Planetfall, p.6
Planetfall, page 6
Zarek crossed the room silently like a hunting cat stalking its prey, his movements easy and sinuous; this woman like all those gone before her, clinging to the far wall as if its strength could somehow protect her. Zarek pounced, crossing the last strides in a heart beat, one hand upon her neck and pinning her against the wall, her head twisted away from him with the pale creamy skin of her neck laid bare and defenceless. His other hand twisted into the fabric of her dress, pressing hard into her breasts beneath. He brought his face close to her neck, his nose almost touching her skin, as he smelt her fear, her body trembling beneath him. He ripped viciously at her dress, but the sturdy fabric resisted his assault and her head jerked round with her forehead smacking into his nose, stunning him. He shook his head as his lust turned to anger, and found himself staring into a pair of equally furious eyes. Surprised at her unexpected resistance, he paused long enough for her to spit into his eyes. He shook his head to clear the phlegm, and she kneed him viciously in the groin. Then, twisting to the right, she caught him off balance and swung him hard against the wall where she released him, and lunged desperately across the room towards his sword.
Instinct drove him off the wall and propelled him across the floor, despite the pain flaring in his thigh muscle where her blow had finally landed when his twist had misdirected her true aim. But she was always going to win the race and grabbed the hilt of the sword with both hands, and as he approached, she swung the weapon, scabbard and belt in a furious arc towards his chest. With the speed of her swing the sword swept free of its sheath that clattered across the floor, leaving the wicked edge hissing in a tight parabolic curve, slicing through the sunlight, dust dancing madly in its wake. Zarek's speed was fatal now, for he couldn't stop before the blade would take him, instead, his cat-like reflexes dropped him to the floor and below the hissing deathblow. Rolling, he came up underneath her outstretched arms and dug his shoulder violently into her stomach, winding her instantly. Then he caught her arms as they dropped when she buckled, crying out in pain, a cry cut short by the lack of air - and the first sound she had made since he'd entered the room.
Zarek pressed his advantage relentlessly, dragging her arms down further so she toppled over forwards, her hands hitting the floor hard and jarring the sword free to skitter away across the carpet. The young duke rolled with a feline grace that matched the motion of his victim and brought him up straddled across, her with his arms pinning hers to the floor. He rolled her onto her back and pulled her arms down to fix them across her midriff as she gasped helplessly, fighting to draw in the reluctant air, her eyes boiling with impotent fury. Zarek studied her eyes briefly, the fury there a match which fired his own temper, causing him to free and raise his right-hand high, from where all of his coiled emotions fired a brutal backhand across her face, snapping her head over and leaving a bright red bruise in its wake. His control vanished and he delivered a stinging forehand to the other side of her face, then grasped her hair and pulled her face close to his.
"Bitch!" he roared, his spit flecking her face, his features contorted with rage, and his body racked with desire, the fight exciting him like nothing before, driving his needs and desires to a new giddy height from which he could swoop down upon his victim.
He forced the woman's arms up so that he held her hands against her forehead, pinning her upper body against the floor securely. Then reached behind himself with his free hand and drew his razor sharp dagger. He held the weapon in front of the woman's eyes, turning it slowly so that its blade flashed in the sunlight, the suspense heightening her fear and anger and intensifying his own pleasure. Then he turned the blade, slid the steel beneath her gown, and sliced it open right down to her waist, spilling her perfect breasts. He stabbed the dagger through the carpet and into the wooden floor behind himself, out of her reach. Then releasing her hands, he grasped both sides of her gown, and raising himself up, ripped it apart. He stood up and pulled hard on one side of her rent clothing, tipping, pushing and forcing the woman out of her garment, no matter how she fought. Naked, she leapt for the bed only to be caught on the edge and pinned there, as he fought his way out of his own trousers, kicking them across the floor. The woman twisted and squirmed out of his grasp and halfway across the bed before he caught her again, flipped her onto her back and forced himself between her kicking legs. She redoubled her frenzied efforts to throw him off, raking her fingernails at his face and contorted her body to avoid him. But his desire wouldn't be denied as his supple body matched her efforts to elude him, his violent thrusts igniting an unimaginable heat within, as her body betrayed her and attempted to move in unison with his; tears of useless frustration burning her cheeks.
