Trapped On Talonque: (A Sectors SF romance)
Read Trapped On Talonque: (A Sectors SF romance) Online
Authors: Veronica Scott
Copyright 2016 by Jean D. Walker
This book is a work of fiction. The names, places, characters and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover Art by Fiona Jayde
DEDICATION
To my daughters Valerie and Elizabeth, my brother David and my best friend Daniel
To Debbie N, friend for life!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Michael R
Joyce L
Julie C and
The E-book Formatting Fairies
!
Trapped on Talonque
By
Veronica Scott
Table of Contents
Other Titles by Veronica Scott
CHAPTER ONE
At least you’re not dead. You can handle a headache, even one that feels like your brain is slowly beating itself to a pulp inside your skull.
A guard interrupted Nate’s stern internal lecture, poking him with a razor-sharp, gleaming spear tip. A thin line of red blood trickled down Nate’s arm, mingling with the dried remnants of similar “encouragements” suffered over the course of the five days since his ship crashed on this hellhole planet.
He checked his peripheral vision to make sure Haranda was limping along, managing to keep his balance on the road’s uneven stone paving. The way their captors had them restrained—arms bound tightly behind their backs, short metal shackles on the ankles, a chafing leather collar with a thin chain linking each man to the next at the neck—made walking a challenge. There were more prisoners at the end of the chain, locals, a few injured much more grievously than any of the offworlders but able to walk.
Stripped of their uniforms and made to wear the short kilt like all the other prisoners, Nate and his men had varying degrees of sunburn to contend with, but no serious physical impairments.
Unexpectedly, their progress stopped, and Nate crowded the local in front of him, nearly falling. Both men cursed in their respective languages, jerking apart as far as the thin neck chain allowed.
“What the seven hells—”
“Look ahead,” Thom Curran said behind him. “I guess we know where we’re going now.”
Nate stared. The road had been curving uphill for the past few hours. Now he stood in a spot where the pavement widened beyond its average span of twenty feet, becoming a circle. Sheer cliffs rose above and fell precipitously away below the round platform. Across a wide ravine lay more heights, the pale stones of the road ascending in lazy curves and disappearing at the top, guarded at the crest by pillars or statues too far away to make out in detail.
And to get across the ravine—a swaying nightmare of a rope bridge, easily three hundred feet long. The cables appeared to be a mix of wool and plant fiber, tightly woven into massive supports suspended from towering masonry structures on either side of the chasm. The guards snarled orders, shoving their prisoners to the side of the platform against the cliffs, ordering them to sit.
“Have to wait our turn, I guess,” Thom said, rubbing one ankle as he and Nate watched the bridge sway and twist while five locals, each leading a blindfolded riding animal, worked their way carefully across the span in single file, coming from the other side.
“At least we can see the damn thing is sturdy enough to hold that bunch, so it ought to hold us.” Nate craned awkwardly to check on Haranda once more. “Doing okay, kid?”
The young pilot trainee swallowed convulsively and nodded before averting his gaze. The death of the more senior pilot and the events since the crash had left him in a precarious mental state.
Grateful for the chance to rest, Nate shrugged and watched the slow progress of the group on the bridge. Their captors had set a rapid pace, as if afraid to miss a deadline for their arrival at the ultimate destination.
Number one rule in the Sectors Special Forces—don’t get up, close and personal with the residents of an unknown planet prior to a full eval, linguistic analysis, detailed observation from orbit...yeah, he’d managed to break about every regulation. Nate suspected he and his two companions were going to pay for the lapses in the near future. The Lords of Space threw the dice for a man and then left him to play the game out on his own. No help was coming from the Sectors. The ship and its passengers had probably been written off as lost by now.
“Are my eyes giving out, or is the sky going a little darker all the sudden?” Thom’s query broke into Nate’s reverie.
Squinting against the glare of the too-hot primary sun, he said, “A triple eclipse?” He risked one more quick glance. Three moons of varying dimensions were slowly edging their way onto the big, glaring disk of this planet’s oversize sun. Nate lowered his eyes, checking the reactions of the other prisoners and the guards, all of whom were exhibiting various signs of unease. Many were mouthing chants or prayers. The eclipse increased the agitation of the officer leading their group. He advanced to the lip of the bridge and yelled at the oncoming cavalry, unmistakably exhorting them to move faster.
The last of the five riders cleared the bridge and removed the blindfold on his animal. Remounting, the squad thundered past, heading in the direction Nate and his companions had come from, the shod hooves of the horselike animals throwing sparks from the flat paving stones.
“Chika, chika!” the guards shouted, prodding the prisoners to their feet and into a rough line.
“Chika. Yeah, right, whatever you say,” Nate muttered as the guard walked past him.
“I sure miss the hypno briefing on the damn language.” Thom echoed Nate’s frustration. “Not that we’re exactly on a mission, or that the Sectors has a translator for this gibber.”
