Escape from Olympus (The Falken Chronicles Book 2) Page 9

  “You guys couldn’t find any other oxygen sources on board?” Greban asked. He looked over at Shep and Kuda, who had a heavy-duty binder on the floor between them.

  “No,” Shep said. “I mean, you checked the master manual, too. We went over it twice, and couldn’t find anything.”

  “We can’t stay here,” Falken repeated. “Our only hope is to try for the research center.”

  “It’s at the base of the mountain, right?” Vina asked.

  “Yeah,” Falken said. “Look, it’s shitty, I know. But it’s better than staying here and watching our oxygen tanks run dry.”

  “Falken’s right. I say we head for the research center,” Kuda said.

  “Same,” Shep agreed.

  “Research center,” Raynard echoed.

  Reluctantly, Ed nodded.

  “Vina?” Greban asked.

  “I’m going wherever Falken’s going,” she said.

  Greban sighed. “So be it.” He reached down and switched his oxygen supply off.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Falken asked.

  “Saving your oxygen.” Greban gestured at his twisted ankle. “I can’t walk on my own, and I’m not going to endanger the rest of you by making you carry me. Take my mask and get going.”

  “Who said anything about walking?” Falken asked, reaching across to turn his oxygen back on. “We’re going to take the truck.”

  “What? Where’s the truck?” Greban asked.

  “Where we left it,” Falken said. “On the far side of the mountain. I’m going to go get it, and you’re all staying right here until I get back.”

  Chapter 14

  Falken switched out his oxygen mask for one of the unused ones, taking a moment to pull the straps over his head comfortably snug.

  “Full tank of gas,” Raynard told him, tapping on the oxygen bottle’s indicator gauge.

  “Great,” Falken said. “Let’s hope I don’t need that much time.”

  “One less thing to worry about, right?” Raynard asked.

  “Right,” Falken agreed.

  Raynard slipped the oxygen tank into Falken’s backpack, then zipped the pack closed, leaving a small hole for the air hose connected to Falken’s mask.

  “Don’t forget this,” Shep said, holding out Falken’s noise cancellation staff.

  “Thanks,” Falken said. He slipped the staff over his head, settling it across his chest. Then he cinched the pack’s straps tight, and jumped up and down several times experimentally. A tiny clink-clink¬-clink sounded with each jump.

  “You hear that?” Falken asked.

  Raynard nodded. “Yeah. The zipper pulls are tapping together.”

  “Wrap ‘em,” Falken said.

  Ed handed Raynard a roll of tape from the medical kit on the floor. The photojournalist tore off a strip, wrapping it around the metal ends of the zippers. Falken jumped again, and this time, heard only the rustling of his clothing rubbing against the bag’s straps.

  “That’ll have to do,” he said.

  Vina and Kuda appeared from inside the sensory displacement room, supporting Greban between them. Greban shook his head with chagrin.

  “I can’t get any of the pods to start,” he said. “It would have been so perfect – displace back into your proxy sitting in the truck, just start up, and drive over here.”

  “It was a good idea,” Falken agreed.

  “Maybe we can find some working batteries, and jury-rig a power source,” Greban said.

  “If you want something to do while I’m gone, go ahead and try,” Falken said. “But I don’t think we can afford to wait around and hope that works.”

  “No,” Greban agreed, after a moment. He held out his hand, and Falken took it. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” Falken said. “If I’m not back in an hour, you guys need to head out to the mountain on your own.”

  “Be safe,” Vina said. “Come back for us.”

  Shep patted him on the shoulder, and Falken smiled. He took a deep breath. “See you guys soon.”

  He stepped inside the airlock and sealed the inner door shut, then opened the outer door. Outside, a light wind ruffled a patch of mushrooms near the wrecked hull. A set of heavy, dark clouds had begun to set in around Mount Olympus, obscuring the mountain’s peak.

  Ready to set a new personal best? Falken thought. His eyes narrowed, his mouth set in a grim line. He flicked the noise cancellation staff on, and the gentle noise of his air tank faded. Falken stepped down onto the rocky ground and set off.

