Critical Strike (The Critical Series Book 3) (15 page)

Layla screamed as the momentum of the catamaran’s fall toppled her out of the vehicle, sending her crashing off into the distance, disappearing into the thick shadows of a steep valley.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Vingo backed away to the opposite corner of the cell and turned to face the wall. Charlie thought a yellow streak of cowardice ran deep inside him.

Charlie glared at the tredeyan slaver who stood at the open door. He could tell it was a female due to the prominent clavicle muscles absent from Vingo and the others he’d observed at the command center.

The slaver pointed the electro-stick toward him and said something in tredeyan.

“What’s she saying?” Charlie said.

“She said if you look at the croatoan like that again, you’ll be fed to the clusps. They don’t have time for impertinence.”

“Tell her to come in here and say that to me.”

The slaver’s beady flickering eyes focused on him and she jabbed the prod forward, just missing him by an inch. Charlie wasn’t bothered by her threats; he’d had enough of them after the invasion of Earth.

Vingo remained silent. The cell door slammed shut. She shouted something through the bars and moved back to the central table.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Charlie said. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life as a slave?”

“We cherish life. My destiny is the mines or execution on a croatoan homeworld.”

“You make your own destiny. It’s time to grow a pair.”

Vingo turned to face Charlie. His faced seemed to droop behind his tinted visor. “My time is up. I failed to deliver the secure data and can’t fight the slavers.”

“There’s always a way to fight,” Charlie said but wondered about the depth of Vingo’s deceit. “What exactly have you done?”

“I stole some secure data from the command center. If I have technology to trade to an enemy of the croatoans, they will accept my group.”

“You’re trading with the scion?”

“No. There’s a growing force on the edge of the galaxy called the Amalgam. They’re not strong enough to fight at the moment, but if we can provide them with technical designs, they can increase their power.”

“How do you know they won’t be just like the croatoans?”

“Their whole ethos is based around liberty. It’s too late for us, though. When they wheeled me past the group in the middle of the cavern, I heard them talking about an evacuation.”

“Evacuating where?”

“Senpra. The mining planet,” Vingo said. “The only tredeyans who think we can win this war are in the main command center. If we don’t fight, we answer to the croatoan high council.”

Most tredeyans seemed resigned to losing their homeworld. If they surrendered to the scion and gave them what they wanted, a croatoan destroyer would probably come and obliterate the planet. They chose to avoid that and fight, which pretty much guaranteed the same thing based on the evidence outside.

Denver, Layla and Charlie had made themselves bigger targets by accepting Vingo’s assistance. Charlie couldn’t get upset about the fact. If it wasn’t for the tredeyan, they would probably be lying dead in a cavern or being digested in a clusp’s gut. The dishonesty grated on him, but that was a minor irrelevance considering their plight.

The big ugly croatoan in a faded gray soldier’s uniform, with the distinctive armor plating attached, bounded over to the next cell. It grabbed the small cream-colored alien by its head and dragged it back to the middle of the cavern.

It threw the alien against the ground and the two tredeyan slavers, in filthy blue robes, aimed their graphite rifles at its face. The female, who seemed to be in charge of the operation, zapped it on the head with her prod. The small alien squealed and wrapped its arms around its face. The group rasped and clicked and appeared to be enjoying it.

“Bastards,” Charlie said. “What are they doing?”

“They’re testing him to see if he’s capable of working in the mines. If he doesn’t meet the requirements, he’ll be pulped into clusp food.”

Charlie took a deep breath and continued to observe. If he had no chance of escape, passing the test would at least buy him some time. The longer he stayed alive, the more chance Denver and Layla would find the location. He trusted his son’s skills as a tracker, even on an alien world.

The female slaver ran a device up and down the cowering prisoner and glared at the screen. The croatoan dropped a large piece of metal in front of him and the group stood back.

Wrapping his spindly arms around the metal, the little alien attempted to lift it, without success. He hopped around, trying from different angles, grunting and squealing, but it didn’t move an inch.