Much later, Zarek watched her curled up asleep beneath a blanket, as he stood pulling on his clothes, bemused by the violence he'd uncovered, and the unrivalled lust that she'd fired in him. It made all of his previous conquests seem barren by comparison with her heat. A hellcat, indeed. That's what he would call her - his hellcat. Though, in the future, he would have to take some precautions for his own safety, although the thought of the extra danger in not doing so made him harden involuntarily, the extra risk an added spice.
Could he leave her behind when he invaded Balasoria? Why should he? He brooded darkly, a man without conscience in a room without doors.
Erech in Hvar - P5469
A dull irregular thumping echoed throughout Cochise, stopped, and then started again.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Dexter frowned, his forehead furrowing beneath his brown hair, as the intermittent noise distracted him from the schematics of the ship's main control computer. Outside, in the early morning sun, Kiera and Seeker worked busily, manually chiselling away burnt foam from around the hole in the hull, as they had no power tools capable of cutting the stuff. The breaks in the thumping indicating how hard they were finding the job, even with the two of them sharing the work, one cutting whilst the other stood guard. Dexter concentrated on the schematics again, pondering over the problem they had found yesterday. With Emmett's help they had cleared access to hull section eighteen from inside the starship, which allowed them to get at the control hub that needed replacing, but had also shown them where the alien missile had ended up - fused into the primary bio-router of the ship's AI.
The engineer had been quite insistent that they couldn't remove the warhead, even if they had a replacement bio-router, as Emmett had been sure that any attempt to extract the warhead would destroy the router; and losing the bio-unit meant the AI wouldn't function. That notwithstanding, both engineer and commander now thought that the device was not a warhead as such, rather the guidance unit of a kinetic device; a missile designed to destroy by the force of its impact rather than through an explosion.
Jesus! He thought for the hundredth time, aliens. No previous mission finds any sign of intelligent life and then we run into two at the same time! But what was that ship doing in orbit and why had it fired on them? What was it protecting, or were they just incredibly aggressive - there appeared to be nothing down here worth such effort. He shook his head, only too well aware that the vessel in orbit had been more advanced than Cochise, yet it had been destroyed - but how?
The Commander massaged his forehead with both hands in an attempt to relieve the tension and the dull ache that went with it, and then shifted his gaze across the panels that displayed the views of the port from the hill and the riverbank. The main difference from the first day was the presence of the two human-like watchers sitting on the hill behind the port, who had been there since Cochise had been discovered early in the second morning. The riverbank pole-sensor had detected a lone walker on the hill, and by the time the entire crew had assembled, the walker had stopped and turned around to view the river and had seen Cochise. There had been quiet amusement on the bridge, as the walker descended in panic to the port where he could be seen gesticulating wildly in his attempt to persuade others of his discovery. Eventually a small group had made their way back up the hill. After that, it seemed that the entire population of the small port either climbed the hill or made their way along the riverbank to gawk at the new arrival. Dexter grinned at the memory, as Seeker had been enthralled by the sight of the people - evidently very similar to humans, at least in appearance, though their DNA would make them complete aliens. But their gender grouping, clothes and hairstyles - or the lack of, from Dexter’s perspective, were straight out of the history memory blocks, and had the journalist jumping about in excitement over the opportunity to document an alien species. How could they look so similar to us?
