The Starchild Read online

  Then I took the last few stairs to ground level and started across what passed for a yard full of broken wood, timber, rusted tools, a few pieces of dilapidated machinery–which had been turned into monuments of past victories and conquests–and the rising hulk of my dad’s work shed and machine shop–coming just into view from over the hill.

  It still had the original paint scheme on it along with the sign which bore the name of an old friend of the family’s, along with sand covered windows that were either beaten by the elements over the course of time, or had a few noticeable cracks in the polythene plastic coating.

  But this was my home away from home. Everything that I had which was a leftover childhood memory of my time here with my father. And mom. And Scratch Jones. Calis too. And a few other people I had called friends, racing colleagues, and sleepover buddies.

  This was where memories were made, the future was planned, and a life or two (namely mine) was given a new lease.

  But for now, I had business to attend to in the machinery shop. Taking off my pack, I put my lunch canister inside the rear Trapper pocket while fishing out a small key that had been in my family for a few generations. It was the only one that I had left which still bore a coat of arms on the facing which dated back to The Three Hundred Years War.

  A conflict which involved my ancestors from the very start.

  I still had video slides and holograph pictures of a great aunt and uncle many times removed who lived at this very house and fought for the preservation and freedom of all settlers here on the surface.

  It was a long and bloody war that had no real victors and no resolution. But it ended up costing both sides heavily and it was only six years ago that the Praetorial Senate finally (officially) put an end to the war–even though nothing had been fought over with ballistics or metal weaponry in about fifty-two years.

  Still…

  I was glad that my family lineage no longer had a sterling (and famous) reputation to uphold in the name of democracy or sanguine ideology.

  But I pushed that thought aside for the moment and focused on my immediate goals which didn’t have me or anyone else I knew going toe to toe with the Praetorial Guard on a daily basis.

  It was just me, this key, my dad’s old hover bike, and a reason to go on living.

  That was all that mattered.

  I unlocked the door and stepped inside for a second to pull the string that connected to the lightbulb overhead and the whole immediate work space was bathed in a sickly yellow light.

  I found the place as crowded as the very first day when I started redecorating and rearranging it into something that was more in line with what I wanted, and not what my father had first envisioned right before I was even born.

  Of course, this was more his idea and Calis’s–than me or my mother’s. But since he was gone and Calis had moved back to Shark’s Bay once more to take up residence in that enormous workshop of his, I had free reign to do whatever I wanted to my heart’s desire.

  Which went without saying of course.

  I was still a professional, mind you. An auto-frame pilot of the equally famous Viper X-1 and I had to play the part well.

  Especially if I wanted to keep the bills paid and such.

  Dropping the length of chain that came with the lock–with the key still in it–I went over to the tool rack that lined the south end of the work space and the bench that had everything a true mechanical like me could ever want.

  Yes, it was messy, yes it smelled like old lubricant, and yes…it was also covered in dust and sand particles, wood chips, metal filings, the usual lengths of used electrical tape–but it was my home away from home.

  My place of Zen, peace, and happiness. It was here, I could work on my projects, fine tune my dad’s old hover bike, and basically think about the upcoming races at Hurricane Flats during the off season.

  Then I left the immediate work space for the interior parking stable next door and flipped on the overhead lights. The whole area glowed with a slight reddish hue, but there was no mistaking the hulking machinery that was in its docking cradle with a large blue tarp over it.

  And covered in a thin layer of dust and wind blown sand from the concealed rafters overhead.

  I went over to the parking stable, unwrapped the chains that were holding it in place and swung open the metal gate–before stepping inside the small space between me, the side wall, and the bike itself.

  I ran a hand over the top of the machine–getting a good feel for its dimensions inside my mind and then bent down to pull the knot lines that secured the hover bike to its respective moorings.

  Once that was done, I tugged off the tarp itself and felt my heart leap with pride as I paid witness to something that my dad and Calis spent hours rebuilding from scratch so long ago.

  A beast of a machine really. But it was mine nonetheless. A last minute gift from my mother on the six year anniversary of my dad‘s absence.

  Something which neither one of us could stop or reverse course on.

  I looked at the clean and powerful lines of my pride and joy and felt the excitement rush through every pore of my body. I was really going to love riding my bike to Shark’s Bay in style today.

  It was a mutually powerful feeling every rocket jockey and racer like me got when they stepped into their natural environment and became one with the wind, the sky, and the hot blazing sand.

  I did a visual check of my machine to make sure that nothing was out of place or even damaged since its last use only two weeks ago.

  I always had to go through the motions every time I had to make a run into town–or anywhere’s else–because the thought of being stranded out in the middle of nowhere with no protection or shelter was just begging for death.

  So the process would take at least forty to forty-five minutes on top of a twenty minute system check and pre-ride warm up.

  But I had to be thorough. Like I said, anything overlooked could very well lead to disaster.

