He's alive! But poor Dramok Ilid is far from well.
* * * *
Spyship
shuttle, location unknown
Dramok Ilid opened his eyes, trading unfeeling black for agony and a strobing red mosaic of discordant and blurred shapes. He wondered where he was, but the hurt was too great to rise and examine his surroundings.
“Help,” he tried to call. His voice emerged garbled, an injured animal’s moan.
The utter silence told him he was alone. Slowly, his vision came into focus, but what he saw didn’t make any greater sense. Wiring harnesses hung from above, loops and thick strands of black, their contents spewed in silvery tassels. He gradually made sense of what looked like a distorted and crazy-cornered shuttle’s cockpit.
Slowly, the fog in his brain dissipated so he could remember. The orderly Imdiko Darir had released him from the stasis field in which he’d been imprisoned while Dr. Umen…rather, the awful entity puppeting Umen…had carried out painful and disfiguring experiments. Ilid and Darir had gone to Engineering in the effort to sabotage the spyship, which had been taken over by shadowy figures enslaving most of the crew. They’d been cornered, and during the fight to escape, Darir had accidentally fired on a plasma conduit as he was overcome by the Darks. A chain reaction had guaranteed the ship’s destruction, and Ilid had been trying to escape on board a shuttle…this shuttle…as the spyship blew apart around it.
He was alive. The shuttle had somehow held together, more or less, and Dramok Ilid was alive to tell the tale.
Maybe not. He was in excruciating pain from head to toe. He sat in the cockpit seat and had a vague memory of being jerked from it and slammed to the control panel his head and chest now rested on before blessed darkness had closed in.
He might have remained draped on the controls, hoping and waiting for unconsciousness to rescue him, but the knowledge a medical kit was stowed on board goaded him. There would be a supply of pain-inhibiting drugs in the kit. If he were dosed, he could think clearly enough to fly the shuttle to safety. If it proved incapable of flying, he could attempt to attract rescue.
Already wincing in anticipation of pain, Ilid forced himself to rise from the control panel. It was worse than he’d expected. The howl of agony in his belly and chest rose to a shriek. A thin scream squeezed between his gritted teeth. He tasted blood, but he continued to push upright on a crooked, broken arm. If he quit, he knew he wouldn’t attempt to rise again. He’d simply lie there and wait to die.
Somehow, he managed to sit up until his shoulders met the seat’s backrest. Ilid stopped moving then, panting from the agony of breathing and spitting blood. He was uncaring of the flood of tears pouring down his cheeks. Maybe it was beneath a Dramok to cry, but had anyone been around to dare to say so, Ilid would have told them to go fuck themselves dry.
He hurt, body and soul. He’d cry every second of whatever was left of his miserable life if he wanted.
The torment refused to dull, but as the minutes passed, Ilid grew accustomed to its vicious grip sufficiently to consider his next move. First, he had a look around the cockpit as much as the hurt in his neck would allow. He could barely turn his head to the left, but he sat on that side of the space, so most of what he needed to see there was in front of him.
The console was dark but for a few blinking indicators. There was a slight indentation he took to be where he’d landed on it. Considering military shuttles were built to withstand the punches of temperamental Nobeks, his insides should have been pulverized by the blow.
As bad as he hurt, they probably had been. The anguish of breathing assured him he’d broken a number of ribs, if not all. He guessed only his armored uniform had saved his life.
Ilid licked his lips. He was no mechanic, but the wiring waving in his face from the ceiling and the random flashes of the console’s grid told him the shuttle was probably no more than a hunk of space junk. It would be a miracle if anything worked. He hated to confirm nothing would.
Nonetheless, he spoke, his voice hoarse. “Computer, status of shuttle.”
Fresh tears burst forth when an electronic voice miraculously answered him. “Shuttle’s helm and navigation are offline. Communications relay is offline. Backup power is damaged, but able to sustain life support systems.”
“For how long?” Ilid sniffled.
“At current levels, one week. Levels are at minimal for the sole occupant’s needs.”