He shook his head as he remembered Seekers disappointment when he had reminded her that UNSC rules forbid contact with pre-tech civilisations, and stipulated that such societies should be left alone to evolve without outside influence. She hadn't been happy about that! When Dexter had stepped out of Cochise, the consternation amongst those gathered on the hill was complete, and to a man - or alien, the onlookers deserted their perches and fled back to the port. Later, they had held a meeting on the quayside within the harbour and had dispatched a single rider along the road that wound up the valley, and had maintained the two-man watch from the hill ever since. Life in the port itself had then seemed to settle down, although there didn't seem to be much activity of any kind - except at the sawmill.
Since that time the crew had continued their repair work but had made a point of waving to the watchers even though no response had been given. Dexter wanted friendly relations, and while he was not afraid of any actions the locals might take, he didn't want to have to use force against them. Now they were waiting for the appearance of whatever authority had been summoned, and Dexter had planted another set of pole sensors to cover the approaches over the grasslands to the south and east, to ensure they were forewarned of any visitors.
He forced his attention back to the problem in hand, Coach - the computer. Again he massaged his temples in an attempt to ease the dull ache that seem to come and go. As much as he would like to reboot the AI, he just couldn't risk it at the moment; if it started to generate random instructions to the subsystem nodes, as it had done during the descent, there was no knowing what might happen. It could generate a power surge when they were trying to physically repair the power conduit, which could easily be big enough to fry someone. There really wasn't any other option but to keep the AI powered-down. Once all of the critical repairs were complete, they could make a decision about Coach; hell, they could even test fly the ship without it. He opened a netlink through to the engineer.
Hey, Emmett. How is it going back there?
Crap.
Dexter sighed with resignation and leaned back on his couch, gazing at the ceiling. He had the feeling that this was going to be another item for the growing repair list.
How so?
We've got bloody mounting arms on number two engine blown down the side where we took the impact.
So?
When we need escape velocity out of these engines we have to run them up at one hundred percent, and that's when the mounting arms have to soak up the vibration and twist that's generated. If we don't have all of the them in place, the fucking engine would rip itself apart.
Shit, thought the Commander. How'd that happen?
Well, when you pulled that re-entry stunt, the logs show the engines running at one hundred and ten percent. At that level, the mounts would have been soaking up as much vibration and torsional stress as they could cope with. I reckon that alien missile generated a counter-directional vibration that overloaded some of the arms. They just broke. Hell, Dex, if we hadn't lost all power and control at the same time, that engine would have fucking ripped free.
OK, so I'm presuming we can't replace all of them?
Yeah - we're two short.
Can't we make some new ones or something?
The engineer made a rude noise. Well, we've got the material in the form of the broken arms, but we've got no way of bloody re-forging them.
You think the IP's got that kind of forge?
Don't know. But we have to use that material as it's specifically designed for the job.
OK Emmett, any good news?
Yeah, you'll get atmospheric flight back once we've sorted out the control links, number one engine's good for that.
Thanks, Emmett.
Shit! What a dilemma, they were being forced into contact with the people that their mission profile told them should be avoided - and they were going to have to ask for help. What he wouldn't give for a zero-gee space dock and a team of fully trained technicians. Still, wishful thinking wasn't going to get any of the work done, and as he had done all he could with the AI, he needed to go and spell one of the women working on the hull.
Dexter eased himself up on the couch and looked at his left arm were it throbbed hotly. He poked at the scabbed, red area and then jerked his hand away in surprise as the wound leached a sliver coloured puss. The liquid ran around his arm and puddled on the surface of his chair. He wiped the residue off his skin, but stopped as it crystallised into a fine powder that drifted away. Surprised, he probed the puddle on the couch with his forefinger, and this too shattered into a fine silver powder, yet the hot ache had left his arm now. He frowned as he wondered just what he had been hit by. He had presumed it an errant hull fragment or splinter, but this stuff looked more like a liquid alloy. How strange, he thought, and made a mental note to get Kiera to look at it. Then he slipped off the couch and walked through into the crew module. He pulled his super-light Kevlec body-armour out of his locker and shrugged it into place, and then tightened the webbing belt firmly around his waist. The Anson PA's display membrane flickered briefly, as the weapon powered-up in response to Dexter's netlinked authorisation code. The starship's exit hatch sighed open smoothly, bathing the inside of the ship with warm sunlight - which his optic membranes, worn like contact lenses, automatically compensated for while maintaining a constant ambient light level. He pulled his cap firmly over his short brown hair, and then tugged the peak lower to help shade his eyes - a pointless gesture given his membranes, but a habit from childhood that he didn’t seem able to break. The ground was dry now as he jumped down from the ship, with the aroma of broken earth less distinct now the westerly breeze was dominated by the scent of pine and the smell of drying grass rolling in from the plains. Two smaller symbols flickered on the PA's display as it automatically linked with the other two active weapons.