  Grabbing the clipboard off its cradle, I started flipping through the stack of pages for my last known inspection entry and found it next to my name insignia which also was emblazoned on the side of the pilot’s cockpit of my Viper X-1.

  This version was stamped with a small rubber self-inking seal and the date indicated was in or around August 4th of this year.

  That led me into a bit of confusion because I could not remember what I did that day which required a one hundred and sixty-two mile journey into the Barren Wastelands.

  But I came back without a scratch (obviously) and so that’s all that mattered.

  “Okay…” I muttered mostly to myself. “Time to get going.”

  Beginning at the rear of my bike, I did a visual check with the pen stylus that came with the clipboard and made sure that the engine cowlings were locked into place and they were not askew in any way.

  “Check, check and…check.” I murmured with personal approval. Then I looked at the bulging cover plate that decorated the rear assembly of the Havoc-4 injector system behind it.

  It was also secure. There was no indication of damage or misuse or anything and that was a particular bit of good news for me.

  This little addition to the Strokov-623 made sure that any possible getaway (in times of emergencies) would be fast, efficient, and having my quarry eat my dust every single time.

  “Check.” I murmured to myself, then ran a hand on the smooth black metal shell of the bike itself, taking a mental note of some of the imperfections and dings that came with flying sand particles, rocks, and the occasional blaster bolt that would sometimes singe the machine from time to time–when things got too hot for me to handle.

  But the thing was pretty well armored and protected and all it had at its disposal was its impressive speed and not much else.

  I remembered when Calis told me about the hover bike’s sad and tragic back story and how about the time it couldn’t even afford even a standard Class VII ballistics cannon to be mounted on the fr
ont without sacrificing both speed and overall stability. (Or tipping over in the process.)

  My father–at the time–understood how special this machine was to a little girl like myself and promised it would still deliver even though it couldn’t be properly armed.

  But I would have to be patient and wait.

  Bending down, I did a hands on check of the control vanes to the fork shaped conversion exhaust systems on each side and the forward thruster unit sandwiched between each of the metal prongs.

  There wasn’t any clear damage which I could visually see, so I marked that off as a plus in my personal column of victories and continued on the other side of the vehicle–making sure that things would still be in line with the final inspection entry at the very bottom of the list.

  Which I got to in about fifteen more minutes.

  A cursory glance at the clipboard showed everything in the green and right where it was almost two weeks ago, so I placed the clipboard back onto its dock cradle and went back to the work shed to retrieve both the key, the chain, and my pack.

  Opening one of the rear compartments, I put my pack inside it, closed, locked it and slid onto the main driver’s seat in front of the first passenger side seat and glanced down at the engine control display in front of me.

  All but one of the indicators was dark. The only one that was lit was the energy and fuel gauge. This thing ran on a specialized fuel cell that needed replenishing every few months or so. I carried a few spares in the machinery shop next door, but the rest were at Calis’s workshop in Shark’s Bay.

  He was the only one that had a fuel pad for two hundred miles in either direction for these kinds of hover bikes. They weren’t exactly a dying breed, but they weren’t in high demand or very popular with the local scene either.

  Not since the majority had been slowly phased out over the last thirty years or so.

  With that in mind, I checked something else on the display panel–making sure that it wasn’t a system glitch or anything else–and decided it was time to get going.

  I flicked the kill switch above the main panel into the off position, then thumbed the activation button on the upper right handle to turn the whole thing on.

  Nothing happened for a few seconds and I started to wonder if I did the start up routine in reverse? But then I was rewarded with a tell tale high pitched whine that told me I was right on the money the very first time.

  This satin black and blue beauty of mine came to life with the roar of a reconnaissance shuttle engine on hot stand by–the whole chassis vibrating under my seat in response. I grinned of course, liking the intoxicating high that came with having a ride like this one at my immediate fingertips.

  Then I released the bike’s primary and secondary parking brake and felt the thing lift off its docking cradle like an agile dancer. It didn’t take much effort to “walk” the hover bike out of its parking stable and out into the main area before stopping in front of the doors themselves.

  I goosed the main engine a little for effect, listening to its throaty roar and that gave it just enough momentum to gently push the doors open little bit by little bit.

  Once I was clear, I idled the bike ten feet from the work shed and came back with the chains and lock and locked things up.

  Afterwards, I climbed back on, taxied my pride and joy all the way past the house and then opened up the throttle to about twenty percent of rated maximum–once I was clear of any obstacles–and took off at a pretty respectable clip.

  ~3~

  Shark’s Bay.

  Calis McGraff took a small drag on the e-cigarette he had with him, enjoying the taste of mint and cherry blossom–while watching the sand whorls blow past the open door of his workshop.

  The streets around him were pretty empty by this time. The alert had gone out of an approaching storm from the south and every living soul within ten blocks of the settlement decided safety was a much better option than absolute foolhardiness and sought whatever shelter there was available.

