Crisis at validor, p.1
Crisis at Validor, page 1
Crisis at Validor
Ptorix Empire, Volume 4
Greta van der Rol
Published by Greta van der Rol, 2015.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
CRISIS AT VALIDOR
First edition. January 15, 2015.
Copyright © 2015 Greta van der Rol.
ISBN: 978-1502222022
Written by Greta van der Rol.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
A special anniversary
Escape by sea
Berzhan Island
A place of safety
Maybe this mad scheme was doable
War threatens
Banished
Break-out
Love or duty
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Further Reading: A Matter of Trust
Also By Greta van der Rol
About the Author
A special anniversary
The square outside the temple had been cordoned off. Beyond the line of bollards and the soldiers in their sky blue uniforms the crowd heaved, almost like water contained by a sea wall. Butcher leaned against a blank wall, as far away from the surge of people as he could manage while still being able to see the action. Funny how crowds affected you when you'd been on a long tour. He eased his weight against the bricks. His legs ached, just from the short walk he'd taken from the train station to the square. But then he knew from experience that it would take a day or so to regain his land legs, even on his home planet where gravity wasn't so very far different from standard.
A man with a child perched on his shoulders walked in front of Butcher. The child chuckled, one pudgy hand clutching the man's hair, the other waving a small version of the Royal flag, four orange circles on a sky-blue background. Full-sized flags fluttered on mast heads, and curves of bunting in the same colors decorated the front of the temple's normally somber gray stone walls. Butcher watched the man weaving his way through the gathering, no doubt searching for a better vantage point. At least it was a happy crowd, enjoying the spectacle of floats, marching bands and performers. Smiles and laughter dominated, the buzz of thousands of people competing with the music.
The last float had passed, its musical accompaniment fading in the distance. The formal part of the ceremony should begin any moment now. Normally Butcher would have slipped away. But maybe he'd get a glimpse of Tarlyn in the queen's party. Not that it mattered, of course. He just wanted to see her for old time's sake, see how the years had treated her.
Trumpets blared. The crowd strained toward the cordon. Butcher, standing on tiptoe, craned his head to see. The processional vehicles appeared, accompanied by the roar of the crowd. Queen Carmela was popular enough on this annual holiday, when she and her family came to the temple to celebrate the arrival of mankind on Validor. Today marked five hundred years, a special anniversary.
The vehicles approached, flanked by pairs of soldiers riding in-line skimcycles. The queen rode in the first ground car, sitting down, smiling, returning the waves of the crowd. Her daughter, Crown Princess Emerda, rode in the second car with her husband, Duke Chaldo, who was resplendent in his red and blue uniform with orange sash, and gold collar and rank insignia. Standing, they waved to the crowd, one way, then another. Butcher's planetary notes, courtesy of Fleet Intelligence, rated this man as one to watch. Even though he'd never fired a shot in anger, never commanded anything more than an orbital patrol ship. But he looked nice in his pretty uniform.
Who was that beside the queen, shorter, wearing a conical headdress? Great heavens, a Ptorix. They'd never had a Ptorix in the ceremony when Butcher was young. The two communities always kept to themselves, humans living on Nestor, Ptorix on Dhnizan, the second, larger continent. Sure, there had always been the small colony on Berzhan Island, but that was to do with their religion. Well, if Queen Carmela was trying to promote détente with the Ptorix that was great. Butcher had been in too many battles, seen too many wars. The galaxy had room enough for two sentient species, and more.
Someone shifted in the crowd.
Fifteen years of Fleet service jangled in Butcher's brain, tensed his muscles. The man didn't look any different to the other revelers but he moved with purpose, shoving his way up to the cordon. Butcher shouted. Danger. But his voice was lost in the noise of the crowd. Surely the soldiers would see the intruder, stop him. Butcher couldn't see past the jostling backs and waving flags. Shouts rang out.