One week, if his internal injuries allowed him to live. It wasn’t impossible a ship would happen along if he were in sensor range of a well-used travel route. Lacking navigation, he couldn’t confirm he was anywhere near the usual lanes of space traffic. He hadn’t learned if the hijacked spyship had been using such a lane when it had blown up. Even if it had, there was no telling how far the shuttle had drifted on the blast wave.
It left him only one option. “Is the vessel’s distress signal functional?”
“Affirmative.”
“Activate it.”
“Distress signal activated.”
He’d done what he could to invite rescue. Bereft of other distractions, the torture of his injuries returned. He needed those pain meds.
First, he’d have to discover whether he could reach them. Ilid concentrated on his legs, flexing his toes in their knee-high boots, then his knees. Nothing there felt broken as far as he could tell. Just sore, as if he’d run several miles the day before.
Checking his hip joints by lifting his thighs an inch or so from the seat assured him his upper legs were also not badly injured, but the movement set off horrific agony in his stomach and lower back. Ilid yelled to the red-tinged surroundings a string of expletives fit to shock his mother.
His mother. He didn’t want to think of her worrying about him. The message he’d managed to send prior to everything going to hell must have made her frantic. Or maybe his Nobek father hadn’t told her of it, though Ilid had no doubt Gruthep would have understood something was terribly wrong with his situation.
Had Gruthep been able to convince the fleet? Surely another spyship would be sent to check when Ilid’s failed to check in. As a lowly ensign, however, he had no idea how often they would have done so. Who knew how long before they were reported as missing?
A week until life support ran out was abysmally long to be in such pain…and woefully short to be found. Tears welled in his eyes. He resolutely knuckled them away. All he could do was concentrate on a single step at a time. For now, he’d focus on getting the agony under control.
He had one good arm. The other was bent wrong, and he couldn’t make his fingers on that side move. No matter. He could walk, if his back would support him.
Bracing for terrible pain, he set his feet and readied the hand of his unbroken arm on his chair’s armrest. He drew a slow breath, as deep as his busted ribs and tormented insides allowed. Clenching his teeth and holding the breath, he used his legs and arm to thrust himself to standing.
He screamed as his guts threatened to rip apart. His stomach heaved, and he puked blood-tinged threads. His existence was hellish torment. Blackness crept in from his peripheral vision, and for a nightmarish instant, Ilid thought he was surrounded by the alien shadows that had taken over his ship.
A wave of dizziness comforted him. There were no Darks, but he was on the verge of passing out. For a moment, the pain receded, and he nearly gave in to unconsciousness as he wavered.
If you go down, you won’t get up. You didn’t fight this far to give up, did you?
The thought, spoken in Gruthep’s voice, forced him to fight the blessed oblivion. Ilid wanted his parents, especially his Nobek and Dramok fathers, to be proud of him. If he were found, whether dead or alive, he wanted them to know he’d battled until he no longer could.
He managed to stay on his feet despite his head pounding as if it would explode, despite the waves of faintness, despite the feeling his guts and lungs were being raked by claws. He held onto the backrest of his chair with a white-knuckled grip. His knees wobbled, but he remained standing.
He concentrated on his breathing, willing it to calm the thundering pulse in his ears. As he did so, he looked in the shuttle’s passenger cabin.
A simple carrier for the spyship’s away missions, it possessed eight seats, separated in two rows. Along the rear wall was a large, built-in floor bin. Smaller cabinet storage hung over it. Having never been on an away team, Ilid was unsure what supplies were on board beyond an emergency medical kit. For the moment, the kit was all he cared about.
The cabin was damaged, part of its ceiling caved in, chunks of its lighting panels dumped on that side’s seats. The metal of the inner hull showed, dented but apparently unbreeched. Had the merest pinprick of a hole been present, Ilid would have been dead.
Considering the pain, it might have been a kindness if the vacuum of space had filled the shuttle.
He took a lurching step, still holding onto his chair. He moaned, but the jab of various pains in response to movement were minor compared to the blast of agony he’d suffered standing up. He grasped the doorframe between cockpit and cabin and lurched his other foot forward.