  * * *

  “Hylie!” Quiss’ voice was tense with uncharacteristic urgency.

  “Coming,” the captain of the Adrenaline Junkies called, dropping her computer on the bunk in her cabin and hurrying into the ship’s cockpit. She wore a set of tiger-striped camouflage fatigues with the company’s logo embroidered on them, and her long black hair was braided on one side of her head.

  Quiss stood over a flat display table that showed a high-resolution picture of Olympus, overlaid with several graphical symbols. In the dark of the cockpit, the light from the display lit his face from beneath, giving him a sinister air. He pointed at a flashing red icon marked Ecolympus. “I’ve got a heat signature outside the wreck again.”

  “Dragons?” she asked.

  “No,” Quiss said. “Human.”

  Hylie pushed a button on the screen. “Switch to visual,” she ordered, and the computer chirped in response. The picture changed, cycling through several different views rapidly. “Zoom in.”

  “I don’t know if our cameras have a good angle on it yet,” Quiss said. “We haven’t quite finished maneuvering into our new orbit.”

  But an image appeared a moment later on the screen, of a tall man stepping through waist-high fungi, with a pack on his back.

  “Falken, you crazy bastard,” Hylie breathed.

  “What the hell is he doing? Why did he leave the ship?”

  Hylie ignored him, and pressed another button. “Ecolympus, Ecolympus, this is Adrenaline Junkies. Come in, over.”

  Quiss shook his head. “We haven’t gotten a signal from them in over an hour.”

  Hylie switched the view again, back to the terrain map. She traced a line on the map away from the wrecked ship.

  “He’s heading toward … the mountain?” Quiss frowned. “That makes no sense. Unless he abandoned everyone else and is just hoping to reach the research center on his own.”

  “Does that sound like something Falken would do?” Hylie asked.

  “No,” Quiss admitted. “Sounds like something I would do.”

  Hylie snorted. She bent closer to the map, and continued to trace a line in the direction Falken was traveling. “No. He’s headed for their truck.”

  “Storm’s coming in,” Quiss observed. “Those clouds are gonna block visuals in a few minutes. Hylie, we gotta do something.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed. “Go prep the displacement pods.”

  * * *

  Falken reached a fast-flowing stream and paused. Despite his slow, deliberate pace, he was breathing hard, sweating from the effort of concentrating. He looked to his left and right, but could see no easy way to cross the stream. He braced himself and then leaped, clearing it by more than four feet. His excessive momentum carried him into a stand of curved green mushrooms on the far side. They effectively broke his fall, but the noise of several stalks breaking made Falken wince.

  You’re not in a proxy, dumbass. You weigh almost half what you usually do. Gotta be more careful in this lower gravity.

  He remembered back to his first days on Olympus, working at the research center. Adjusting to the lower gravity had been a challenge then, too – he had found himself bumping his head on the ceilings of tunnels as he jogged between rooms, and throwing items twice as far as he had meant to.

  But at least then I was safely inside the mountain.

  Falken picked himself up out of the broken mushrooms and scanned the sky. The storm clouds had rolled in f
ully now. The wind had died down and the air felt heavy, expectant.

  Rain coming? That would give me a fighting chance – the noise from the rain would help hide my movement.

  Falken headed around a crumbling rock column, skirting a waterfall on one side before emerging into a small open space ringed with boulders. He spotted a torsten on the far side of the clearing, its large cylindrical body oozing amongst the rocks, like a legless hippo.

  He almost missed the warning, watching the torsten, but at the last second, he heard the flap of a wing, and dove to the earth, flattening himself against the lichen. A dark shadow flashed past, the speed of its passing whipping him with a gust of wind. The dragon turned hard, and landed on a stone outcropping directly across from him, turning its long neck to face him. Falken stayed still – flat on the ground. The dragon was small – just slightly larger than Falken himself.

