Christine Rapoza

Published by: http://www.bluefeatherbooks.com/

Synopsis:

Merker's Outpost has a secret that spans galaxies. Below its hostile, barren red surface, a once-thriving research complex now lies seemingly deserted, watched over by an entity called Guardian.

Lieutenant Harriet Montran, a Collective Space Centurion officer, is betrayed by her shipmates and stranded on Merker's. She is rescued by Guardian, who enlists her aid to evict a group of smugglers who have set up base in one of the Outpost's underground cities.

Major Zohra, an undercover operative for the secret watchdogs of the galaxy, Naboth's Vine, is also on Merker's Outpost. She has infiltrated the smugglers with the intent of ending their illegal trafficking in sentient beings.

Chapter 1

    Were they trying to get rid of her by posting her to this sorry
excuse for a space freighter? Maybe permanently? Lieutenant
Commander Harriet Montran turned the idea over in her mind, not
for the first time. Maybe they meant to bore her to death. Her lips
curved into a wry grin as she waited for the Gleanean to take his
turn at the gaming table. At least the contest engaged some of her
senses, and no one else seemed bored. In fact, the Spinner’s Tale
mess hall was packed with tension as thick as the goop from the
freighter’s shunt gate. Bets had been halted and silence settled
uneasily in anticipation of the next move. A dozen figures, of
various species but dressed alike in grubby work fatigues, pressed
around one of the tables. Even the few that were there for other
reasons waited, pausing in mid chew or conversation, watching the
backs of their fellow crewmembers.
    The Gleanean, hulking over the gaming table, finished his
bonus point move. Montran held his gaze with a hard unblinking
look, and once again, he seemed uncertain. With obvious hesitation,
his eyes moved back to the game board. He wrapped his large hand
around the control and moved his wizard’s servant unsteadily into
the castle hall, past a dead troll dog.
    “Bleep, bleep.”
    Crewmembers jumped at the pager’s signal, and Montran’s
hand was a blur as she slapped irritably at the acknowledgement
button on the back of her wrist comm band. Careful not to touch the
board or its controls, she stood and let the parting crowd direct her
to the communicator on the unevenly faded, two-toned painted hull.
Her wrist comm, as with most equipment on the freighter, was old
and not up to spec. Typical of the way Fermin and Sons ran their
woebegone fleet.
    “This better be a ‘Hello, hope you’re enjoying some time off,’”
she grumbled to herself. Every species needed some downtime, and
she was no exception. “Bridge, this is Commander Montran,” she
said in a low tone.
    “Report to cargo bay seventeen, Commander.” The order was
crisp and unnecessarily loud. With difficulty, she held back an
angry retort.
    “I’m off duty for another twenty stan hours, Ensign Desoto.”
She imagined a smirk on Ensign Desoto’s blue face to match
the amusement he was undoubtedly feeling. His fourth antenna was
probably twitching, too. It irked her that his status wasn’t based on
battle or academy training, but either way, she still outranked him.
No matter whose space they were in.
    “Those are your orders, Commander.”
    She hit the wall communicator with more force than necessary.
After taking a few deep breaths to calm herself, she turned and
threaded her way back through the restless crowd.
    “Back on duty.” Again, she made an effort to keep her tone
even and noncommittal. She used to be able to emotionally detach
from annoying things like this, but her time aboard this freighter
was changing her.
    The computer-run Gaming Master announced, “This game is
closed. One player is BOD. Game two thousand four-four is ruled a
draw. This score will be sent to the Gaming Center of the Galactic
Committee of Families and Communities.” An audible click locked
the score into the Gaming Master’s system to preserve it for the GC.
    Sounds of outrage mixed with jubilant voices from some of the
crew rose to a loud din as Montran stepped through the hatch,
grateful she would not have to break up the fistfights that were sure
to ensue. She would have enjoyed punching someone herself.
Someone like Lord Chaney, the committee member responsible for
her “emergency drafting” back into GCFC service and for sticking
her on this disaster-waiting-to-happen tub.
