Sunlord (25 page)

He did best to straighten his ragged craft but to no
avail. The four Sova-1's zoomed in, flashing like silver fish. In
their wake they left a burning fireball that was Shaun's craft.

Flame started to grow, fed by fuel and wind, until
thick smoke filled the cabin. With a white flecked splash and hiss
of extinguished flame he disappeared beneath the waves, a rain of
drops continuing to hail down and massive ripples spreading over
the swelling seas.

Beneath the water Shaun scrambled for dear life,
knowing that the pressure seals would soon give way. Already the
craft was sinking rapidly, the damaged hull buckled menacingly. He
sloshed through a knee-deep layer of salt water, making for the
hatchway, fighting the chaos around him.

He took a deep breath, shakily held it, then hit the
release button.

His frail form was beaten against the opposite wall
as water rushed in to fill the air space. The last of its buoyancy
gone, the craft sunk as if a giant hand was pulling it down.
Shaun's breath was driven from his lungs, his vision lost in the
foam and darkness of the sea. He struggled desperately, fighting
his way towards the hatchway.

He almost lost consciousness several times, his lungs
devoid of air and craving for breath. Already his brain ached with
oxygen starvation.

Then he was out, free of the sinking space craft. He
saw it disappear out of the corner of his eye, a dark shadow
shrinking into insignificance.

Shaun felt himself rising, but too slowly. His limbs
worked to push him upwards, towards the light and the surface.

A sudden dread feeling chained his heart: which way
was up? It was so dark, and so cold, it may as well have been the
very depths of space.

He just had to hold on...

The Sova-1 pilot pulled back on the slim joystick
between its legs, g-forces forcing it back into the acceleration
couch as it swung in a lazy circle.

"Amrak three," he reported, speaking into the
microphone built into the air mask strapped to its broad Hartrias
face. "No sign of target, been gone for two minutes now."

A voice spoke in his ears, crackling with static.
"Hold positions..."

"Wait!" burst the pilot, his eyes catching on a
movement in the waves below. "Signs of life, low, five
o'clock."

The four Sova-1's swooped down like circling vultures
over a bloated beast, investigating for any signs of movement.

"Roger that. Avatar reports a rescue team is on its
way. Remember, Avatar wants that thort alive for
interrogation."

The pilot acknowledged, pulling up from a low sweep
that brought the flailing humanoid figure swimming amongst the
waves into view, looking like a drowned and exhausted rat.

Shaun gasped for breath, cursing as a wave of hot
exhaust hit him. Looking up, he saw a flicker of light as the
Sova-1 cracked past.

He trod water tiredly to keep his mouth above the
waves, all forms of resistance worn out. He was going to be
captured again. He felt betrayed as all he had worked for was taken
from him, to be yanked back to where he had started from. He had
come so far, had come so close to freedom that he could taste it.
Yet in that final moment the jumpship drive had failed on him,
sentencing him to certain death.

He knew that this time he may never escape.

The droning of the rescue craft snapped his mind
back, sluggish blood now rushing to his head. He saw it fall like
speck from the sky, growing closer with every second. Shaun's iron
resolve hardened. He couldn't just give up.

He looked around as if seeing his surroundings from
afresh, the new sense of purpose like a slap across the face. Could
he hide? But where?

Shaun knew he would have to allow himself to be
captured, and wait until his enemy showed a weak spot. Here there
was nowhere to run or stand and fight, but maybe later an
opportunity would show itself. Until then he would have to make the
best use of what little time he had left. Weapons?

Then his fingers found the Flailer, the electric
pistol tucked into the belt of his waterlogged helicasuit. He
pulled it free and turned it over in his hands, keeping it under
the water and out of the sight of the Sova-1 pilots. His fingers
worked at the casings, working by touch alone to peel the metal
shell away.

His fingers traced over a metallic canister he had
exposed, tracing the wires that joined it to the trigger and main
housing. He pressed his fingernails against the wires, ignoring the
pain as he focused on the job ahead.

