The Green Knight (Space Lore Book 1) (2 page)

Without speaking, he stood over the display panel where the ensign had been tapping in battery sequences.

“Sir?” one of the senior officers said.

Without speaking, Hotspur looked up and stared at the officer. When he did, his helmet moved slightly from the muscles in his tightened jaw that pressed against it.

“There may still be survivors in the front half of the ship,” the officer said, pulling down on his vest to make sure it was straight and crisp because that was better than looking Hotspur in the eyes.

“Yes,” Hotspur said, “there might be.” He then resumed tapping on the display panel in front of him.

“Survivors must be brought aboard.”

Hotspur didn’t scream or yell in a fit of rage. Instead, and to the fright of the other men and women around their captain, he burst out laughing. “Must they?”

“Yes, sir. And, as you know, we are now in Vonnegan-controlled space.”

Hotspur’s hands remained at the control panel, but all of his fingers curled into a pair of fists. “Yes.”

“This is a violation of intergalactic law,” the officer said. The more he spoke, the more confidence he got that what he was saying was the right opinion to voice, even to someone in full battle armor when everyone else was wearing uniforms.

“Would you rather violate intergalactic law or your king’s orders?” asked Hotspur.

“Sir?”

“I have it directly from the king. We are to destroy the vessel. There will be no prisoners. It doesn’t matter where it happens.”

“But sir!”

Hotspur tapped two more buttons on the display panel. Five of the heavy cannons came back to life, tearing apart every chunk of the already lifeless Compact in front of them.

Even as the cannons fired, Hotspur left the controls, making his way toward the officer who had spoken out against what was happening. At first the officer stood his ground and looked Hotspur squarely in the eyes, sure that he had said and done the right thing. No one in their right mind would destroy a ship in Vonnegan space. But as Hotspur got closer, the metal clack of his boots ringing louder with each step, the officer saw his captain’s shoulders flex, his fingers become rigid, and knew what was coming. He started backward, as far away from Hotspur as he could get.

“This,” Hotspur said to the entire deck, “is what life is about. If you aren’t here for war and conquest and all of life’s other wondrous happenings, why are you here at all?”

Everyone else nearby moved away from the retreating officer, each pretending an urgent duty had come up on another part of the deck. As Hotspur came upon the man, the carrier’s cannons automatically ended the firing sequence he had programmed and the officer and Hotspur both watched as bodies and parts of the ship glided and drifted through space without any more life or purpose.

“Ensign Tolliver,” Hotspur called out.

“Yes, Captain,” a man on the other side of the deck said.

“Release our dragon.”

“But, sir,” the officer in front of Hotspur said, “we’re in Vonnegan space.”

“King’s orders,” Hotspur said, before his gloved hand reached out for the officer’s neck and the familiar crack sounded once more.

3

The Solar Carrier angled back toward the portal like the lumbering giant it was. But before it returned through the energy field, a tiny flash sparked from the side of the ship and began making its way toward the wreckage of the Compact.

It was not another laser blast. Nor was it any variety of missile. The small metal rocket was no larger than a man’s hand. One second before it would have hit the ship’s remains, it burst into a ball of light. The original metal projectile was gone. In its place was a wall of luminous colors in front of the wreckage in the design of a dragon’s head with five tails. The same emblem that was on Hotspur’s shoulders. The symbol of the CasterLan Kingdom. The light display was space’s version of a flag waving in the breeze, and it would remain there to let every passing ship know exactly who had destroyed the Compact.

Then the Carrier passed back through the portal, leaving the banner and the drifting wreckage for whomever would find it.

4

Every possible type of alien drank at Eastcheap. Aliens ranging from those with no legs to those with over one hundred tiny appendages congregated in a den of thieves and drunks. Skin color varied from white to blue to orange to silver. Skin texture ranged from smooth to hairy to scaly to horned.

Many of these went unseen, however, due to how little light was available in the establishment. While the doorway and bar were lit, much of the rest of the room remained cast in shadows. The patrons liked it that way because most of them wanted as little attention on them as possible.

The establishment was filed with smoke and clanks of glass. It was just as likely to hear someone laugh as it was to hear a death threat. Some tables had four or five stools around them. Others didn’t have any because the seats had been broken during the previous brawl, of which there were many.