  Young still. But the young ones are usually the fastest. And I’ve been killed by smaller dragons.

  The dragon sniffed the air, gauging the distance to Falken and hunching down on its hind legs, coiling itself like a spring. Falken pushed himself to his knees slowly, and hefted a large rock in one hand, before straightening back up.

  Well? Come and get it.

  As if on cue, the dragon leapt into the air, vaulting over the space between them with shocking speed. Falken dodged to his right, and swung the rock at the incoming predator. He managed to connect with the beast’s jaw, and the dragon tumbled end over end across the ground.

  Falken gasped at a tearing pain on his left shoulder – the dragon had cut him a gaping wound with its rear claws. The dragon shrieked in anger, but it remained on the ground, tangled in its own wings. Falken dashed across the clearing toward the torsten, and slid to a stop beside the creature. He lay down hurriedly, then reached up and, with a massive effort, tilted the slug so that it lay partially across him. Slick mucus dripped off the torsten’s skin – its weight threatened to crush him, but Falken willed himself to remain still. The dragon reappeared a moment later, circling the clearing just off the ground. It landed on first one rock formation and then another, swiveling its ears, searching.

  The torsten, oblivious, continued to slide slowly toward another patch of lichen, but Falken took hold of its side and allowed himself to be dragged along with it, scraping his back painfully against the rocks as they moved. The dragon vaulted into the air once more, and this time it landed squarely on the torsten’s back, sinking its claws in deep. The torsten bellowed in pain and alarm, but the dragon held on.

  Shit. He’s found me again. And now I’m stuck under this fucking thing!

  The dragon laid its snout along the torsten and sniffed deeply, working its way slowly from one end to another. Falken felt the dragon’s jaw brush against his arm, and he saw the creature’s sharp teeth pass just inches from his face. Then, with a final snort of frustration, the dragon took off, and winged its way up toward the clouds. Falken forced himself to wait nearly two minutes, while the torsten grunted in pain and then resumed its journey. This time, Falken let it continue without him. He wiped a film of slime from his face and suppressed a gag.

  Fuck. That was close.

  * * *

  Falken saw two more dragons on his trek to the vehicle. The first was flying at a great height, just below the cloud layer, and soon thereafter disappeared back into the clouds. The second was nearly half a mile distant, and fully absorbed with eating the faun it had just caught. Falken gave it a wide berth anyway, before returning to his original heading. Then, when nearly half of his oxygen bottle had been spent, he spied the familiar green paint of the Ecolympus safari truck peeking out from behind a rock column several hundred yards ahead of him.

  He breathed a sigh of relief, but forced himself not to speed up – he continued to test each step before he took it, and scanned the gray sky above constantly. After another few minutes, he stepped around the rock formation at the hood of the truck.

  Falken’s jaw dropped at the sight of the carnage in front of him. The vehicle’s clear glass canopy was shattered, the seats’ upholstery ripped and torn. All of the proxies in the vehicle had been viciously torn apart from the waist up, ravaged where they sat, still buckled into their places. One side of the truck’s frame was bent, crushed in by some massive, unseen force.

  Jesus Christ. This thing might not even be drivable anymore. What the hell happened here?

  Then, a brown form that Falken had mistaken for another rock column unfolded itself, slowly and deliberately. Hind legs as thick as pylons straightened, and a pair of leathery wings spread into the air on either side of the dragon’s body, blocking out the sky. Fifty feet above him, the dragon’s long neck ended in a pointed snout half the size of the safari truck itself, lined with teeth as big as butcher knives.

  Falken froze, but above him, the dragon’s ears were both pointed straight down at him, unswerving.

  She’s got me. She was waiting for me.

  Every instinct in Falken told him to run, but his legs felt rooted to the spot. With an effort of will, he tore his gaze away from the winged behemoth towering over him, and glanced toward the open compartment of the truck.

  You just have to make it inside the truck, and activate the auto-pilot. Just stay alive long enough to send it back to the others.