  The shops and open workspaces were already closed twenty minutes ago in blind anticipation of the storm–leaving only a few unlucky stragglers behind.

  But the old man could instantly see that they weren’t sticking around either. So that left only him.

  He turned around and shut the door, then locked it behind him while carrying his vapor pen in one hand and a small plasma torch in the other.

  There was no real sense in taking a break at this time. The real action was still three hours away and that left Calis with plenty of opportunities to continue on with his current project in Bay Number Three–while the shop’s main power systems still held.

  Looking up as far as his old body would allow, Calis could see the pre-fabbed metal chassis of a Tiger-class hover tank swinging back and forth just below the rafters–held aloft by thick cables, hooks and an assortment of heavy guide/lead wires.

  There were others nearby–just waiting to be used when the time called for it. But for now, Calis focused his attentions on the shaped block of metal with tapered ends on both sides–front and back.

  But this was not his doing mind you. The old man had no real interest in machine art and it was simply technology’s hand at work which produced this particular albatross-shaped body–not his.

  Calis simply built these impressive engines of mass destruction according to the tank schematics culled from his personal library in his personal alcove in the back–left over from his years of service with the Praetorial Guard‘s Weapons and Technology Division.

  Taking another hit off his vapor pen, Calis headed over to his work bench where a large section of molecular blast armor lay in waiting.

  This was going to be “chest plate” of the Tiger-class hover tank. It was marked with a red ‘X’ to denote the spot where the old man would use his plasma torch on.

  Setting his pen down on a small tool tray nearby, Calis returned to working on the one section of the blast armor by applying the now lit mini-torch to the business at hand.

  Fresh sparks flew and danced as he worked tirelessly for the next five minutes–taking extra care of every minute detail of the operation and plying the torch in the spots he felt would give the armor more resistance to possible ground and small arms fire.

  The end result of the Three Hundred Years War was in nobody’s best interest–not even his–and business of making new war machines for the Praetorial Guard had fallen on hard times in recent years.

  Calis hadn’t been able to place even a dozen orders for his machines of choice in a little over sixty years.

  Since a truce had been called in the decades since, the arms business on the surface had taken a hit and so had his bottom line.

  Now, the old man was working on pet projects on a strictly need to know basis and he had fewer customers or interested parties as a result.

  Not that he was complaining. War was a messy business and sometimes things ended more worse off than intended.

  Another minute or so with the torch produced better results and the old man turned the thing off for a second to allow the gun metal gray surface a chance to cool down to a degree. But not too much mind you. He still needed to things to be malleable for this to work.

  Turning around, he fetched a specialized boring tool–the kind you punch metal holes with–and an old-fashioned hammer and started hammering away as hard as he could at the rapidly hardening metal.

  He managed to successfully punch three out of the four holes required and had to use the torch on the same area over again to get number four done in quick order.

  But just as Calis was about to put his tools away and clean the area up a bit, he found somebody there just waiting for him in patient silence.

  “Well, I was wondering when you were ever going to show up.” The old man responded conversationally–setting his things done on the table next to him and picking up a broom.

  The ghostly apparition didn’t say anything at first. It was just content into watching him work instea
d.

  “I thought I was going to have to die first in order to see you ever again, Tarnek.”

  The apparition removed the white hood covering his head to reveal a face old beyond his years–reminding Calis of a wizard straight out of a child’s fairy tale book.

  He certainly bore all the hallmarks of such a visage: A weathered face framed by silver-white hair with a pony tail tied off in the back for effect, a classically shaped nose which complimented his strong jaw line and piercing black eyes.

  To make the picture even more complete, Tarnek even carried a gnarled, wooden staff with him with a glowing blue crystal at its end.

  The glow died at that point and the visitor returned to a semi-solid state of existence whenever he was in Calis’s presence.

  “My apologies, old friend. My long absence could not be helped. Other matters of state required my immediate attention since the last time you and I conversed at length.” He said in his Changed Voice.

  “And what would that be?” Calis asked, curious. “You never once mentioned to me that you could “separate” yourself from me at any time during our union in the last ten thousand years.”

  Tarnek nodded in sympathy. “It could not be helped. And I cannot go into detail until I learn more about my newest discovery.”

  “And what would that new discovery mean for me personally?” He wanted to know–while retrieving some sandpaper in which to sand away the sharp edges of the holes he just bore through with the hammer and boring tool.

  “It could mean an end to a new beginning.” Tarnek answered cryptically.

  Calis looked at him for a second in confusion. “Was that supposed to be a joke of some kind? Because if it is, you’ve completely lost me.”

  Then he passed right through him like a ghost.

  Tarnek wasn’t the least bit offended by the moment. He simply followed the old man over to his project.

  “I don’t joke.” He said in a firm tone of voice. “I simply reveal the truth as it always has been. In its purest form no less.”