Well, look who's come out to play, netlinked Kiera, and then added using a secure channel, God! Does she ever stop asking questions? It's like an interrogation!
Dexter trudged around the nose of the starship, which was still splattered with earth and vegetation - cleaning that off wasn't even on the work list - and then made his way down the side of the ship to where the two women were working on the hull.
"How's it going?"
Kiera shrugged. "Slowly," she nodded towards the hull where Seeker stood beside the hole. "Tougher than trying to break plascrete with a toothpick!"
The Commander stepped up and examined the foam, which the other two had been cutting back so that they could plate over the hole in the hull itself. Unbelievable how hard and tough it was, just as well really, anything less and alien missile would have punched clean through and into the inside of the starship. That would have been fatal.
"I'll spell you here, Kiera. That will give you a chance to catch up on work with Emmett."
Kiera grinned. "Anything is better than this. How's he getting on?"
Dexter pulled a sour face. "The really bad news is we've blown a heap of mounting arms and we've not got enough to replace them."
Seeker looked blank, but Kiera's shoulders sagged with the news - she definitely knew all about mounting arms. The science officer locked eyes with Dexter and he could see her mentally running through the options and see the steely determination that sat behind her outward persona.
"So, we'll just have to make some bloody new ones ourselves then."
Dexter nodded. "We'll need to get some help with that."
"Huh - help! The hottest fire around here would be in a kitchen!" argued Kiera, "we'd have more luck building a foundry ourselves!"
"It may come to that," agreed Dexter.
Seeker looked between the two in puzzlement. "So what's the problem then?"
"No mounting arms and we don't go home - NEVER!" Kiera spat the words out like a bad taste.
Seeker almost stepped back a pace, but held firm. "Oh - OK."
"OK! It's NOT fucking OK!" Kiera's eyes flashed angrily as she chewed her lip, "unless you want to stay here - permanently! Hey? You want to wait for more aliens to take pot-shots at us!" Still fuming, Kiera turned and stomped towards the nose of the starship, like a small storm cloud under the morning's bright blue sky - unmarred but for a few fluffy white clouds over the distant mountains.
Seeker watched the science officer disappear around the front of the starship, the chisel and hammer forgotten in her hands. Eventually she turned back to face Dexter, her expression neutral but her eyebrows raised questioningly.
Dexter grinned his annoying boyish smile. "Air force types!" he said disparagingly, and then his grin increased in size, amusement dancing in his eyes, "ain't got no balls!"
"Dexter! You know Kiera hasn't got any balls."
"Wow!" Dexter held up his hands in submission, "you've got me there." He placed his PA against the side of Cochise and took the hammer and chisel from Seeker. Then stepping up to the hull, he examined the spot that had been worked on last, poking at the burnt foam and placing the chisel ready for the next cut.
Thrap. Thrap. Thrap.
"Don't worry about Kiera," he turned his head to look at Seeker, "she'll be fine." Not that he really believed it, the science officer had been acting so out of character that he was sure she was suffering a stress backlash from their encounter with the alien ship. Not that she'd talk about it, just change the subject to Emmett's injuries instead. Still, he reflected, her service background and training should see her pull through.
