Beyond the Starport Adventure (Bullet Book 1) Page 7

  The green laser beam arced across the sky briefly before winking out. Jaxx's bullets smashed the emitter to pieces, destroying the weapon. The shuttle bobbed around as Karr struggled to shut down the misfiring thrusters. Jaxx was focussed on the strange building. There were still some dim lights inside. Equipment of some kind. Possibly more defence systems. He fired again, shattering the last intact window at the front of the structure. Inside, he saw movement just before the last light died inside the structure. He imagined a person or persons ducking for cover. His finger twitched, but he didn’t fire. Karr was banking the shuttle away from the building.

  Karr frowned. He exhaled hard. Jaxx looked at him and judged that the new calm meant that the shuttle was back under control. Karr gave the engines as much power as he could and within moments they were heading through the thin clouds towards the stars. Karr wiped sweat from his brow onto his trouser leg and looked at Jaxx.

  “I guess the mission’s a disaster on all fronts then?” Karr smiled.

  Jaxx was about to answer. But then the missile that had been tracking the shuttle for two miles struck home and everything around Jaxx turned into fire and chaos.

  The explosion killed Commander Karr instantly, ripping him apart as that whole section of the cockpit exploded. His blood soaked Jaxx's face, filling the Captain's mouth and splashing into his eyes, blinding him. Jaxx’s wrist snapped as the explosive force tossed him and his seat, against the left bulkhead. Shrapnel from the explosion peppered Jaxx's face, mutilating his handsome features and shredding his jaw.

  For a few seconds Jaxx fought to hold onto consciousness. His head was ringing. His eyes were closed tightly shut as the air rushed out of the smashed cockpit. The G forces were enormous. He guessed that the shuttle was pulling at least 8 G as it fell back to earth. It was more like 12. His flight suit automatically tightened to compensate, but Jaxx was fighting a losing battle. As the G forces exceeded 14 he felt himself falling into a dark pit. A calming circle of darkness swallowed up his consciousness and he closed his eyes gratefully.

  He opened his eyes again. He felt that no time had passed, but of course he was wrong. The noise and chaos had ceased. There were voices. He blinked once, twice. The voices began to make a kind of sense. He turned his head.

  “Are you alright?” the voice spoke Enrilean, but the accent was distinctly Relathon, “Hey man, you alright?”

  Someone was shaking him. Jaxx’s eyes were opened, but he struggled to focus. There were only shapes. Dark, fuzzy shapes. They were moving around him. He was still in the cockpit. Everything was coming back into focus. There was a face in front of his. A man who might have been Enrilean, but was not. A large, bearded face with a toothless smile. A warm, happy face. Large worker’s hands pulling at the straps holding Jaxx into his chair. The same hands wiped blood away from Jaxx's eyes. Karr's blood, Jaxx realised.

  “Enrilean?” the man’s eyes widened with excitement, “Welcome! Welcome Enrilean. You… accident?” he was nodding briskly, enthusiastically, “I am... here... to help. You understand me?”

  Hazer Jaxx tried to speak, but there was something wrong with his throat. He touched a hand there and it came away bloody. He panicked for a moment, feeling his torn uniform and imagining that his neck was in ribbons. But he could breathe. He tried to stay calm. For a fleeting instant he locked eyes with the big Relathon metal worker. The man was so pleased and happy to see him. Jaxx, bewildered, wondered where the shuttle had crashed.

  The shuttle had landed in the north west of the city, three miles from the eastern summit of the mountain and the sailboat restoration project. The men surrounding the car were from the a docking yard. Some were still wearing their heavy leather gloves. Their faces were red and sweating with excitement. They talked amongst themselves in rapid-fire bursts of snappy, rapid-fire words that Jaxx could not understand. But the man helping Jaxx out of his ruined seat spoke Enrilean, if roughly. He continued to smile even as his eyes moved to the revolver Jaxx had strapped across his chest.

  “Welcome,” the man said. He had an open mouthed and foul breathed welcoming smile. “Enrilea! Welcome.”