    Quickly, Montran strode away from the noise, hoping to outrun
her temper.
    She’d been caught by the ADSW—Active Duty for Special
Work—clause, a typical political loophole in the Rue Despario
Agreement, which was supposed to be a courtesy concession
between two galactic egos. No one had ever used it before, but she
couldn’t fight it, and she’d spent three miserable months of solitude
on this freighter.
    She had intended to rendezvous with her cousin, Lord Hadrian
DeMonte, on Z3, a small but busy outpost near a jump gate used
primarily for switching shuttles. From there, they were to travel to
their home planet aboard his private liner, the Alborak, a ship that
had enough armor and weaponry to fight off pirates and any other
trouble short of a swarm.
    Why had Hadrie sent for her? It wasn’t for military or political
reasons, otherwise Admiral Hailbrun would have told her
something.
    As head of Collective Space NetSec, Admiral Hailbrun had an
extensive web of informants, and his intel included all the gossip in
both GCFC and Collective space. He had been Montran’s CO for
seven years, and he would never knowingly send her into danger
unprepared.
    What did that leave? A family reunion?
    She had sent Hadrie a brief telepathic image of her emergency
draft orders. His answering thought puzzled her.
    She grasped the red harrier, the pole that would allow her to
drop quickly to the next deck without using the stairs.
    He knew she couldn’t figure out feeling messages. She needed
an image. Why all this secretive stuff, when a simple
communication call would have been fine? Or would it? What could
possibly be so important that he sent a thought? Maybe it was just
habit, from when they were kids, always keeping in touch via
thought. It was so much more personal. When had they stopped
doing that?
    Her boots thudded solidly on the lower deck, jarring her. With
a slight pause and a curse muttered under her breath, she continued
toward the hatch, trusting the sensors to open the hatch covering
before she reached it.
    This assignment was supposed to last less than one stan month.
But by Hydra’s breath, three months had passed and she was still
here, along with the cursed toxic gasses she was supposed to be
watching over.
    She rotated her shoulders and took a deep breath, trying to ease
the ache in her head.
    The comm call couldn’t be about docking preparations. There
were no docking possibilities in this part of space that she knew of.
No exchange of freight at all, unless some passing ship was suicidal
and wanted to link for supply transfers.
    What service compartment needed her to squirm into it and fix
what malfunction her reactivation of the ship’s diags had found? Or
what virus might be running through the systems that their own
officers couldn’t nail and purge?
    The hatch swished open.
    A party of twelve, dressed in their A’mort Environmental Garb,
or AEGs, was assembled around a pile of covered crates. Montran
nearly tripped over someone’s gear, heaped carelessly in the
entranceway. Annoyance flashed through her. She had been drilling
the crew since her arrival on the proper handling and storage of lifesustaining
equipment. But after three months, with her own health
deteriorating from long hours, little exercise, and poor food, she was
no longer interested in saving the crew from themselves.
    Commander Martinez, the only member of the group not
dressed for outside work, looked her way just long enough to
gesture at the heap. “Dress up, Commander.”
    She picked up the upper part of the AEG and read her name
across the back. So, they had gone into her quarters and snagged her
suit. That was too considerate. She hoped the joints and packs
weren’t damaged from lying on the deck. These AEGs were the
oldest version the ship could legally carry.
    Commander Martinez had focused his attention back on the
group moving the unmarked crates onto the transport pad. If they
were at a legal toxic dumpsite, Montran would be hopping with joy
that her pseudo-official duty was completed. She studied
Martinez’s body language in her peripheral vision.   
    Martinez raised his voice, turning her way as though checking
her whereabouts. “Put some more speed into it, Commander.”
    “Aye, Commander.” By now, she was used to suiting up
without assistance. She snapped the fasteners, ran sensitive fingers
over the lips, cinches, and connections to ensure the suit was
secured, and tapped the wrist gauges, more out of habit than for any
remedial reason. Covertly, she studied the crew in the room—
identifying them, ranking and classifying them by their known
specialties—and came up with a group ill-suited for any away
mission she could think of. For that matter, no one on Spinner’s
Tale was qualified for any ship duty, and that had been her
assessment after only a few days on the freighter.
