safety of the beam, Dion dove for it,
recognizing it at the last moment as a fighter plane. A beam rifle
opened fire. Sparks showered down around him, ricocheting off the
wings. He slid beneath the plane's belly, lay flat on his own. He
recognized the plane—it belonged to one of the mercenaries, an
old rejuvenated RV. He recalled Williams's report. The mercenaries
have barricaded themselves with their spaceplanes . . .
"This
should mean I'm on Tusk's side of the battlefield." Dion
squirmed around, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone—anyone—through
the smoke and flame. A lascannon opened fire behind him. Twisting,
keeping his head down, he looked back, thought he recognized a scaly
greenish gray hide.
"Jarun!"
he shouted, and immediately went into a fit of coughing, the smoke
filling his lungs.
The firing
ceased.
"Did you
hear something?" The voice sounded oddly mechanical, and it took
Dion a moment to realize it was coming from a translator device.
"Yeah, I
thought so." The other voice was human. "Who the hell'd be
out there?"
"Jarun!"
Dion yelled desperately.
"We hear
ya! And you got just three seconds to convince us why we shouldn't
fry your hide!"
"It's Dion!
I'm looking for Tusk!"
A long
green-gray tentacle snaked out, wrapped itself around Dion's boot,
and pulled the young man across the deck. A human hand grabbed hold
of his collar, dragged him behind a hastily built barricade
consisting of several large metal barrels.
Lying on his
back, breathless, Dion stared into the four eyes of the Jarun, the
two eyes of a human, and the single barrel of a beam rifle.
"It is the kid," the Jarun said through his translator, his actual
voice sounding like numerous screeching cats fighting inside a well.
"What kid?"
the human demanded, holding the weapon aimed at Dion's head.
"Friend of
Tusk's. He's okay. "
"Yeah? What
the hell's he doin' dressed up like one of the Warlord's pet
monkeys?"
"It's a
long story, Reefer, put down the gun. Hey, kid. Next time, don't
crawl under the belly of a plane for cover. One laser hit in the fuel
tank and—" The alien made a sound that approximated the
screeching cats hitting bottom.
Dion glanced
back, gulped, and nodded. "Where's Tusk?"
"Hell,
kid"—Reefer aimed the gun back in what Dion supposed was
the general direction of the enemy—"I don't even know
where I am. You know, Xrmt?"
"No."
The Jarun fired a searing beam into smoke-filled darkness.
"How about
General Dixter?"
"Dead,"
Reefer said shortly.
"Dead!"
Dion gasped, feeling as though someone had punched him hard in the
stomach.
"Cut in two
by a beam rifle."
"Naw, that
was Colonel Mudahby," the Jarun protested.
"Heard it
was Dixter," Reefer argued, A laser bolt slammed into a metal
beam overhead, showering sparks all around them, Dion scrunched down
as flat as possible on the deck, resenting the very pockets on his
flight suit that wouldn't let him flatten down farther,
"Dixter got
blown apart by a grenade."
The Jarun fired.
Reefer fired.
Dion started
breathing again. These two had no idea what was going on! Again he
remembered what he'd overheard about the battle from Captain
Williams's conversation with Admiral Aks. If Dixter was anywhere,
he'd probably be on Charlie deck.
"Any idea
how to reach the others?" Dion shouted over the firing.
"What
others?"
"Our people
fighting on Charlie deck!"
"What deck
we on?"
"Delta,"
Dion began, then realized his questions were futile. Closing his
eves, he tried to envision the situation. The alien must have landed
his RV facing the front of the hangar. That was standard procedure.
Which meant Charlie deck had to be somewhere to his left.
"Thanks,"
he said, and crawled off under the protective cover of the Jarun's
fire.
Moving to his
left, he saw that he had guessed correctly. The huge hangar bay doors
towered over him, sealed shut, trapping those inside. The smoke was
thinner back here, the firing was not as concentrated, and
recognizing it at the last moment as a fighter plane. A beam rifle
opened fire. Sparks showered down around him, ricocheting off the
wings. He slid beneath the plane's belly, lay flat on his own. He
recognized the plane—it belonged to one of the mercenaries, an
old rejuvenated RV. He recalled Williams's report. The mercenaries
have barricaded themselves with their spaceplanes . . .
"This
should mean I'm on Tusk's side of the battlefield." Dion
squirmed around, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone—anyone—through
the smoke and flame. A lascannon opened fire behind him. Twisting,
keeping his head down, he looked back, thought he recognized a scaly
greenish gray hide.
"Jarun!"
he shouted, and immediately went into a fit of coughing, the smoke
filling his lungs.
The firing
ceased.
"Did you
hear something?" The voice sounded oddly mechanical, and it took
Dion a moment to realize it was coming from a translator device.
"Yeah, I
thought so." The other voice was human. "Who the hell'd be
out there?"
"Jarun!"
Dion yelled desperately.
"We hear
ya! And you got just three seconds to convince us why we shouldn't
fry your hide!"
"It's Dion!
I'm looking for Tusk!"
A long
green-gray tentacle snaked out, wrapped itself around Dion's boot,
and pulled the young man across the deck. A human hand grabbed hold
of his collar, dragged him behind a hastily built barricade
consisting of several large metal barrels.
Lying on his
back, breathless, Dion stared into the four eyes of the Jarun, the
two eyes of a human, and the single barrel of a beam rifle.
"It is the kid," the Jarun said through his translator, his actual
voice sounding like numerous screeching cats fighting inside a well.
"What kid?"
the human demanded, holding the weapon aimed at Dion's head.
"Friend of
Tusk's. He's okay. "
"Yeah? What
the hell's he doin' dressed up like one of the Warlord's pet
monkeys?"
"It's a
long story, Reefer, put down the gun. Hey, kid. Next time, don't
crawl under the belly of a plane for cover. One laser hit in the fuel
tank and—" The alien made a sound that approximated the
screeching cats hitting bottom.
Dion glanced
back, gulped, and nodded. "Where's Tusk?"
"Hell,
kid"—Reefer aimed the gun back in what Dion supposed was
the general direction of the enemy—"I don't even know
where I am. You know, Xrmt?"
"No."
The Jarun fired a searing beam into smoke-filled darkness.
"How about
General Dixter?"
"Dead,"
Reefer said shortly.
"Dead!"
Dion gasped, feeling as though someone had punched him hard in the
stomach.
"Cut in two
by a beam rifle."
"Naw, that
was Colonel Mudahby," the Jarun protested.
"Heard it
was Dixter," Reefer argued, A laser bolt slammed into a metal
beam overhead, showering sparks all around them, Dion scrunched down
as flat as possible on the deck, resenting the very pockets on his
flight suit that wouldn't let him flatten down farther,
"Dixter got
blown apart by a grenade."
The Jarun fired.
Reefer fired.
Dion started
breathing again. These two had no idea what was going on! Again he
remembered what he'd overheard about the battle from Captain
Williams's conversation with Admiral Aks. If Dixter was anywhere,
he'd probably be on Charlie deck.
"Any idea
how to reach the others?" Dion shouted over the firing.
"What
others?"
"Our people
fighting on Charlie deck!"
"What deck
we on?"
"Delta,"
Dion began, then realized his questions were futile. Closing his
eves, he tried to envision the situation. The alien must have landed
his RV facing the front of the hangar. That was standard procedure.
Which meant Charlie deck had to be somewhere to his left.
"Thanks,"
he said, and crawled off under the protective cover of the Jarun's
fire.
Moving to his
left, he saw that he had guessed correctly. The huge hangar bay doors
towered over him, sealed shut, trapping those inside. The smoke was
thinner back here, the firing was not as concentrated, and
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