  Jaxx did not feel guilt, sympathy or remorse for what he was about to do. He had to get away. He was going to draw his weapon and he was going to shoot the man in the face. Then, if the others did not flee at the shock of seeing their friend’s head explode in a cloud of red blood and grey brain, he would shoot them too.

  The Relathon was a fool, Jaxx decided. His expression did not change as Jaxx plucked his weapon from its holster, almost as if he’d never seen a gun before. But of course he had. Jaxx’s hands were shaking. He was in shock. He tightened his hand around the worn-smooth wooden grip and, finally, the big Relathon's expression began to melt into confused surprise.

  Jaxx's finger touched the trigger. The Relathon was looking him right in the eye, wondering what was happening. About to ask. Not realising this was the end of his life. Not realising this was an enemy. Not realising that Jaxx was to be feared, that the Enrileans were to be feared. Jaxx was so disgusted that he hesitated. He stared at the round, childish, foolish face.

  “You disgusting fool!” he said.

  He almost fired the gun, but then he heard the sirens. They were unmistakable, a sound that might have even come from his own world. He knew that the Relathon military were moments away. He lowered the gun, forcing a smile that enthused the hapless Relathon worker even more.

  “Fool!” the Relathon said, “Welcome!”

  The sirens were loud. They seemed to be coming from every direction. Somehow, Jaxx was out of his seat and clambering past the big man through the wreckage. There wasn’t much left of the shuttle besides the cockpit and Jaxx was out of it in two seconds, pushing away the large hands that reached to help him.

  The shuttle had smashed into a four storey apartment block about a quarter mile from Jann Linn city’s docks. The troop section of the shuttle was still embedded in the fourth floor of the building, jammed into the living quarters of a prostitute den. The dead Quoo's body decorated the remaining two walls of the room. Of the cockpit, only the left side remained. There was no sign of Lieutenant Karr anywhere. The cockpit was lying in the middle of an old fashioned cobbled road. On one side of the road there was a long row of crumbling apartment buildings. On the other lay the docks. An iron hulled oil tanker was silhouetted to the west, its mile long outline dominating the scene. The air smelled of burning metal and, overpoweringly, of sewage from the city’s waste treatment facility located a half mile to the north.

  “Enrilean!”

  This time the intonation of the shout was entirely different. A bug shaped flying vehicle was landing in the middle of the cobbled about ten metres from the crashed shuttle. Its four long, springy legs touched the road surface as its thunderous jet engines blasted dust and debris everywhere. Jaxx was already running in the opposite direction, holding onto his revolver. His bad leg was slowing him down a little. He stumbled onwards, retreating from the landed bug ship, not realising that an inch wide splinter of his shuttle’s smashed cockpit had buried itself in his nerve damaged leg not far from the old wound.

  He lost his footing on the slick stone road surface, falling onto his right shoulder as he protected the gun in his hand. Behind him, two men from the distinctive Relathon defence forces had emerged from the small craft. As Jaxx staggered to his feet he glanced back to see the dock workers pointing in his direction. Moments later, the shout he’d heard before was repeated.

  “Enrilean! Stop!”

  The voice carried authority, but the gunshot that whizzed by Jaxx’s ear carried more. Jaxx looked to the right, but there was only a high metal fence that led to the docks. On his left the row of houses went on as far as he could see. There was nowhere to go besides through one of the houses, and he ran towards the nearest door hoping that his weight and momentum would get him through.

  The door was heavy and old. Its hinges were the original brass hinges that had been screwed into place
a hundred years before when the row of three hundred apartments had been built. The original lock had been replaced four times over the years and the most recent lock, installed a decade previously, was of a much flimsier construction than its predecessors. It was this – and the new thin steel back plate - that gave way to Jaxx’s shoulder charge.

  The apartment was totally dark inside, surprising Jaxx. His momentum carried him straight into a hard, concrete interior wall. The gun dropped from his hand. He could hear shouting and footsteps outside. He scrambled for the handgun, but it was lost in the darkness. He swore loudly. Fumbling in the darkness, he found another handle and launched himself through this new doorway hoping that it led somewhere.

