods, sat Marlon's little ship. An echo rang through the deck as they dropped their pod. Grey clamped it down while Marlon retrieved a remote from his sleeve. Small, black, two buttons. He pressed the first button and the sections of the cockpit frame snapped open like a spring loaded clam. Dust burst outward.
Grey stepped back, breathing hard and wiping his forehead. "What is it?"
"Stacked Aluminium powder, doused in ethylinediamine. Scanners register it as solid when it's under enough pressure." He watched Grey breathing out hot, moist air and fighting the urge to sneeze. Neither were good for the ali powder.
"Let's go."
They turned – and stopped dead, the navy captain filling the hatch before them. "You two better have a damn good reason for trespassing on navy property."
Marlon calmed his heart and considered which way to play it. The Captain's eyes were stern and weathered. Those eyes had little time for bullshit and Marlon's acting wasn't up to the game, so he played it straight. "Your damn mech wouldn't bring this last pod on." He kicked it for good measure, positive it wouldn't explode. Yet.
Grey stepped forward. "I'm not paid enough to break my back like that. We gather the tribute and the navy loads it, that’s the agreement."
The Captain's gaze wandered from Marlon to Grey, unhurried, an eyebrow raised like a school principal eyeing children in detention. Then his gaze snapped past them.
Marlon swallowed, his tongue two sizes too big for his mouth.
"What the damnation is that?" The Captain snapped.
Marlon glanced at the Captain's side-arm, adrenaline fizzing through his body, then forcing himself to breath, turned back to his ship.
He could taste the metallic bite of the mostly settled dust and the cockpit frame looked completely different. Which had the Captain-
"My fault sir," Grey said. "Knocked the wreckage with the pod. Crystalline dust from sitting outside. Happens this time of the season. The filters will get it."
The Captain stared at both of them for a second, his eyes dark, large, like microscope lenses and Marlon couldn't tell sure if he was peering through their souls at their deception – and Grey's clear bull shit - or merely deciding which of them to crush under his boot first.
Marlon's gaze returned to the Captain's sidearm. No, better to break the forearm, bend him down and knock him out. His legs and fingers tensed in anticipation.
"Get off the ship," The Captain said, his tone rushed as if he'd already forgotten them.
#
Marlon and Grey watched from the butte as the Captain's shuttle lifted off.
"I'm going to be in the stinky river for missing the fanfare down there," Grey said absently.
"You've got the best seat in the house," Marlon assured him as the lifter rose above the crystal obelisks, its thrusters roaring in the still night. He started counting as the two ships shrunk to pinpricks, closing on the orbiting battleship.
Acceleration, deceleration, orbital radius, landing procedures, together they equated to a time that Marlon hoped was close to the one in his head.
The cargo lifter would queue while the shuttle docked. It would require a docking clamp. He added a safety margin of thirty seconds.
He fingered the remote then pointed it up at the battleship.
He pressed the second button.
#
Tom Gregory stepped onto his bridge, opened his mouth to say, "Let's get the heck out of Helios", when the Concordia lurched beneath his feet. The lights died and the deck bucked again. He stumbled forward, catching his command chair before his boots engaged. A dozen alarms blared; twice as many voices yelled over each other. Emergency lights flicked on. Red symbols flashed across the viewport faster than Tom could register them. He raced to the edge of the Pit. "Status?" he boomed. Fire, hull breaches, sections isolated, crew missing, death tolls. The reports came to fast to assimilate.
His XO scrambled up next to him. "Did something hit us?"
"Sir, Incoming!" yelled an officer. Tom whirled back to the viewport. Green targeting brackets enclosed three dozen distant specks.
"Get us moving!" roared Tom. "Power up the guns."
"Main power down," yelled an officer. "Weapon systems offline."
"Get them online imbecile!" He whirled around. "Tactical? Get me a picture on these clowns."
His XO turned to Tom from another officer. "We've lost half the engineering section. We think the explosion came from inside."
Tom turned from his XO to the viewport, eyes widening like the growing specs before him, a black hole forming in his stomach.
Shallow Space
Shallow Space is a 3D Real time strategy game currently under development by Crackdown Games.
Command elements of the Terran Confederate Navy’s Gamma fleet as you dominate sectors of space tending to both random encounters and storyline missions. Mine resources to advance your capital ships, engage your capital ships in combat to improve your officer’s skills and produce smaller ships to compliment your fleet.
You can follow our development progress at www.shallow-space.com and our many development videos on our Youtube channel.
About The Author:
John Harper’s writing c
areer began in his first year of school when he stood before the school assembly and read out his ‘novelisation’ of the movie Short Circuit.
Fast forward a few years and John is now a science fiction writer living in Wellington, New Zealand. His debut novel, Elite: And Here The Wheel, was published in May 2014 by Fantastic Books Publishing.
John likes spending time with his wife and two children, and he follows the cricket and V8 Supercars religiously. John is a passionate writer at night and occupies his days working as a chartered mechanical engineer.
Web: www.andherethewheel.co.nz
Twitter: @andherethewheel
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