    “When the commander’s ready, move out. I don’t have all day,
so brief her.” Martinez turned on his heel and walked out, going
past her without a glance.
    Montran snapped her utility belt in place and pulled a sidearm
from the secured weapons locker nearby. Her hands were steady and
her movements smooth as she went through the routine, but her
insides churned with foreboding.
    “First group, prepare for descent,” Chief Petty Officer Decker
said into his helmet mouthpiece, bypassing her in the chain of
command for debarkation.
    Ignoring the insubordination, which she had become
accustomed to coming from the crew on the freighter, Montran
continued to look for something out of place that might have given
rise to this uneasy feeling. It was highly unlikely, but for a moment
she hoped it was the cursed toxic canisters they were removing—
and then quickly changed her mind. Her aging AEG might not
withstand exposure to toxic substances should there be a breach, and
it would be safer to shuttle the canisters to the dumpsite rather than
move them via the molecular transporter.
    “Where and what are we transporting, Chief?” Montran asked.
By the tic reaction in the chief’s shoulder, she knew he had heard
her, but he continued to order the next group into position alongside
more unmarked boxes and canisters. The second group was ready
and assembled on the pad, waiting, while she remained to the side.
    “We’re taking supplies to an outpost planet,” Decker finally
replied, speaking in a churlish voice.
    Montran noticed he had not named the outpost or addressed her
directly, but it appeared her presence was required, because they
were waiting for her. Suddenly, it dawned on her where they were
dropping.
    “Merker’s Outpost?” Curiosity replaced irritation. What was
Spinner’s Tale doing taking supplies down to a supposedly deserted
planet? And what kind of supplies?
    The chief’s lips curled up, giving his visored features a
grotesque look. He had a rather unpleasant face to begin with,
Montran thought. His sarcastic voice came over her speaker. “I only
obey orders, Commander.”
    As was her habit with anything this crew did that involved her
safety, Montran checked their work. She moved to the transporter
console to verify the settings and made one minor adjustment,
unnoticed by the crewman who was busy at the monitor. Then she
stepped into the spot that had been left for her.
* * *
    The usual disquieting sensation of being moved in molecular
form from one place to another paused in the midst of the
transportation process. Montran felt momentary fear, but then the
restructuring continued. When the transportation sequence finished,
she stood surrounded by open space, alone and with nothing to grab
onto as a heavy blanket of weight settled over her body. She bent
her knees to keep her balance. She could hear the suit kick in to
compensate for her out-of-kilter bios. Taking a deep breath of air,
she choked as it burned her lungs. If the increased gravity weren’t
so difficult to move in, she would have let herself fall.
    “Don’t panic, Harriet. This is workable,” she whispered to
herself. As a Centurion officer in the Collective, she had
experienced this gravity load before in military training exercises.
However, at that time she had reliable equipment, and support in
case of a problem. She pushed that thought out of her mind and
concentrated on the immediate task—surviving.
    Dragging her left arm up, she looked at the life support status
gauges on the wrist of the suit. Everything read normal.
    “Can I be so lucky?” She stifled a cough. “Hail to Spinner’s
Tale. This is Commander Montran.”
    This time the cough caught her by surprise, and her chest
constricted in a cramp. Now would be a good time to cast away
caution and use the meds. She felt along the suit controls for the
emergency medical packets, but nothing happened when she pressed
the button. Alarmed, she looked in the pockets for a first-aid kit.
    Nothing. She activated her water refresher. Nothing.
    “Commander Montran to Spinner’s Tale, come in,” she said,
her words coming thickly and slowly. Was she out of her mind?
They were the ones responsible for her being in this situation.
Looking closer at the gauges, she noted her communicator had
failed to register her voice. Saved from her own foolishness.
