Torian Reclamation 2: Flash Move (2 page)

“You mean your Erob half-breeds?”

“You believe in Erob?” Jojob asked.

Errshlin shrugged. “We are uncertain.”

The Dirg commander walked over to the screen and pointed at the landing craft coming out of his ships.

“We do not,” he said. “The notion that vastly superior beings from the center of the galaxy fathered a race of spiritually-powered half-breeds 2,000 years ago is, frankly, absurd to us.”

“How do you explain the existence of the half-breed races among us, then?”

When Jojob only hissed in response, Errshlin realized he may have just insulted him.

“I feel no need to explain the inferior race,” Jojob finally said. “Only a need to rid ourselves of them. A side-benefit of the salvage operation we have primarily come for.”

Murrkal quickly came back to Errshlin’s side.

“Salvage operation?” Errshlin asked.

“Yes, the Azaarian warships. The one you have just come from, plus the other. These are ours and we will now take possession of them, if you will be so kind as to clear out and move your fleet’s orbit.”

Errshlin held up a hand, instantly drawing the attention of all three Dirgs to it.

“No,” he said. “We claim salvage rights on these vessels, Commander. We were here first, long before you. We’ve spent the last several weeks constructing working hangars, sealing off damaged sections, and reinstating life support systems—which has been a tremendous effort. I’m afraid we beat you to it. These wreckages are ours.”

Loud hissing sounds came from all three Dirgs before Jojob responded.

“We have come directly from Azaar, Inquisitor, and have been granted the official rights to these ships. They are not yours, and never have been. Now we ask you to vacate them. If you refuse to comply, we will take what is ours by force.”

Murrkal inched towards the security alert button on the wall, but Errshlin stopped him with one hand while he replied to the Dirg threat.

“With all due respect, Commander, I see only five Dirg transport ships. We have twenty-five here, all of which are loaded with fighters, many more than you see on patrol out there presently. And our transport ships have mounted weapons as well— ”

“Inquisitor,” Murrkal interrupted. He pointed to the video screen. A multitude of large objects could now be seen on the horizon above Milura. They approached quickly and came in behind the small Dirg fleet. Within a few moments, they dwarfed it. At least forty additional Dirg transport ships now reinforced them, and were posed menacingly on the screen.

Errshlin looked back at the three Dirgs. They seemed to have stopped pulsating, and no further hissing sounds could be heard. That must be how Dirgs act smug.

“We wish no unnecessary quarrel,” Jojob said. “Clear your people out of our salvage. We appreciate the repair work. Perhaps we can thank you properly when we reach the Tora system. Assuming you are heading to Tora from here?”

Errshlin felt powerless and dejected. He didn’t come to Milura to fight a war. He would have protected his salvage goods from these vile creatures if it was reasonably within his power to do so—but he was now outnumbered, and suddenly in a weak negotiating position.

“Tora?” Errshlin said. “Why would we be going to that particular system? As I’ve stated, we maintain few relations with other races.”

“I see,” Jojob said. “Sorry to hear that, actually. It appears our business is concluded…” Something on the video screen drew Jojob’s attention. “One of your craft comes back to the Azaarian ship from the planet?” he asked.

Errshlin looked back to the screen. A saucer-ship was approaching the first salvage vessel. Latians didn’t use saucer ships, but of course the Dirgs didn’t know that. They watched as the hangar doors opened and received it. Other than a handful of small specialty construction crews scattered in various areas, the only Latians still on board there were those last seven Arcs. If the saucer wasn’t from the Dirgs, it could only have come from Milura. The Azaarians used saucer-shaped landing craft, but if there was an Azaarian population still on Milura, how would they know that repairs had now been affected on their old wrecked warships? Whoever that was couldn’t possess the frequencies to operate the new hangar doors, so the Arcs must be manually receiving them. Why?

“Yes, one of ours,” Errshlin found himself saying without knowing why. Murrkal eyed him curiously. The lie didn’t figure to help their situation—but then again, neither did the truth.

“We’ll give you a reasonable amount of time to clear the salvage area, Inquisitor. Please don’t force a confrontation. You are hopelessly outnumbered and cannot win.”

Errshlin remained still and kept his eyes on the screen. Suddenly, a strange white light began to glow from the salvage vessel. It came from all the cracks and windows of the massive warship, and kept getting brighter. Soon, nothing could be seen of the first salvage ship except an intense ball of white light in its place. It was like looking into a star and Errshlin found he had to shield his eyes from the screen.

“What in Erob is happening?” Murrkal asked.

Commander Jojob was less enthralled. “Whatever trick this is will not work, Inquisitor. If we cannot have access to our legitimate claim, we will ensure that you cannot have it, either. Look. We do not waste time.”

Sure enough, several squadrons of fighters scrambled from the Dirg transport fleet. They quickly moved on the great white light. The Dirg fighters had half-star shaped hulls similar to their shuttles.

Errshlin got on the intercom to the bridge. “This is the Inquisitor. Tell our fighters to clear out. I repeat, do not engage! Clear out!”

Jojob said, “That was a wise decision, but if we lose our salvage goods we will have some settling to do with you on this matter.”

The Dirg fighters came at the mini-star that was formerly the salvage ship and fired several lasers into it. It didn’t appear to be a full-fledged attack to Errshlin. More like they were probing it, attempting to feel the situation out. Errshlin was curious as to the results of that probe himself.

A great surge of light then shot outward from the former salvage vessel in reaction, as if the ball of light reached out with an arm, and consumed the entire line of oncoming Dirg fighters. They all detonated in a near-instant chain reaction. The arm of white light then extended into the Dirg transport fleet. Their transport ships began exploding as well, spectacularly. The video screen became a fireworks show, with great white fireballs clearing momentarily here and there to reveal the decreasing size of the Dirg fleet.