“I think I got ‘chika’ translated, after five days of them screaming it at us. Means
jump and don’t wait to ask how high
.” Nate scrambled to his feet along with the rest of the long column.
The prisoners were strung together in chains of eight. The two groups ahead of Nate’s moved out, clearing the bridge and marching up the mountain as he set foot on the woven structure. He couldn’t help but admire the ingenious way the bridge was constructed of dark blue and yellow ropes woven together and triple-knotted tightly at regular intervals. Narrow boards had been inserted crosswise through the bottom set of ropes, making it necessary to step carefully from one to the next. Nate wished his hands were free so he could grasp the waist-high side ropes for extra stability. He had no fear of heights, and as he came onto the bridge, he glanced down. So far below that it was nothing but a narrow, shiny ribbon, the inevitable river flowed, its roar faint at this height. At the pull from the chain at his collar as the men in front of him stepped onward, Nate lifted his gaze, watching his step on the uneven, shifting floorboards.
He heard snatches of low conversation between several of the men chained in front of him. Despite the fact he didn’t understand more than a few words of the local language, Nate tensed. The tone of the hasty whispers suggested action about to take place.
Bad place to stage a rebellion.
The man at the head of his set of eight prisoners yelled a defiant oath or a curse and threw himself off the right side of the bridge, tilting effortlessly over the rope and falling, taking the next two men with him in the blink of an eye. Man number four, directly in front of Nate, evidently wasn’t part of the suicide pact, or lost his nerve, because as the others fell, the prisoner tried to pull back, bracing himself against the guard ropes. The chains and gravity threatened to take Nate, Thom, Haranda and the last prisoner behind him to the bottom of the ravine as well.
The prisoner’s neck snapped with an audible crack, echoing eerily across the ravine, and his lifeless body jackknifed over the ropes. The other two men who’d already fallen were choking as the deadweight of the original suicide jumper pulled the leather collars taut. The bridge tipped sideways under Nate’s feet from the unbalanced load. The ropes creaked ominously. Thom braced on the bridge behind him, trying to keep his feet without strangling Nate. The guards were shouting, trying to work their way along the bridge to the spot where the suicide attempt erupted.
Suddenly, the dead prisoner’s center of gravity altered imperceptibly in response to the motion of the swaying bodies below. He fell off the bridge in graceful slow motion. The neck chain whipped taut on Nate, cutting off his air. The thin chain snapped off the thicker loop fastened to the collar at the base of Nate’s throat, flying hundreds of feet into the ravine with the four dead men. The jagged end of the chain cut the underside of Nate’s chin as it whipped past him. He doubled over the rope side rail, its knots digging into his stomach muscles. He could feel the pressure on his neck from the chain binding him to the sergeant and was thankful for it, steadying him even as it threatened to choke off his air.
“Take it real slow,” Thom said.
Nate straightened carefully and shuffled his feet on the floorboard, retreating until he stood in the middle of the bridge. His head spun from lack of oxygen, and his peripheral vision flickered.
The guards grabbed his arms, urging him forward. The men supported him the rest of the way across the bridge, Thom and the others remaining on the string dragged behind. Nate was allowed to collapse onto the paved circle platform on the other side, bringing the others to their knees as he did so.
He lay on his side, chest heaving as he struggled to draw enough air into his lungs and recover from the near miss. The remaining strings of prisoners came across the bridge without further incident and were led along the curving road. The entire train of prisoners disappeared from sight by the time the guards decided Nate must be recovered and yanked him to his feet. The officer in charge eyed Nate for a long moment, fingering the broken link on his collar thoughtfully. Then he spun on his heel, yelling the now familiar order to move out.
“Chika! Chika!”
Nate and his companions toiled up the curving road to the crest of the hill. As he passed between the guardian statues, Nate studied the one on his right. Standing double his height, it was a crude representation of a warrior. Nate realized the deity clutched a braided skein of scalps in each of its four hands, from which were suspended eight bleeding heads. Huge clawed feet trod on a carpet of bones and skulls.
“Huitlani.” The prisoner at the end of their shortened chain gave a name to the horror. Nate turned his head and met the man’s eyes. The captive, Atletl, spat at the statue and let loose a string of what sounded like curses as he walked between the statues. This defiance brought him harsh blows from the officer in charge, and Atletl fell silent under the onslaught.
The road widened substantially and became more crowded the closer the column came to the city on the plain beyond the ridge. Foot and vehicle traffic proceeded in both directions. The prisoners were kept to the edge of the pavement and given no chance to rest or slacken their pace.
“Always in a hurry on this damn planet, ain’t they?” Thom made his complaint after a renewed burst of prodding from the soldiers.
“The eclipse is ending,” Nate said, taking a rapid glance at the giant sun. “Too bad—my headache was doing better.”