  He glanced back up at the dragon. Falken could feel her breath on his face – it whistled out between her dagger-like teeth, carrying an odor of carrion and decay. She was a female – he could tell by the shape of her tail, which lay coiled around a wide stone column a dozen feet across.

  The mother of all dragons, Falken thought.

  Then he lunged for the truck.

  Chapter 15

  Chief Risley opened the door to the CGS Extremis’ wardroom and stepped inside. At the small table, he found Commander Jiyake poring over damage reports on a datapad.

  “Any word from the Liberty Belle?” Risley asked.

  “No,” Jiyake said. She checked her wristpad. “But they’re still in transit. We shouldn’t hear from them for another hour or so.”

  “Temperature’s down to zero in compartments nine and eleven,” Risley told her, sitting down at the bench across from her. “I’m having them repressurize eleven now.”

  “Okay,” she said, rubbing a tired hand across her forehead. “Did you get the systems diagnostic finished up?”

  “Yeah,” Risley said. “Everything’s operational except for the damaged compartments.”

  “Really?” Jiyake asked. “Sensors, comms, weapons?”

  “All fine,” Risley said, nodding. “Engine’s fine, maneuvering wasn’t touched. We’re basically operational, except for the massive hole in the hull.”

  “That’s a big goddamn exception,” Jiyake pointed out.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “The dry docks are both full right now,” Jiyake said, laying the datapad down on the table. “We’re gonna have to wait a couple days for a spot to open up.”

  “We’ll be in there a while, too,” Risley grunted. “Even with the crew lending a hand, we’re looking at the better part of a month for repairs. That’s a long time to go without any presence patrols in the sector.”

  “I know,” Jiyake sighed. “I already sent a request to headquarters for backup. They can probably send the crew stationed at Jefferson’s over here, have them run a patrol or two. What’s his name?”

  “Excelsior?” Risley asked.

  “No, that’s the ship. I can’t remember the commander’s name. Tall guy, used to be a racer pilot? Anyway, doesn’t matter.”

  Her wristpad vibrated. She tapped the pad’s screen. “Jiyake.”

  “Commander, this is Detective Adnan, Harrison’s PD.”

  “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “Well, ma’am, I know you’re a bit busy right now, but I was hoping you might come down to the station,” Adnan said. “I’ve got a drunk crane operator in custody here by the name of Jens. He turned himself in a few
minutes ago, and he says he’d like to apologize to you, and I wouldn’t mind asking you a few questions about the situation, too.”

  Jiyake and Risley locked eyes over the table, and Jiyake raised an eyebrow questioningly. Risley nodded at her. “Yeah, I’ll be there in five minutes,” Jiyake said.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Adnan signed off.

  “Drunk?” Risley asked, shaking his head. “How do you get so drunk you show up to work at the wrong crane station, and then smash your crane into somebody’s ship?”

  “Guess I’ll go find out,” Jiyake said. “You okay here for a bit?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Risley said. “I’m going to start rotating the crew through spacewalk shifts, see if we can’t put a temporary patch over that breach.”

  Jiyake stood, and pulled her uniform coat on. “Won’t we just have to take the patch off in a couple days when we go into dry dock?” she asked.

  “We sure will,” Risley agreed. “But for one thing, it gives the crew something to do, and they could always use more zero-g repair training. And for another, getting a patch in place means the ship will be able to handle missions around the station, should anything pop up before we go into dry dock.”

  “Fair enough,” Jiyake said. “I’ll be back in a few. If you hear from the folks on Olympus, give me a shout.”

  * * *

  In the police station’s observation room, Jiyake stared at a blank vidscreen. It flickered to life, and she saw a middle-aged man wearing dockworkers’ coveralls sitting at a table in the center of a small room. He looked tired and out of sorts – his sandy blonde hair was disheveled, his uniform wrinkled, with a stain on one of the sleeves. Detective Adnan entered the interrogation room a moment later, a cup of coffee in one hand. He set the coffee down on the table next to Jens, along with two packets of sugar.