  Hands were reaching for him. Voices he did not understand were close. Shouting, cursing, screaming at him. They were in the house. Fingers brushed Jaxx’s shoulders as he crossed the room towards a small window barely visible across from the door.

  “There is nowhere to run.”

  Jaxx launched himself at the window. The glass looked thick, the window only about a half metre wide. It gave as he smashed through it, but hands grabbed his legs as he tried to wriggle through. He kicked out instinctively, desperately. More hands seemed to attach themselves to him. He could smell fresh air. The window led to the rear of the housing block - a dumping ground for household refuse, old furniture and bedding. It was lit by weak electric lights strung on heavy cables stretching across to the back of another row of houses. Jaxx found himself being pulled back in through the window, away from escape.

  He screamed out in a mixture of rage and fear, struggling furiously. He brought both his knees up to his chest and kicked out with all his strength. His combat booted feet hit hard against something soft. He’d kicked one of the Relathon security men right in the face, dislocating his jaw. The man moaned in pain, releasing his grip. Jaxx tumbled out the window, falling five feet down to the wet, litter strewn ground.

  There was a narrow path running down between the houses. Jaxx leapt over old mattresses and torn bags of rubbish to reach the path. A shot was fired behind him. It boomed so closely that it made his ears ring. But it was another warning shot. They didn’t want to shoot him. They wanted him alive. He fell over a half broken, rotting wooden gate and rolled to his feet in the middle of the grassy path between the rows of houses. His collar struck something heavy and metallic as he got back up. He kept sprinting, bumping against the chain link fencing that suddenly separated both sides of the path.

  The moonlight glinted off the metal rail running down the middle of the path. It was shiny and Jaxx could smell diesel fuel. He realised he was following an old monorail track. Behind him there were more shouts, but they seemed further back than before. He looked back to check. The Relathons had not followed him onto the track. Jaxx brushed his hand against his thigh. Feeling the lump of Plexiglas that had embedded itself into his flesh there. He pulled it out on the run. The pain was a quick, chilling burst that streaked up his spine. He kept running. After a few seconds something punched against his back. He felt that he was still running, but somehow he seemed to be running towards the ground instead of along the path.

  He was suddenly lying face down, spitting oil blackened grass out of his mouth and wondering what had happened. His eyes stung with the oil that now covered his forehead and cheeks. Its heavy, choking stench almost blinding him as Karr's blood had. He started to push himself to his feet, but it was like he was moving in slow motion. His left hand was beside his face, pushing against the dirt and grass. But he couldn't see his right hand, or feel it anymore. He coughed and blood choked him. He realised he’d been shot. The bullet had gone right through his right shoulder, shattering the shoulder blade and almost severing his arm. It lay in a twitching, tangled mess across his back.

  “Gods,” Jaxx snarled.

  The Relathon security forces approached slowly, carefully. They approached, short barrelled rifles held ready, crouched and ready to fire again. Jaxx picked a little yellow pill from his tunic pocket.

  Hazer Jaxx crunched the cyanide pill, but in his hast almost a third of the tablet crumbled away and fell out of his mouth. He vigorously chewed the remainder of the tablet as he twisted his body in an effort to reach the last fragments. They were disappearing into the oily grass. He sucked at the dirt as the Relathons reached him. Rough hands turned him onto his back.

  “I do not represent my… people!”

  Jaxx shouted the last word as the agonising pain started in his stomach. He doubled over in agony, a vice like cramp squeezing his stomach like an angry giant’s grasp. Seconds later, he was convulsing uncontrollably and gasping for breath. Amongst the terror and the agony, he realised that this was the end of his life. This was the end of everything.

  He did not believe that he was going to see his father. He did not believe that he was going to the end of the arrow. As a child, he’d stood alongside his father in the old village church. Two hundred times, probably more. He’d chanted words of praise, never believing them, as his father watched him with pride shining in his eyes. He’d shaken the cold, clammy hands of sunken eyed ancients who’d spoke solemnly of their deep and meaningful relationships with the Crystal Gods. He’d believed none of it, humouring the old men with a quiet contempt.