Aliens in the other cells moved to the bars and watched. A few tredeyans, stripped naked, stared over to Charlie’s cell. Vingo ignored them, most likely feeling ashamed. The croatoan drew its thigh sword, raised it high in the air, and swept it down, hacking into the small alien’s shoulder. He dropped to the ground and received three more scything blows to the face and chest.

One of the tredeyan slavers grabbed the dead alien’s limp arm and dragged him over to the closest clusp. It wrapped a tentacle around the alien’s legs, raised it in the air, and sank its saliva-drenched teeth into the exposed chest wound.

For supposedly advanced races, they acted like savages. Charlie considered if the scion knew about this too, and were only doing what humans might, if they had the resources. The juxtaposition of the pulse cannons and slaver cavern seemed odd.

The female tredeyan approached their cell and shouted through the bars.

“It’s my turn,” Vingo said. “Good luck, Charlie.”

“Wait. Take this thing off my suit.”

“I don’t have the correct tool. Pass the test and I might see you later.”

Vingo walked to the cell door. The female opened it up, led him out with the prod, and slammed it behind her. She rested her black soulless eyes on Charlie for a few seconds before shoving Vingo toward the central table.

She provided proof that some tredyans didn’t lack gumption. Vingo proved to be a coward, but this cold-hearted hag thought nothing of butchery and slavery.

The two tredeyan slavers, who Charlie worked out were the henchmen of the female, surrounded Vingo, grabbed his right arm, and fingered his pad.

His armored suit opened with an electronic whine and he stepped out of it, revealing his semitranslucent body. He wore only a pair of the three-quarter-length trousers, like the command center workers they saw after they first entered the main caverns.

They scanned him with the same device. The croatoan slid the rock toward him with its boot. Tredeyans in cells rattled their bars. Rasps and gurgles echoed around the cavern. Charlie guessed they were shouting encouragement.

Vingo leaned down, gripped the metal and his eyes squeezed shut. He shakily raised it to his chest and staggered back a couple of paces. The group stood silently around him in a semicircle.

His legs quivered as he tried to reposition his grip. The metal crashed to the floor with a thump and Vingo lowered his head.

Silence replaced the cacophony of alien shouts.

The croatoan raised its glinting bloodstained sword.

The female slaver let out a long hissing rasp and stood in front of it. She turned and said something to her henchmen. They grabbed Vingo by both arms and led him to a larger cell near the door. His ankles were placed in shackles, connecting him to three other tredeyans.

It seemed he scraped through the test, although Charlie couldn’t decide if that was a good thing. Death was preferable to life under an alien whip.

The two henchmen turned and headed for the cells. The aliens inside them backed away from the bars, but Charlie could see they were heading directly for him.

If they wanted him to carry out the same test, it would mean taking the device off his arm and allowing bodily freedom. The slavers would find out that humans weren’t shrinking violets like Vingo.

One of the henchmen reached around the back of his suit. He heard a click and something being loosened. It went for his pad and pressed around the magnetic device with its bony maggot-like finger.

Charlie’s pulse quickened and he tensed. The tredeyan had a dagger on his belt and his rifle hung loosely around his back. The other stood at the open entrance of the cell and aimed at him.

The suit split open with a high grind, and both henchmen retreated a few meters outside and trained their rifles on him.

The prisoners and the slavers focused on Charlie’s cell. They treated him with more caution, which was disappointing.

The only way he could move any distance away from his suit, and survive, was if they unfastened his air filtration system. That’s what the tredeyan must have been doing behind his back.

Edging to the side, Charlie felt the weight of the pack gently pulling down against the back of his helmet. At least it was still attached and weighed a lot less than he thought.

Charlie grimaced and moved further to his right, acclimatizing back to natural movement. His left knee buckled and the realization dawned on him that he’d been hours without root and would be weak without the aid of the electronic armor, especially given the stronger gravity of the planet.

One of the henchmen jabbed its rifle toward the central table with a grunt.

Charlie composed himself, not wanting to show signs of weakness, and advanced. Stabbing cramps shot through his calves. He pumped his fingers and flexed his muscles, attempting to quickly reorientate his body.