To combat the noise of persistent threats and violence, the bartender hired a Quaddrolop to provide music. Three of the Quaddrolop’s four arms played different instruments simultaneously. The fourth arm held a glass of ale. The longer the Quaddrolop played, the more he drank. Sometimes this resulted in a drunken Quaddrolop becoming depressed and playing gloomy music. Other times, he became effusive and played upbeat songs.

On nights the Feedorian bartender was in a good mood, he thought of one random characteristic and awarded a free drink to whichever patron qualified. This also served to keep everyone contented and to delay the next round of fighting. One night it was the customer with the most eyes. A Cryptic, all two hundred of its miniature eyes gleaming with pride, accepted the free drink. Another night, it was the patron with the most scales. That had been the evening that Traskk, a Basilisk, had won. One night, anyone with red skin. Another night, anyone with horns on their face. On the rare occasion there were no brawls in his bar, the Feedorian awarded free drinks to entire groups of customers. But that prize wasn’t given out very often because there were almost always clashes in Eastcheap. Sometimes, multiple fights simultaneously.

The brawls and violence left the bartender miserable more often than he was happy, because instead of serving drinks to patrons he spent his time yelling for the fights to stop (during the less severe brawls) or hiding behind the bar until the fight was over (for the more common and deadly clashes). To add to this, he had to explain to the local authorities why so many dead aliens were found in the alley outside his bar.

“Install a Treagon barrier,” the authorities said. “That’ll cut down on the violence.”

“I did!” the Feedorian bartender replied, throwing his four hands in the air.

A Treagon barrier was a device that prevented electronics of any kind from being operated. Blasters couldn’t shoot. Bots couldn’t function. Explosives couldn’t be detonated remotely. This had completely stopped the blaster shootouts that had occurred in his early days as a bartender. But now, instead of lasers zipping in every direction, the drunks and thieves just pulled out knives or used their teeth or claws to settle disputes. It also hindered the bartender. Now, he had no bot beside him to help pour drinks or, much more important, to decipher all of the different languages when aliens asked for drinks.

The first time Traskk had gone up and ordered another round of drinks following the Treagon device’s installation, the bartender could only look at him in confusion. Basilisks have short tempers anyway, but especially if they are inebriated. The only reason the bartender was still alive was that Vere happened to be walking by at the same time and translated the order into Basic. Even as he poured the drinks, the bartender could hear Traskk growling, his foot-long tongue slithering in and out between fangs the length of a pitcher of ale. All of this as if the incident had been an intentional slight.

There was no winning for the Feedorian. It was enough to make the bartender, a little alien with gray skin who had lived a century longer than anyone else who had ever been to his bar, wonder why he had ever thought opening such an establishment was a good idea.

Traskk—one of the many aliens he could no longer understand—was still in Eastcheap. He was always there because Vere was always there. Wherever she went, the giant Basilisk was always nearby. Along with Fastolf, Occulus, and A’la Dure. Each day, the four humans and one enormous reptile sat at the same table, in the far corner of Eastcheap. They liked being away from the entrance and from the bar because those were the two most common places for fights to break out.

From their booth, they drank and laughed all day and all night. Seven days a week. No one cared that Fastolf was twice as heavy as anyone else at the table or that Occulus was nearly three times as old as anyone else. No one commented that Vere and A’la Dure, while certainly able to handle themselves in a fight, seemed too young to be spending every day in a place like Eastcheap.

When a fight broke out the five of them bet on who would be victorious. Each time Fastolf or Vere went to the bar, the other person challenged them to pick someone’s pocket. Each time Fastolf returned he kept the treasure or used it to buy more drinks. Each time Vere returned, she just as quickly slipped the newfound money into an unsuspecting patron’s pocket and laughed until the wallet was inevitably found and another fight ensued. If one of the brawls got too close to their table, they all lumbered out from the booth and partook in the fun.

As they watched, a woman in her late twenties, maybe the same age as Vere, came running through the door. She didn’t make it six feet before she bumped into a Gthothch, an ungainly alien with short legs but a long torso and arms. The Gthothch also had no hair, almost no neck, and skin the texture of stone. When she jostled him, the Gthothch jerked forward and splashed his drink all over himself. Growling, the stone alien turned to see who would pay for the rudeness. But in her rush the woman was oblivious to the accident she had caused and was already darting from table to table, looking for a specific customer.