“Get us out of here!” Errshlin shouted on the ship’s intercom. Pointship immediately began moving backwards and the scene on the video screen grew distant.

“We’re all safely away, sir,” a voice crackled back on the intercom. “No damage to any of our ships or fighters.”

The great ray of white light that was destroying the Dirg fleet then retracted back into the light ball. The light ball settled into a dimmer glow, still completely immersing the vessel, but the outline of the old Azaarian warship could now be seen within the light. It was still in there.

The remaining Dirg fleet cleared out of the salvage area themselves and approached the Latian position. They assumed a combative stance and launched more fighters. No doubt they were attributing the destruction of a third of their fleet to the Latians, and were extremely upset. Claiming ownership of that saucer craft may not have been such a smart move after all.

“I only count twenty eight of them left, sir,” Murrkal said.

“Yes,” Errshlin replied. “With two or three squadrons of their fighters already destroyed. Scramble all our reserves, Captain.”

He turned to the Dirgs. The three of them were hissing and pulsating rapidly again.

“The odds appear to be much more even now, Commander Jojob, if you’re still up for that fight.”

Sinlo Mountains C3 Amulen

Jumper knew his friend was scared. Not that Alan lacked courage. Their situation had become precarious, the result of climbing much higher than they were supposed to. The rumors about the mountain dwellers were enough to keep sensible Torians at lower elevations, and no other humans would dare venture anywhere near this area. But Jumper enjoyed his reputation at the Earth colony for being adventurous, and needed a constant supply of new stories to tell if he was to keep it up.

“I don’t like the way they have us surrounded,” Alan said in a low voice. “Let’s finish this thing and get out of here, if we can.”

Jumper broke his concentration from the game and surveyed their surroundings. Alan did have a good point. The audience of charcoal-hued, leather-skinned Amulites was now arranged in a semicircle behind them on the partial clearing, and blocking every possible exit.

Well, every possible exit except one.

“I think you’re right,” Jumper said. “Hey, we came up here to give these suits a proper testing, didn’t we?”

“I was afraid you’d say that.” Alan’s short blonde hair was standing straight up from the breeze.

Jumper chuckled. “Relax. We know they work, right?”

“No, we don’t. Not from these heights. That leap we took in the foothills was nothing, Jumper, and you know it.”

“There might not be another way down now. This is what we wanted to do anyway—kind of.”

Alan looked around nervously. “I must confess I was planning to let you go first—and hopefully off a slope, not a sheer cliff face.”

“Right,” Jumper said. “Me first, as always. My dad sure is lucky to have me.”

“If these things don’t work better than his last invention, he may not have you much longer.”

Jumper’s opponent made a grunting noise indicating a growing impatience. That was good and bad. Good if he could be pushed off-kilter by a little gamesmanship. Bad if the mountain dwellers would consider it cheating and decide to administer their own form of quick justice. Jumper noticed several of them held hand weapons as they watched.

Jumper quickly moved a piece to a spot in the game field that flashed at him for a nanosecond. He was becoming more and more confident in this impulsive-seeming style of move. When he first started trying to use it, he failed horribly and lost many times because of it—most of them to Alan in the secret basement where they practiced. Jumper could afford to lose those games, though, and had always suspected there was a powerful force to be tamed if he could perfect the move. He gradually got better with it, and finally took it out of the basement to use against the rest of the guys.

Nowadays, he was nearly unbeatable in the colony. The
flash move
, as Jumper liked to call it, had much to do with his success. He still didn’t fully understand it, but he learned to recognize and trust it when the opportunity presented itself. Alan was the only one of his friends who even knew about it, but was himself incapable of discerning it from the other random reflections of light in the game field. That was the real trick. It couldn’t be forced, had to be waited upon, sometimes never appeared at all, and proper recognition of it was extremely subtle. Fortunately, Jumper had learned to hone in on it.

His opponent began nodding with what seemed to be a great degree of satisfaction.

Jumper knew that was a good sign. He trusted the flash move without understanding why it worked. It never looked like sound strategy on the surface, as it almost always occurred in a remote spot away from the current developing patterns. His opponents usually considered it a desperate attempt at a diversion. Jumper knew from experience that in a few moves the questionable piece would probably complete a bridge to a strong encompassing formation which would agitate his opponent tremendously.

That’s exactly what happened. Three moves later, the innocent looking flash move piece was the cornerstone of a formidable structure that tied together most of the field’s broken patterns from the opening moves. It was overbearing and Jumper knew he had won.

Several members of the audience stepped forward and appeared to marvel over the craftiness of this young Earthling. But not Jumper’s opponent. He grabbed ahold of his head and rocked back and forth in obvious anguish.

“Hey, don’t go berserk,” Jumper said. “It’s only a game.” He liked saying that after winning. Jumper knew all too well there was no other game remotely comparable to polwar. Everyone realized it was somehow much more than just a game. Saying that was his own special form of victory dance, a method of personal gloating—especially after beating a native.

Two of the Amulites who were holding weapons then came up behind Jumper’s defeated opponent. His opponent stood. His look of anguish turned to one of terror.

“What in Erob is going on here?” Jumper asked. He and Alan stood up as well.

Jumper’s beaten opponent then turned and ran off the side of the cliff.

Jumper and Alan chased after him as far as the edge, stopped, and looked down. That was a mistake. They saw him crash into a rock protrusion far below, tumble lifelessly down the mountainside from there, and finally vanish into a clump of large shrubs. Jumper and Alan spun back around.