She mentally reviewed the transport coordinates. How could
this have happened? She had reset the coordinates to be behind the
crew, not out of sight of them. Helios fires! She should have
checked the calibration for the planet’s harmonics.
    Montran tried to focus her eyes on the view before her.
The sky was azure, but thin streaks of gray appeared only
inches above the horizon line. She turned slowly, seeing the same
flat land in all directions. Squinting against the reflected light that
managed to get past the visor screen, she strained to see something
more, then studied the red surface, letting her eyes adjust to the
different lighting. What had happened to the crew?
    Was Merker’s Outpost above ground, below ground, or both?
Because of the atmosphere’s density, her best guess was below.
No landmarks or any other distinguishing features caught her
eye, except a dark line that lay along the horizon in one direction.
She would head that way. Slowly, she pushed her legs forward, her
efforts barely lifting them above the dull red ground. She was
already tired from her long shifts on the freighter.
    She wouldn’t think about that. It was self-defeating. She
needed to move her feet forward, and make a plan. What did she
know about being dropped in a hostile environment with a faulty
suit and no supplies, and with air that smelled faintly of
contaminants?
    Step one, look for her shipmates. She laughed to herself at the
dark humor of the thought. She would skip that part. Two, look for
shelter. Completely flat land, no obvious markers for access panels.
Finally, yet most importantly, step three: wait for the Auto-R to
rescue her. So, where was the Auto-R? Did Merker’s have
underground living spaces? It had to, if the crew were taking
supplies planetside. They couldn’t survive in this atmosphere. So…
She gave a small sigh and moved another few feet.
    I’m here alone... no back up... What do I do?
    She would have to think of something to take her mind off how
miserable she felt. But before she could censor her drifting thoughts,
a subject she had been avoiding for over four stan months came to
her attention. Sharon.
    By now, Sharon should know of the change of beneficiary on
the life insurance policy… the one she had insisted Montran take
out.
    Montran heaved a great mental sigh. Thinking about her
personal problems was not going to help her out of her present
misery.
    She realized she had stopped walking. Automatically, she ran a
mental check on her physical condition. Slight tremors ran up and
down her legs. Sweat trickled down her neck, and she imagined her
clothes were soaked. The AEG was laboring, and the visor was
collecting condensation on the inside. Determinedly, she started
forward again.
    Even as her eyes fixed on the distorted view through her visor,
Montran’s world went careening at an odd angle and her faceplate
smacked down into the dust. For what seemed like a long time, she
lay where she fell, letting the tremors in her legs diminish. Then she
started the arduous process of getting up. Rolling onto her hands
and knees took an immeasurable amount of time, effort, and racking
coughs, as if the atmosphere both inside and outside of her suit were
working against her. Stabbing pain radiated from her lungs through
her chest and back. She closed her eyes and braced herself, giving
her heart time to stop pounding so hard, and savored the victory of
getting up as far as her hands and knees.
    She was thirsty.
    The inside of her helmet was weeping with condensation, and
the outside was covered with fine, iridescent dust. She coughed
again and wished she could hold her head as the throbbing pain
increased.
    She sat back on her haunches and lifted a trembling arm to
wipe the exterior of the faceplate. The faceplate acted like a magnet
to the glittering flakes. Now it wore streaks from her dust-covered
glove, making her view worse.
    She avoided the temptation to shake the dust off her gloves,
since she knew she couldn’t raise enough vigor for any real effect.
Besides, the jolt would only make her head ache more.
    She slowly leaned forward again and patted the ground around
her knees. She felt the unmistakable form of a cylinder. A
maintenance pipe, which should lead to an access entrance.
Angling her helmet for a better view, she saw two bright
arrows stamped on the pipe, one larger than the other, pointing in
opposite directions. She went in the direction of the smaller arrow.
Minutes later, crawling on her hands and knees to keep the pipe in
view, she came to the lip of an elevator plate, a standard
maintenance entrance that operated by detecting weight distribution.