A dull explosion echoed off the buildings. The queen's vehicle had stopped, its front badly damaged. Butcher hung back against his wall as shocked people edged away, dragging others with them. Others surged closer, no doubt wanting a better look. The sing song wail of sirens rose, growing louder. Out there on the road retainers had rushed to the queen's aid. Butcher couldn't see the queen's Ptorix companion, but people were bent over the queen and her driver.
Duke Chaldo crouched in his stationary vehicle behind the wreck, surrounded by his armed guard in their sky blue uniforms. Useless prat. He hadn't moved. Probably too scared.
Butcher had had experience in these situations. Maybe he could help. He strode forward. Some of the crowd had left, but the throng near the cordon was packed tight. He tried to ease his way through, but a shove in his back sent him flying. Face down on the pavement, he peered up in time to see the queen's vehicle disintegrate in a blinding flash.
Butcher's heart hammered. This was a war zone, people screaming, the iron stench of blood, the stink of burnt flesh, shouting, feet crunching over debris. He struggled to his feet. Dust covered his clothes and his hair. Drifting smoke created a surreal mist which obscured details and stung the throat. High-pitched voices laced with pain cried for help. Others lay moaning, writhing in pain. Still others didn't move at all. People ran up the side streets, away from the carnage, while official vehicles converged on the scene. The queen and all her guard had to be dead, along with the poor bastards who'd rushed in to help. This was a typical terrorist attack, designed to do the most damage, mainly to the innocent. Was it carried out because of the Ptorix in the queen's vehicle? Butcher wouldn't be surprised. After the last few years, the Ptorix weren't exactly popular in the Confederacy, even after the khophir's apology in the aftermath of the battle at Carnessa, where the Ptorix fleet was routed by Grand Admiral Saahren's Confederacy fleet.
Chaldo had finally appeared on the paving, his amplified voice clearly audible as he shouted orders. Butcher hesitated. If he went to help, he'd have to explain himself to Chaldo, and he really didn't want to do that. He'd met the man once, many years ago. It wasn't a happy memory. Shots rang out in the distance, and a squad of soldiers ran off in that direction, presumably in the hope of catching the perpetrators. That was all very well, but Chaldo wasn't doing even the most obvious things, like sending troops to secure the rest of the vehicles, and escort the occupants to safety.
Butcher heaved a sigh. He'd better see if the man was willing to listen to some advice, although he doubted it. His feet crunching, he started for where Chaldo stood.
A scuffle around the ground car behind Chaldo's caught his attention. A woman leaped out of the vehicle and ran, hampered by her long white dress. One of the escorting skimcycles came alongside her, firing back at the attackers. As soon as the woman had clambered onto the vacant seat behind the driver, the skimcycle roared off, charging directly at where Butcher stood. The red glare of lasers sliced through the air, coming from the side. The machine lurched, swaying and slowing as the driver sagged. Butcher caught a glimpse of wide eyes as the passenger, hampered by the drooping body in front of her, tried to gain control. Tarlyn. Butcher ran, grabbed the driver's body and pulled it to the ground, then vaulted into the vacant seat.
"Hang on." He shoved the accelerator forward, leaning his weight to take the nearest corner before the laser blasts followed. She had the sense to grab hold, clutching him around the waist, and leaning with him. An alarm blinked. Butcher risked a glimpse at the skimcycle's control panel. Two skimcycles were in pursuit. Still accelerating, he shot around another corner, narrowly avoiding a parked vehicle. Damn. They were still on his track. He waited until the very last moment before he slung the machine sideways and up, hurtling over the heads of pedestrians. His passenger snugged tighter to his back, her hands clutching the fabric of his coat. One more corner. The street had been blocked off ahead, but not to the left. Pulling back on the handles, Butcher raised the skimcycle and slipped over the bollards, as close as he dared. He doubted he'd fooled them, but they might split up.
He glanced down at the display. Only one behind him now. But at least the road in front of him was empty.