Then it was done, and he let the rest of the Flailer
fall the ocean floor, retaining only the canister. He shoved it
into his boot, making sure it was secure and would be out of
sight.

The rescue craft dropped from the sky and landed upon
the waves with a whoosh of air and spray of foam as the large
rubber skirt expand, allowing the craft to skid over the water like
a hovercraft as its massive engines whined to a stop.

They must want me alive, thought Shaun. No doubt the
genetics lab saw something worthwhile in his genes, something they
may be able to extract and purify and add to the melting pot of the
Hartrias gene pool. After hundreds of years of developing such
techniques the Hartrias was fast becoming the most perfected race
in the galaxy. Perhaps after seeing him in action, Avatar had seen
some merit in recapturing her prisoner.

Shaun snarled mirthlessly, thinking he would give the
bitch no such satisfaction. He had to wait until Avatar was off
guard, thinking she had won. It was a gamble, but he had no choice.
Besides, any situation aboard the Urisa could not be worse than the
one he faced here.

His mind raced as the rescue craft circled closer,
its rubber skirt rippling as it careened over the ocean swells.
Already Shaun could see individual crew members standing upon the
deck, binoculars raised to their eyes.

Then the thought struck him, and he knew had no
alternative. Breathing the air from his lungs he forced his mind to
become calm and relaxed. Once aboard the Urisa, the craft that had
been his prison for two years, he would escape, and this time he
would do the job properly. He caught a brief glimpse of a Sova-1
streaking overhead and hate rose like bile in his mouth. This time
he would really do some damage.

With this final bitter thought he ducked his head
under the waves and forced himself to take a lungful of water. He
gagged and flailed as salty water filled his chest like thick
putty, retching instinctively as he began to sink. His last thought
as he sank into unconsciousness was that he hoped his natives
friends were still alive, for he would need their help.

The steel mesh caught him before he had fallen far,
and he was dragged unceremoniously to the surface, his limp
humanoid form clothed in a ripped Hartrias issue helicasuit.

The med-bot examined him quickly. Within moments
Shaun's lungs were pumped free of water and he was connected up to
a breather machine.

"Condition stabilising," reported the med-bot.
"Response to stimulus is low...muscle fatigue, blood loss,
malnutrition...This lifeform is not going anywhere."

The midshipman shook his head. "Keep him under
general anaesthetic. I don't want him to move at all, we've had
trouble with this one before."

"The life form will need treatment," responded the
med-bot. "A little water is still in its lungs."

The midshipman hesitated for a second. "Very well,"
he decided finally, knowing Avatar would not be pleased if her
prize died. Besides, what these med-bots said was true, for they
were never moved by compassion or sympathy.

"Strap him in," finished the midshipman as he turned
upon his heel and strode back to the control room. "And keep a good
eye on him."

* * *

Shaun tried to awaken slowly, letting his pulse rate
increase fraction at a time to avoid alerting the med-scanners. He
had aware of a plastic tube in his nose, pushed back down into his
throat. He had to resist a gag as he became aware of it tickling
his windpipe.

Few people realise how difficult it is to wake up
without making any obvious movements. It took Shaun years of
Federation special forces training to perfect enough control so
that he awoke without opening his eyes or changing his breathing
rhythm. Now he eased himself into consciousness, letting his ears
probe to evaluate his surrounds.

He listened carefully for a full minute to the sounds
of regular beeping and a distant deep rumble that could only be the
Urisa's engines. Then he opened one eye a crack, peeping at his
surrounds.

It had seemed his ploy had worked. The Hartrias
med-bot's had fallen for his faked catatonic state induced by mind
exercises. Using these exercises which he had been taught back at
the Federation, Shaun had managed to slow his heart and practically
put himself into suspended animation. This high state of
consciousness had been long ago perfected by the Psyc division on
Earth, and Shaun had taken great pride in his natural ability of
mind over matter. Combined with the lungful of water, Shaun had put
himself dangerously close to the edge. He could have died.