Crawling gratefully into the center, she pulled out the control bar
and moved it into the “on” position. Small lights lit up around her,
and with a noticeable jerk, her descent began. She remained on her
hands and knees in the center of the plate, exhausted and laboring
for breath. A noise sounded from the overhead plate encapsulating
the elevator, and the pressure around her body eased. Was the air
breathable now?
    Her fingers shaky, she released the faceplate safety. She didn’t
have much choice. Her suit was out of air. Gulping, she filled her
lungs with the fresh, clean air and then began coughing, expelling
the toxins she had taken in. As the coughing lessened, she leaned
weakly into a sitting position against the wall. She noticed that the
air that cooled her face was scented. Her throat and lungs were sore,
but she was now able to breathe deeper and without as much pain.
She removed her gloves, then wiped away the sweat running down
her face. Tired, she remained against the wall, trying to gather her
strength.
* * *
    Startled green eyes shot open. How long had she been out?
The muted light in the pale blue elevator was easy on her eyes,
but they still watered. A soft tone sounded, and she could hear seals
release. She rose unsteadily, using the wall for support. If she had to
defend herself, she was going to be a real disappointment to anyone
looking for a challenge.
    A movement in the air from behind had her turning unsteadily
to the opened door. Holding onto both sides of the elevator
doorframe, she looked out before committing herself. A softly lit
waiting room with three corridors leading from it—right, left, and
forward—was before her. In the center of the room, couches were
arranged around a sculpture. It appeared to represent a pair of polo
players riding their mounts toward an imaginary goal, one trying to
steal the ball from the other.
    Cautiously, she leaned out to get a better look around the room.
The light in the waiting room brightened as the center corridor lit
up, and the scent in the air became stronger. She released her grip
on the doorframe and stepped completely out of the elevator. The
door swished closed behind her.
    Now that she had a better view of the room, she saw that, like
most waiting rooms, there was a water refresher tucked into a
corner. She wondered if it would work. Her throat was parched. She
tottered over to it, leaned against the wall, and pushed the small
activation button. The green light came on and a stream of water
arched into the bowl. She sniffed it for contaminants, but then her
thirst got the better of her as she sipped, then gulped, her fill. It
tasted a little like lemon water.
    Straightening up, she wiped the back of her hand against her
lips, studying the room once more, looking for other familiar
conveniences. To the left she spotted the EC, the emergency cart,
usually found near elevators.
    She pushed a button, which turned on a small indicator light.
    “EC is charged and ready to go. Press X to release it from its
space,” a genderless voice said.
    She pushed X, the wall panel slid up, and a cart moved out. A
light flashed on its console. Ah, it was voice activated. Montran
sank into the seat gratefully. “Take me to…”
    “Destination is Guest Quarters on Green Deck Alpha O Zeta.
Please place both feet flat on the floorboards in order for the cart to
become active.”
    Montran quickly complied. How did this thing know what
room to take her to? Did that mean all the others had been taken
there? Was this some kind of hotel?
    Pictures, paintings, and sculptures decorated the hallway,
giving her the sense she was in a well-cared-for private art gallery.
She couldn’t see a speck of dust anywhere.
    The cart moved at what she would have called a fast jog, faster
than a cart should move in a crowded corridor, but there was no
crowd, only her. It slowed and then stopped in front of a room. The
door slid open with barely a sound.
    It looked like she had arrived at her stop, and a good thing, too.
She was fading out.
    Everything went black.
    When she opened her eyes, she was lying on a couch. A bot
leaned back, removing an oxygen mask from her face.
    “Guest Lieutenant Commander Montran has recovered
consciousness. Recommendations are for a full night’s rest after a
soak in an herbal bath of remedial salts to rebalance her bios and to
remove the last of the toxins from her system. Have you any
questions, Guest Commander Montran?”
    Montran peered at the bot. “Who are you?”
    “I am the medical assistant assigned to these quarters.”
    “Where am I?”
    “Guest Quarters on Green Deck in Alpha O Zeta.”
    Montran blinked a few times. “I don’t feel so good,” she
whispered.
    “Guest Commander Montran’s bios…”
    She blacked out again.