Praying these machines hadn't changed too much from the last time he'd used one, Butcher pressed the rear cannon's firing button and zig-zagged the skimcycle. The alarm disappeared before the sound of the explosion arrived, along with a blast of fragment-filled shockwave.
"You got it." She shouted the words in his ear as she squeezed against him.
A warm glow filled him. How inane. After all these years.
Butcher slowed the skimcycle, looking for somewhere to hide. They weren’t safe yet. He didn't know what the other machine had done, or if there were more in the hunt. This was an inner suburban area, a line of identical, three-story houses standing cheek by jowl without even a front garden. Butcher's back itched, almost feeling laser sights lining up. There. An alley. He slammed on
She slid out of the seat and stood gazing in the direction they'd come from while he set the skimcycle into auto mode and sent it off. As it zoomed away Butcher grasped Tarlyn's arm and hurried her into a narrow alley between two buildings, sidling around a couple of bulging trash cans.
"Thanks," she whispered. Her jaw dropped, her eyes widened. "Brett. What are you doing here?"
Was she pleased to see him? He wasn't sure. She'd aged well, still slim and lovely, with those high cheekbones and dark brown eyes like melted chocolate. "Don't thank me yet. They will have followed."
Pulling his service pistol out of its holster he dragged her down behind the garbage containers as the whine of approaching skimcycles grew louder. Crouched low, he handed her a narrow cylinder. "This is the skimcycle's scrambler unit. It'll stop them from being able to track your cranial implant. If we're lucky they haven't tried that yet. If they have, let's hope this alley goes somewhere."
"You’ve forgotten. I’m not allowed a cranial implant."
Butcher’s face heated. Thankfully, she wasn’t looking at him. He had forgotten. It didn’t make any sense to him for people not to have the implant. But then, the fundamentalist nutters in the Galactic People’s Republic eschewed technology, too. Except when it suited them. Still, he wouldn’t have described Validor’s Ruling Clan in those terms. Conservative, yes.
A skimcycle rocketed past their hiding place. Butcher waited a few more minutes, his finger poised over his pistol's trigger.
Tarlyn tapped his hand resting on her arm. "Long enough. They hunt in packs." She walked back to the road, her long skirt swirling around her legs, then stood for a moment, listening. "It sounds like it's all over."
No more sirens, shots or explosions, although smoke curled up into the sky from the direction of the temple square.
Tarlyn gazed up at him, searching his face. "You're the last person on this planet I would have expected to see here, now. Are you still in the Confederacy Fleet?"
He swallowed. The years fell away and for a moment he was seventeen again, smitten and tongue-tied. Idiot. "Yes. Still in the Fleet. I'm on leave before I take over a new command. It's been fifteen years since I was on Validor. I thought it was time I came home."
What else could he say? He'd thought about her often over the years, but more so since his wife had ended their relationship six months ago. "Last I heard, you were married?"
He let the question hang. It wasn't true. He knew her husband died two years ago in a boating accident, but then he'd have to admit he'd been looking up her records, and if he did that, she might accuse him of prying, or stalking.
Her lips pressed together. She was about to answer when a skimcycle appeared, heading back from the way the other had vanished earlier. The man on the back of the machine had his assault rifle half-raised.
Time seemed to slow. Butcher shoved Tarlyn aside and lifted his pistol. The soldier aimed, his finger on the rifle's trigger. Butcher fired once, twice. The skimcycle stopped. The passenger slid off to the side, the driver slumped over the handle bars.
White-faced, Tarlyn stared at the bodies. "Are they dead? Did you kill them?"
"No. The pistol is set to stun, but they'll both be out for a few hours. And at least we have transport." He'd love to know what had happened back there at the temple square, but answers would have to wait. "Is there anywhere we can go?"
"Yes. I have family I can trust." She ruffled her skirt with her hand. "But I'm not dressed for this."
