He sweeps around the front of the craft. The shuttle’s landing, even on the rocky outcropping, was smoother than the mother ship. Tangled landing gear in the stone kept it from sliding further forward.
Joe and Hauser maneuver around the engine housing to the rear hatch. Reynard matches their pace and slides around the front at the same time. The right side wing and chunks of the side are burnt away.
JC brings the palm of her right hand up slowly in the air as if she were stroking the destroyed wing. Azure sparks tingle her fingers.
“Powerful mental energy courses through this damage.”
“No mental blast could do this,” Hauser says. “Not even the whole of all your sisters at the temple could summon the manifestation to blast away a metal hull.”
JC closes her eyes as she continues absorbing invisible energy. “It’s powerful. The mind doing this wouldn’t even measure on our telepathic scale.”
“Australia, you familiar with anything like this?”
“JC would be the telepathic expert. There are strict laws governing them. I have never heard of any species with such strong mental power. Her order would certainly know about them.”
“It could be a planetary anomaly, but no humanoid could be this powerful. Not without the sisters knowing.”
“He drug Michelle this way,” Joe inspects bent green-brown foliage.
“Scout ahead. Damage on the inside?”
Near the entrance the living skin shifts from around a palm pad. Reynard places his hand, and the hatch slides open. Pistol drawn, he inches inside the poorly lit chamber. Hauser keeps his weapon ready while Reynard holsters his and jerks a rifle from the rack.
He finds the serial code on the underside of the weapon. “We sold these weapons or gave them to rebels. Ki-Ton switched them with fakes.”
“IMC arms are the highest of quality.”
“Not the ones we gave the Braeco’ns.” Reynard grinds his grip on the rifle handle.
“Avenge them,” Hauser slips past him to the control panels.
“Not before I find out why.”
“Got to get your ship spacebound. These controls appear undamaged.”
Commander.
JC’s thoughts drift into Reynard’s mind. As if she slips a view finder mask over his eyes, a picturesque version of what she witnessed clouds his own vision.
“Stay in here, Hauser. No matter what. Get back to Scott. He’ll use this shuttle to repair the Dragon.”
“I don’t understand, Commander.”
“You have to trust me.”
••••••
FROM THE GREEN-BROWN grass, riders mounted on tiger creatures stride forward to encircle the shuttle. The beasts dwarf a Terran elephant. Astride them are nine-foot-tall riders.
The glint of a John Wayne movie moment encompasses Reynard, but these humanoids won’t give him a chance to circle any wagons. They sport curved blades effective at knocking down the grass, and they wear chaps from animal skins. No shirts—only painted skin of tribal markings decorate their chests, and their long hair has uneven chunks cut out of it.
He doesn’t need Australia to explain they’re an aboriginal culture, except these giants sport modified Halcary pain sticks.
Even Joe’s seven-foot frame is dwarfed by the tiger riders. The master Calthos warrior launches through the air, landing on the saddle molded over the greenish-brown tiger. The rider breathes his last breath before he can raise the pain stick.
Leahla reacts with speed to match Joe’s. Her blaster scorches the middle abdomen of a warrior.
Reynard’s pointer and middle fingers slide down, reaching his holster. Before completing the grip on the handle, he remembers when he first felt the sting of the electrical discharge on Earth after the Iphigenians invaded. Halcary warriors were a part of the empire then. They still use the pain sticks a thousand years later. These batons modified for the tiger riders would be a partisan in Osirian hands. The whap of the weapon across Reynard’s temple—nothing.
“SMERTH.” SHE JERKS her hand back, but not fast enough to avoid being bitten by an electrical spark.
Mark jumps back from the bridge console he was disassembling. “These panels still have power?”
“Control yourself. Some remaining energy has yet to bleed out of the circuit.” The poor light prevents Amye from determining how bad the burn is. “We clear consoles of all damaged mechanisms. We replaced components from the second deck, which should give Athena enough to incite self-repair.”
“One professor at the academy talked of developing self-repair systems with nanotech, but I’ve never heard of it being applied.”
“Microtech of this standard is beyond anything in the known galaxy. This is limited but highly specialized repair drones.” I think. “The designers wanted basic repairs to be controlled by the computer, but not major system overhauls. They didn’t want the A.I. deciding one morning not to need the crew.”
“Then it’s impossible to fully restore this ship,” Mark speculates.
“William won’t accept such talk about his home.”
Mark takes out a blackened computer panel. “Explain to me how such a young Osirian achieved the rank of commander.”
“What do you mean, Mark?” Kymberlynn pulls on Amye’s thoughts. Or maybe just the suspicious part. Maybe the cadets want to figure how to schmooze up to command, but both seem to ask a lot of questions about the crew.
“Reynard. He has the UCP rank of commander.”
“I thought it was just his title since he’s captain of the Silver Dragon and leader of our mercenary group,” Amye feigns.
“Makes sense, I guess. Admiral Maxtin would have to jump promote him because no way he earned the rank through the academy or the years of experience advancing in the fleet. He’s not much older than me, and he lacks distinct knowledge about simple flying.”
“He’s a crack pilot of the Dragon.”
“Jockeying a Mecat requires different dexterities.”
“Never an easy craft. You have to drive, walk, aim, fire, avoid, and breathe