He shook off the shackles of doubt. He had made it,
and that was all that mattered. Now he had to find a way out of
here.

He moved his arm slowly, shifting it millimetre at a
time. It halted suddenly, arrested by a short length of
strapping.

So they had tied him down.

Shaun closed his eyes and started to think. By the
feel of the cool wind across his belly and legs, he guessed that
the Hartrias had stripped him of his clothes. That also meant that
his electric canister taken from the Flailer, hidden in his boot,
was also gone. So that would mean he would have to find his
clothes.

He had almost forgotten the urgency of his mission -
the fact rammed home as a faint hissing heralded the approach of
someone through the door.

Shaun was panicky for a split second, but managed to
keep a hold of his heartbeat. The pulse reading on the machine
levelled out to a steady bleeping, giving no indication that the
prisoner was awake.

He sat as still as possible as the sound of footsteps
circled about his narrow bed, boot soles clicking against a
polished hard plastic floor.

A cold metallic rod touched him across the belly.

"You can open your eyes," said a voice in his ear. "I
know you're awake."

Shaun was so surprised his eyes practically flew
open. He saw a burly Hartrias officer standing over him, his stave
swotting imperialistically in his open hand, his blood red
helicasuit tight across a broad muscled back.

To say the Hartrias looked like reptiles would be to
say that man looked like a mammal. Considerable evolution separated
the two, the Hartrias looking like a large framed, squat and burly
human, proportions exaggerated as if seen in a carnival mirror. It
was only when the officer turned did the Hartrias show a
difference, the jawbone and cheek bones too pronounced and the
black eyes too beady sharp to be human. It almost seemed as if a
sculptor had chiselled the angular planes etched upon the officer's
features from granite. Atop its slightly bulging head it wore a red
beret and long black hair reached to its incredibly broad
shoulders.

"I've been watching you," it growled.

Shaun made a move as if to grab the Hartrias about
the neck, but his hands were arrested by the straps before they had
gone a quarter of the distance.

The Hartrias officer laughed, its voice harsh in his
ears. Shaun realised in that instant that his captors must have
stripped him of his translator bug that he wore on his throat, and
he was now hearing the Hartrias speak through his own ears, without
the aid of the microphone. Shaun recognised the harsh growls and
abrupt vowel sounds as the native Hartrias language, one of the
many that he had come to master.

"Allow me to introduce myself," continued the
Hartrias. "I am Slkor, overseer of the research facility. Ever
since your capture I've found you a fascinating subject."

Shaun scowled, and tried to retort with an insult,
but found the tube down his windpipe effectively made speech
impossible. He retched but to no avail, his biceps working against
the straps in a futile, frantic effort.

The officer, Slkor, smiled, revealing a neat row of
incisor teeth. He strode up and down the length of the room,
swatting his short cane against his thick muscled leg.

"You almost got away for a minute there. Scheduled
for termination one day, and the next minute you disappear, then
reappearing making a mess of our establishment."

Shaun grunted, clearing a little wind from his lungs.
The more he moved the more the plastic tube irritated the back of
his nose, but he pushed on none-the-less.

"Why...no jumpspace..." he managed to whisper
angrily. He had been mulling the dilemma in the back of his mind,
and the more he thought about it the more it frustrated him, for
surely control of jumpspace was impossible. His curiosity was fed
by anger, for it had been its untimely failure that had lead to his
capture.

"You weren't expecting that one," laughed Slkor,
leaning close over Shaun, his breathing heavy and rancid and alien
smelling. "That is the key to L/Cn-41a, the central planet. The
Critical Point."

Shaun gasped, his anger forgotten instantly. The
Critical Point? For many long years scientists had puzzled over
where it may be, hell, there had been debates whether it even
existed. The Critical Point was the theoretical point where all
jumptunnels intersected, branching out from that one point like a
giant tree's roots, its fingers reaching to the ends of the
universe.

It meant that every ship passing through jumpspace
would have to pass through this point, like a subway train shooting
through a vast complex station.