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.