No, she wasn't. Her formal robe with blue and orange embroidery at the neckline and sleeves used to be white. Now the fine fabric was smeared with dirt and dust. Her elaborately coiffed hair had escaped from her head band, blown around by the speed of the skimcycle. The smear on her face made her look vulnerable, a slightly older version of the teenager he had fallen in love with all those years ago.
Butcher holstered his pistol under his jacket, strode over to the still-running machine and turned off the engine. The driver was the shorter of the two soldiers. He dragged the soldier off the skimcycle and crouched beside him. "Help me get their uniforms off."
First the helmet. Butcher hardly took note of the man's face. It didn't do to think of enemies as human. He'd seen death in battle too many times before, and at least this lad would survive. The one piece suit the soldier wore unfastened at the front. Butcher kept half an ear on his surroundings as he and Tarlyn peeled the garment off. Pushing the uniform into her arms, he said, "Change in the alley and get rid of the dress."
She hurried off while he started on the second man. He jumped when Tarlyn, dressed in the uniform, returned to help him. Her hair hung around her face as she pulled the sleeves off the fellow's shoulders, then dragged off the pant legs while Butcher supported the man's weight.
Done.
Butcher draped the suit over the skimcycle, took off his coat, and began to unfasten his trousers. His fingers fumbled as his eyes met hers, heat rising up his neck. She didn't quite manage to swallow the smile as she turned around. Oh, great heavens. The woman had seen a half-undressed man before. He pulled off his pants. Yes, but not him. They'd never taken it to that stage, much as he'd wanted to.
The suit was a little too large to start with, but it quickly adjusted to his body. He shoved his own pants and coat into a carrier on the skimcycle's side, and placed the soldier's short barreled RV-5 assault rifle into its holster.
She still had her back to him. "Where are we going?" he said.
She turned around. At least she didn't laugh, or look down her nose at him, although he knew she was amused. "I can enter the coordinates."
He shook his head. "If we do that, we can be tracked. I'd rather not, wouldn't you?"
She looked down, her eyelashes grazing her cheeks. "Yes. Of course. I was thinking my Aunt Cicely's house."
"Isn't your uncle an official in the government?"
"Yes. I think you met him a few times."
Butcher pictured his face before he remembered his name. Cairndon Morphin. Yes, Butcher remembered him, a born bureaucrat, already a junior departmental head, even then. He'd been polite, but dismissive of Tarlyn's inappropriate friend. "You trust him?"
Her brows twitched. "Of course. He's family. But as it happens, it won't matter. He'll be in the city for the ceremony. I'll get help from Quincy, who is the estate manager." She smiled. "He's a lovely man."
Butcher didn't think 'family' meant much. He didn't have much time for his own. He'd never really been forgiven for leaving the planet in search of the stars. But if Tarlyn was willing to trust an old family retainer, then he'd go along with her. At least for a time.
He mounted the skimcycle, and directed her to the passenger seat. "These helmets will have microphones. Tell me where to go."
Tarlyn settled herself into the seat behind Brett and pulled on the helmet. "The main highway would be fastest, at least for a little while. But we can take back routes?"
"It's probably safest to take the main routes, at least at first." His voice sounded metallic, but clear, in the helmet. "In these uniforms they're likely to ignore us for a time. Which way?"
"Left, and then the main arterial out of the city."
She clamped her arms around his waist as he accelerated. Brett. How many years had it been since he left? Last she'd heard he was married and on one of the Confederacy's flagships. And here he was on Validor, just in time to rescue her from... what? Some sort of coup? The queen would have to be injured. More likely—she swallowed the tremor of fear—dead. That would make Emerda queen.
"Not that I'm complaining, Tarlyn, but if we're supposed to be soldiers you should be sitting upright with that rifle in your hands."
"Sorry." She felt around near her right knee, and lifted the weapon out of its cradle, a short-barreled laser rifle. She'd never fired one of these, but she'd seen the soldiers carry them at the side, half-slung so they could be lifted quickly. She copied the pose and found the firing stud protruded on the right, just near her forefinger.