Instead of confronting her, the Gthothch turned around and found a pack of MaqMacs, a tiny alien race known for their mining abilities. Of course, he blamed them for the spilled drink. The Gthothch roared. With one blow of his fist, he smashed the nearest table to bits. Most of the MaqMacs offered little bleats as they scurried away. But the leader, or at least the one wanting to make a name for himself, calmly pulled out his blaster and aimed it at the Gthothch’s granite face. The unfortunate alien couldn’t read Basic and didn’t know a Treagon barrier prevented such weapons from working. Instead of a laser blast hitting the stone giant’s forehead and leaving a smoking hole, the blaster only clicked each time the MaqMac pulled the trigger.

“Poor little guy,” Fastolf said as he and Vere and the others at their table watched.

A’la Dure nodded and rolled her eyes. In addition to not speaking, she rarely showed emotion—other than slight contempt or disdain—one of the reasons she was a perfect fit in the group.

Occulus, the only member of the group with gray hair, sighed and said, “Poor little guy, indeed.”

Fastolf pushed money into the middle of table and pointed at the Gthothch.

“It’s not even your money,” Vere said, knowing it belonged to someone who didn’t even know they were missing it.

“Neither is yours!” was the only retort he could come up with.

No one would take the bet because it was obvious what would happen. Everyone except the MaqMac, who kept clicking the blaster’s trigger over and over, knew how things would turn out. By now, the MaqMac’s confidence was gone and his tiny shoulders were slumped. The blaster began shaking uncontrollably in his hands.

“No fighting!” the bartender yelled, first in Basic, then in every other alien language he knew.

The Gthothch tore the useless blaster from the little miner’s hand, crushing it into scrap metal and tossing it behind him. Then he lurched forward, snatching the MaqMac off the ground with one hand. The MaqMac’s torso was so dainty that the Gthothch’s stone fingers wrapped around it with ease. The outcome was obvious. The only question was in its specificity. Would the Gthothch tear the miner’s head off, rip his body in two, crush his chest cavity and leave him as a puddle of goo, or perhaps throw him all the way to the other side of the bar?

A pair of Watchneens observed the fracas with glowing red eyes. Watchneens were the only known alien race whose blood was energy rather than liquid, and red flashes pulsed under their transparent skin as they approached the Gthothch. During the disruption, the Watchneens’ drinks had been knocked over. Seeing that it was unlikely there would be an apology forthcoming, the Watchneens tackled the Gthothch. As soon as they did, the MaqMac scurried away with a series of bleeps and was gone.

“Well, I didn’t see that happening,” Fastolf said, retrieving his money from the table too quickly for anyone to make a counter wager.

Everyone else near the Gthothch and the pair of Watchneens moved away to give the aliens room to settle their differences.

“No fighting!” the Feedorian cried, but it was useless. He closed his eyes and let the brawl play out.

The fight didn’t last long. The Watchneens were ferocious combatants and their claws would cut most anyone else in the bar to shreds. But on the Gthothch, the claws only flashed sparks against the stone skin. One Watchneen was on the Gthothch’s back, clawing at his face and biting everywhere its mouth could find, but the Gthothch was bothered only by the sparks flashing in his delicate eyes. Despite having to squint and groan, he was able to focus on the other Watchneen, whose hands he took in his own before crushing them. The Watchneen howled in pain, his red blood-energy misting up toward the ceiling before dissipating. The Gthothch let the alien go. Defeated, the first Watchneen was able to get back to his feet, look down at his crushed hands, then dart for the exit, leaving his companion alone.

The other Watchneen, still on the rock alien’s back, gave a cry of indignation at his friend’s betrayal. Then he was ripped away by a mighty stone hand. Instead of fleeing like his friend, this Watchneen became even more furious in his attack, as if everything up to this point had been a warm-up. His legs clawed so fast they were a blur. Sparks flew from the Gthothch’s chest where the claws scratched at an amazing speed. His hands did the same thing. The Gthothch cringed at the bright sparks flying in front of him and his shirt was completely torn to shreds, but otherwise he was uninjured. With a roar of his own, he took this Watchneen’s hands in his palms and crushed them as well. The Watchneen stopped fighting and cried out as his red life force escaped from his pulverized hands. After being released from the giant stone grip, this Watchneen also fled the bar.