The henchmen stood three meters to either side and shadowed him to the table.

All four aliens standing around it stopped what they were doing. The holographic map flicked off and they turned to face him. The croatoan drew its sword and the female tredeyan opened her mouth, flashing a set of teeth that looked like a witch doctor’s necklace.

“It’s the first time one of you have come here without our assistance,” she said.

“Pleasure to be here,” Charlie said. “You know how to roll out the red carpet.”

“Do you think you’re the only race that understands sarcasm? You show surprising arrogance, human, considering the state of your own planet.”

“I could say the same for this place, or didn’t you notice the scion taking over out there?”

She gestured the croatoan to lower its sword and turned back to Charlie. “You have made up my mind. I will not be baited into killing you. Death is too good for your kind. Slavery it is. Take comfort in the fact that every time you smash a rock, you can imagine my face.”

“Do you really think I’m going to work as a slave?” Charlie said, spitting at her feet.

“I don’t care what you think. Once I get my price, you will answer to your new owners. If I were you, I’d keep my head down and do as you were told.”

She rasped to the two henchmen. One pushed Charlie in the back, the other covered him. They shoved him toward the cell by the entrance containing Vingo and three other tredeyans.

Charlie doubted he would’ve passed the test, glancing at the lump of metal as he passed it. Vingo glanced over and blinked as he watched him approach. He couldn’t be relied upon for an escape attempt, but they still had to get to the shuttle. That would be his last chance.

Without any spare shackles left on the chain, the henchman wrapped a cable around Charlie’s neck, tightening it until he coughed. The other end was fastened around Vingo’s waist.

The female tredeyan had a conversation with the croatoan. It picked up a rifle from the table and approached the closest cell containing a small alien, aimed and fired. The alien flew back against the wall and collapsed to the floor.

It moved to the next cell and did the same thing. It seemed for the purposes of brevity, the slavers had streamlined their method. They collected electronic items and weapons off the table while the croatoan finished its work.

Screams and rattles filled the cavern as the aliens in the cells panicked and struggled with the bars. Below their noise, the sound of a shuttle’s engines firing up drifted through the cave.

Vingo looked over his shoulder. “Time for us to leave this world.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Mike woke to the echo of multiple footsteps descending the spiral ramp inside the attack ship toward the workshop. He bolted up from his slumped position over the workbench. Sweat dripped from his forehead, the sleeve of his red and yellow striped sweater made damp at the cuffs where he had laid his head.

He checked his watch—an old Casio digital. “Five AM,” he croaked, clearing the dust of the underground workshop from his throat. Weak lamplight, casting a warm orange glow from the end of the wooden bench, helped him search through the pile of electronic parts until he found his flask of water.

The cool, clean liquid hydrated the parched portion of his throat, bringing quick relief. The water helped to wake him up. He stood, stretched the cricks from his back and yawned deeply.

Other than the glow of the floor lamp there was little other light in the workshop. Mike and Mai had worked through the night on their new weapon: a glorified radio transmitter tuned to the croatoan communication frequencies. With the help from their new friend, they had ascertained that via a strong enough signal embedded with the correct encryption codes, they could send instructions to Augustus’ troops’ breathing apparatus.

Without the equipment to convert the air to a croatoan-friendly compound, they would soon suffocate and die.

Mike’s stomach growled, eager for food. The rumbling noise woke Mai, who like him, had slept the night slumped over the workshop. They had both done that many times over the years, working on weapons and repairing equipment to help Charlie and the others to survive—and fight back.

“Morning, my love,” Mike said, sitting back down on his stool and running his hand through Mai’s short dark hair.

Mai stifled a yawn behind her agile hand and smiled at him, her eyes still half-closed and bleary. “What time is it?” she asked.

“Just gone five.”

“My back’s killing me. I’m getting too old for this.” She let out a light chuckle. It had been a running joke with the both of them for years and was one of the many things that Mike loved about her. Despite whatever situation they were in, she was always able to maintain the humor. ‘We’re dead when we lose all humor,’ she had once said. Mike couldn’t agree any more.