  Jaxx closed his eyes. His life was fading away. The pain in his stomach almost seemed to be happening to someone else. Darkness began to overwhelm him like a warm and heavy blanket. The feeling was not an unpleasant one. He could still feel his fingertips. They tingled as he moved them. His twitching mouth smiled awkwardly, his lips numb rubber things that he could now barely move. He stared at the sky, blinking heavily. He had to fight to keep his eyes open, just to see the stars one last time. He tried to focus on the Apex star – the home of the Gods. His smile disappeared and he breathed a curse that failed to make it past his lips. His eyes closed and he stopped moving. The last of his breath slipped out of his nostrils without a sound. The shouting voices around him were fading away, just like everything else. The pain was gone now and his mind was beginning to settle. His last confused thoughts were that there was no afterlife, glorious or otherwise. No warrior celebration, no hero’s welcome. Death was the absolute end of everything he had ever been and would ever be. And he hoped that he was wrong about all of it.

  THREE

  2186AD - Glasgow Science and Technology Centre.

  Richard Silverman sipped his cappuccino. It left a faint white film on his almost invisible rusty brown coloured moustache. He looked over the round table towards Matt and his son looked back. Richard winked and Matt winked back without a pause. They both returned to their food, neither saying a word.

  The cafeteria was busier than Richard would have liked. It was only a quarter past eleven, but he and Matt often enjoyed early lunches. Richard hated crowded places and the stresses of queuing. Eating lunch early was a small price to pay for a little peace and quiet.

  There were twenty six tables in the large glass walled dome shaped building. Only six of the tables were unoccupied and the diners had spread themselves far apart from their neighbours. Silverman spotted a pregnant mother at one of the tables. She carried a babe in arms and had a toddler kicking and struggling in a gently drifting hover chair which projected a wavering 3D model of a dancing lion cub. At another table of the tables, a blonde haired young woman seemed to be giving him occasional, furtive glances as she looked up from her coffee. She was actually more focussed on Matt, he realised after dodging her eye contact a few times. She was wearing a brightly coloured top that looked like an oversized t shirt. There were families at the other tables. Mums and dads with two, four and five children. A teenage couple had secreted themselves into the corner and were whispering and giggling to each other behind the Cokeice stand.

  He glanced at the multi-coloured woman, but they made eye contact and he looked away quickly. His gaze fell upon the middle aged mother and her young children.

  He thought about the first time that he’d seen
his son. It had been nine years since the squashed bundle of new-born baby boy had been handed to him following his wife’s c section. Full of drugs, Belinda Silverman had lain senseless as Richard had tearfully rejoiced for a lonely three seconds before heeding her frail but insistence tugging on the loose cloth of his impossibly large hospital gown.

  For some reason he did not remember the staff in the delivery room had taken his son away from him. Just for a moment, they said. Richard had been barely paying attention. Suddenly the crying new-born was gone from his arms and he was looking carefully in the direction of his wife.

  Belinda’s had looked ecstatic despite the pain and difficulty of the birth. He’d smiled and held her hand tightly. The doctor who had looked so frighteningly surprised was still standing over her, Richard remembered, and he’d known that something was still going wrong.

  He’d been careful not to watch as his wife’s insides had been exposed and instead had found himself automatically watching the faces of the staff who’d worked on her. It had hardly come as a surprise to him when their faces had registered surprise and something like alarm. He’d secretly never expected Belinda to cope with being pregnant, but somehow she had. But the most frightening time had come.

  Matt Silverman tugged his sleeve again.

  “Daaad,” The little voice said, “Dad, you’re day sleeping again!”

  Richard smiled and looked down at his son. He automatically ran his fingers through Matt’s thin copper-flecked dark brown hair before cupping the back of the small head.

  Matt was the tallest of the six boys in his class at the little village school of Dirleton in the south east of Scotland. He was also the youngest at six and a half years old.

  “Sorry babe,” Silverman smiled, “I was just thinking about something.”

  “This macaroni cheese tastes the best,” Matt said, without listening, “When we get home I want us to make macaroni cheese like this, dad. Together.”