He had a bad moment when he had to walk two steps without anything to hold onto. His balance shifted, and he staggered sideways between the cockpit and the first of the seats in the cabin. He flailed as his surroundings went topsy-turvy. Only by using the grimmest concentration was he able to lunge forward and grab a seat.
The violent motion woke agony, and he screeched. His knees threatened to buckle. He leaned hard on the back of the seat, though it pressed painfully against his battered chest. He spit blood again.
Ilid slowly recovered enough to resume. A few steps, each affording handholds, and he’d reach the bins. Just a few steps.
Each was excruciating, both in effort and slowness, however. He was forced to carefully navigate the broken ceiling components littering the floor. Triumph, as savage as his anguish, rose in him when he grasped the lid of the floor bin. He laughed at the ridiculous notion of victory to have walked no more than fifteen feet. The hysterical edge to his barked hilarity scared him into shutting up.
Because the floor storage was the better support, Ilid leaned his hip on it and swung open the door to the closest wall cabinet. His gaze slid over well-organized stores of water and food ration pouches, power chargers for handheld computers and com units, small hand tools, and…there. In the corner, the red icon of a medical scanner on its lid, was an emergency first aid kit.
Ilid grabbed it and laid it on the floor bin’s lid. He wrenched it open. Because only one hand was operational, his progress in loading a tube of pain inhibitor in the inhaler was horrifically slow. He was crying again before it finally, mercifully locked in place.
He wrapped his lips around the device’s mouthpiece and depressed the plunger, ignoring the bolt of pain in his chest and gut to inhale the blast of mist as deeply as possible. He took another hit and a third.
The jagged pain dulled. Ilid moaned in relief. Again, when it halved. When agony quieted to a dull ache, he had another dose.
He caught himself sinking, his ass sliding down the front of the floor bin toward the floor. He stood up straight, marveling at the lack of pain as he did so. It was a lie. He was still badly injured, but he no longer felt it. He was close to giddy from the lack of pain.
Get a grip. You have work to do while it lasts, because you won’t maintain this level.
No, he wouldn’t, certainly not for a week. A check of the emergency kit revealed three additional canisters of inhibitor, each possessing a mere ten doses. He’d damned near used half of his initial canister already. Considering a ten-day week, twenty-seven hours a day, and thirty-six doses left…
One dose, every eight hours if he wasn’t found before life support ran out. He suspected a single dose wouldn’t do much to keep him free of agony.
There was no help for it. As long as he could stand and maintain mobility, Ilid had tasks to perform. He’d enjoy his brief respite while it lasted and get some work done.
He moved carefully as he removed food and water rations from the bin, mindful he could make his injuries worse when he didn’t feel them. He tried ignore the fact of torment in his near future.
* * * *
The alien force dubbed the Darks has grabbed control of key positions on Kalquor and the Galactic Council of Planets. Other leaders are still unaware of the threat among them. The galaxy is wide open for destruction by an unfathomable enemy.
Former emperor Nobek Yuder has suspicions, but due to restrictions placed on him after his prison sentence, he can only stand by and watch helplessly. A renegade Royal Councilman has designs to bring him back to the political arena, but doing so could destabilize the Kalquorian Empire, leaving it vulnerable to invasion.
Meanwhile, one man on the brink of death, the only man who can detect the nearly invisible Darks, is pulled from a lifeless shuttle by Captains Kila and Nako. His incredible story tells them they’re in a race against time to save not only the empire but the whole galaxy…but are they already too late?
On Earth II, Governor Stacy Nichol’s relationship with Clan Rihep continues to grow. So does the danger, as opponents make deadly moves against her and the orbiting Kalquorian station where the clan lives. Nobek Kuran is determined to keep his clanmates and would-be lifemate safe, but how can he stop a faceless enemy?
Relationships, old and new, are strained to the breaking point at a time when Earthers and Kalquorians need each other more than ever. The Darks are closing in, and no one is ready to oppose them.
Releasing November 3. Pre-order now at Amazon, Amazon UK, Nook, Smashwords, Kobo, Apple, and print.
