stopped, except for the hope that the chocolate they’d stolen would
turn out to be chocolate. His last musing, “I’ll get you, Bast.”
CHAPTER 19
The force of being spat out of the
Lepper System plastered Craze to the back of his seat on the bridge. He had
hibernated through the nine days it took to travel to Mortua ,
a small, rocky orb no bigger than an insignificant moon. It orbited a cheery,
little star that shone too tiny and dim to be seen from the solar system next
door. No water or plant life showed on the surface of Mortua ,
but Sequi’s scans picked up a dome surrounding the
docking facility.
Six other planets resided in the
system, trifling and fractured, little more than boulders. The passage from the
Lepper exit to Mortua was riddled with their
remnants. Some of the refuse among the rock and ice was mechanical—ships and
ship parts reeling in the unfiltered sunlight, cartwheeling and tumbling.
Talos sent a greeting to the
docking facility asking for permission to land. He didn’t get an immediate
answer, so placed the Sequi in orbit around the craggy globe, going round and
round with the debris of dead ships.
Hollowed out haulers afforded
glimpses of destroyed interiors, bygone events with flame and explosions the
crews could not have survived. Craze averted his gaze from the violence,
finding no comfort in barracks and crew seats floating by themselves. Dead
consoles twirled with seized-up engines and discarded hull plates. It didn’t
bode well for him and the aviars, or for whoever inhabited Mortua .
“Do you think the Fo’wo’s harmed
them? The folks on the planet?” Craze asked.
Dactyl tugged at the sleeves of his
beige shirt. The cuffs had been shorn off to accommodate his short arms. “No
... maybe. It’s hard to remember they not like us.” He plucked lint from his
hard-used pants.
“How do you mean?”
“For the most part, from what I’ve
heard ‘n seen, they find it easier to cross the line ‘n kill than we do.
Although that’s changed some since the war. Backworlders be more bloodthirsty
than they used to be. Especially out here on the Edge. Most folks have guns
that kill out here.”
“Damn shame the Fo’wo’s polluted us
like that. Do you think it’s true that the Fo’wo’s always aimed to wipe us
out?”
“I know so. My father said. He was
a veteran.” Dactyl absently rubbed his left arm.
The squat man claimed to be of the
Quatten race. Bred for worlds with high gravity, he had to make a conscious
effort to keep his strength in check. Craze found it amusing when the Quatten
bent a chair, but he didn’t dare laugh. A punch from Dactyl would hurt ten
times worse.
“Thank him for his service.” Craze
meant it, appreciating every Backworlder that had taken on the fight. Maybe
their side had officially lost, but they were still here.
Dactyl pressed his lips together until
they disappeared. “He’s dead now. Died a few years back. Complications from old
war injuries. The Fo’wo’s had no qualms about deploying biological weapons.”
His husky voice broke when speaking of his father, then heated up with anger as
he mentioned the Fo’wo’s and their dastardly armaments. He rubbed at his left
bicep.
Craze winced. He’d seen the plagues
and deformities on Siegna, which had its share of veterans. Every Backworld
did. The Quatten seemed sincere, seemed like he was out here to make the
Backworlds a better place by bringing the wanted to justice. Craze thought the
profession noble, but only if the lawman moved out of his way.
Dactyl’s dark brown eyes squinted
at Mortua and the data Sequi’s scanners displayed on the consoles. “To be polite, we give them some time to
answer. Then we land anyway,” he said to Talos. He pulled out a Backworld
Assembled Authorities representative badge. “This allows us to land without
bothers.”
The four of them ate a meal
together while waiting, dried fish flakes steeped in hot water and some
turn out to be chocolate. His last musing, “I’ll get you, Bast.”
CHAPTER 19
The force of being spat out of the
Lepper System plastered Craze to the back of his seat on the bridge. He had
hibernated through the nine days it took to travel to Mortua ,
a small, rocky orb no bigger than an insignificant moon. It orbited a cheery,
little star that shone too tiny and dim to be seen from the solar system next
door. No water or plant life showed on the surface of Mortua ,
but Sequi’s scans picked up a dome surrounding the
docking facility.
Six other planets resided in the
system, trifling and fractured, little more than boulders. The passage from the
Lepper exit to Mortua was riddled with their
remnants. Some of the refuse among the rock and ice was mechanical—ships and
ship parts reeling in the unfiltered sunlight, cartwheeling and tumbling.
Talos sent a greeting to the
docking facility asking for permission to land. He didn’t get an immediate
answer, so placed the Sequi in orbit around the craggy globe, going round and
round with the debris of dead ships.
Hollowed out haulers afforded
glimpses of destroyed interiors, bygone events with flame and explosions the
crews could not have survived. Craze averted his gaze from the violence,
finding no comfort in barracks and crew seats floating by themselves. Dead
consoles twirled with seized-up engines and discarded hull plates. It didn’t
bode well for him and the aviars, or for whoever inhabited Mortua .
“Do you think the Fo’wo’s harmed
them? The folks on the planet?” Craze asked.
Dactyl tugged at the sleeves of his
beige shirt. The cuffs had been shorn off to accommodate his short arms. “No
... maybe. It’s hard to remember they not like us.” He plucked lint from his
hard-used pants.
“How do you mean?”
“For the most part, from what I’ve
heard ‘n seen, they find it easier to cross the line ‘n kill than we do.
Although that’s changed some since the war. Backworlders be more bloodthirsty
than they used to be. Especially out here on the Edge. Most folks have guns
that kill out here.”
“Damn shame the Fo’wo’s polluted us
like that. Do you think it’s true that the Fo’wo’s always aimed to wipe us
out?”
“I know so. My father said. He was
a veteran.” Dactyl absently rubbed his left arm.
The squat man claimed to be of the
Quatten race. Bred for worlds with high gravity, he had to make a conscious
effort to keep his strength in check. Craze found it amusing when the Quatten
bent a chair, but he didn’t dare laugh. A punch from Dactyl would hurt ten
times worse.
“Thank him for his service.” Craze
meant it, appreciating every Backworlder that had taken on the fight. Maybe
their side had officially lost, but they were still here.
Dactyl pressed his lips together until
they disappeared. “He’s dead now. Died a few years back. Complications from old
war injuries. The Fo’wo’s had no qualms about deploying biological weapons.”
His husky voice broke when speaking of his father, then heated up with anger as
he mentioned the Fo’wo’s and their dastardly armaments. He rubbed at his left
bicep.
Craze winced. He’d seen the plagues
and deformities on Siegna, which had its share of veterans. Every Backworld
did. The Quatten seemed sincere, seemed like he was out here to make the
Backworlds a better place by bringing the wanted to justice. Craze thought the
profession noble, but only if the lawman moved out of his way.
Dactyl’s dark brown eyes squinted
at Mortua and the data Sequi’s scanners displayed on the consoles. “To be polite, we give them some time to
answer. Then we land anyway,” he said to Talos. He pulled out a Backworld
Assembled Authorities representative badge. “This allows us to land without
bothers.”
The four of them ate a meal
together while waiting, dried fish flakes steeped in hot water and some
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