Boomer (Star Watch Book 3) Page 2

  “We’ll get through this. You’ll get through this,” she said.

  Jason didn’t answer right away. “Thanks, Gunny. The problem is … I’m not sure I even want to.” He turned his attention toward Perkins, who was hovering nearby.

  “Captain Perkins … how’s life on the Minian?”

  “Life is fine, sir. The Minian’s been out of service for the last two weeks—maintenance overhaul.”

  “That’s right. I remember signing off on that. She’s a fine vessel. I hope you appreciate her.”

  “I do, sir, every day I serve on her. And the Parcical, sir?”

  Jason stopped and thought about the question for a moment. “As soon as I think I’ve got that little ship figured out she offers up something new to surprise me. An amazing vessel. I too am honored to serve on such a fine craft.”

  As fleet Omni, it was expected Jason would eventually settle behind a desk. He tried it and quickly found he wasn’t well suited for that kind of physical inactivity. The truth was, he didn’t see any need to do so. With their modern, advanced, communication systems he could be anywhere in the galaxy, virtually speaking, in moments. But he knew the time was coming for change. Increasing pressure was coming from fleet headquarters—the Alliance’s new Liberty Station back in the Sol System. With Nan Reynolds no longer president, her influence was far less prominent these days, and he was quickly losing command favor. His past carry a big stick methodologies no longer fit with the kinder, gentler philosophy that Alliance politicians wanted exemplified. Perhaps they were right, and he was a leftover relic from another time. Whatever.

  Jason was being hailed. “Go for Captain.”

  “Where are you?”

  Jason heard the impatience in his ex-wife’s voice. “StarDome … we’re just leaving the Stellar now. And you?”

  “On the surface. We got in last night. They have shuttles, commuting down to the surface on the hour. If you hurry, you can make the 1:00.”

  “We’ll make it,” Jason answered flatly. A palpable heaviness underlay the tone of Nan’s voice and the ensuing silence went a beat too long. “Anything else?” Jason asked. They’d fought each time they spoke, since hearing the heartbreaking news. Nan hadn’t come right out and said it, but it was clear she blamed him. Blamed him for the life, and the inevitable death, Boomer had chosen.

  “Well … we’ll see you soon.”

  She didn’t reply for a moment, then asked, “How’s Mollie doing with all this?”

  “She’s acting like she doesn’t care. Playing it cool.”

  “I know it’s killing her,” Nan said. “She’s hurt and angry.”

  “At me?” Jason asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Yes … she’s furious with you. We both are.”

  With that, she cut the connection.

  Chapter 3

  Two weeks earlier …

  Boomer had mixed feelings about the day’s quickly approaching ceremony and butterflies continued to flutter in her belly. She had tried eating something earlier but soon realized that was a really bad idea. Everything would finally conclude today. Looking back, there were far too many hardships to recount—all those extended years away from her family.

  Bands of light—dancing dust particles glittering in the morning sun—filtered down from two open apertures above her. She looked at herself in the mirror, then shifted in her chair to study MarGiline, whose coarse-braided dreadlocks, the color of snow, were worn long—hanging down to her waist. No less than one hundred and fifty Earth years of age, she was meticulously threading gold and silver beads into Boomer’s dark, shoulder-length, hair. Tall, but bowed with age, she hummed to herself as she worked.

  “Stop fidgeting, young Master Tahhrim Dol,” she scolded.

  Boomer closed her eyes and used the meditation technique called baskile to bring peace and tranquility to her agitated mind. She gently blocked errant thoughts from pushing their way into her consciousness. Realistically, there was a chance she would not survive the day. Some did not. Those that did would become a Goldwon Warrior—what the last two years of her training had led up to. Certainly, being a human did not help her in the least. The ceremonial edicts, rules of the trials, set forth several millennia past, did not allow any compensation for one’s inadequacies. She was genetically ill-suited to become a Tahli warrior in the first place, let alone the victor—the Goldwon—akin to a Blues’ lord—of which there were so very few remaining.

  “What is the count?” Boomer asked.

  “It should not matter. A Goldwon would not be concerned …”

  Boomer’s expression halted her lecturing. “I am a mere servant, my dear. What I have learned is but second- and third-hand knowledge.”

  “And?”

  “And, at last count, there are an even ten.”

  Boomer nodded, adjusting to the information. More than she’d hoped, but it could be worse, too. She’d heard of graduation combat trials having as many as twenty, and some as few as five, contestants. Others would be graduating today—but there could be only one victor—only one Goldwon. Thinking about it, she wasn’t in fear for her own mortality as much as coming to terms with injuring—perhaps even killing—nine other Tahli warriors. She was certain of only two others, also vying for the revered title, competing today—Dromit Sagent and Carmotta Piaget. Carmotta was as dear a friend as she had ever had and Boomer dreaded going up against her. Could she even do it? End her life, if necessary? Boomer let that question stay unanswered, turning her thoughts over to Dromit … Drom. She blushed, just thinking about him. He was the most beautiful being she’d ever laid eyes on: Tall and muscular, with a strong inner sense of wellbeing … no, not wellbeing—patience. Boomer was well aware that her infatuation with the Blues male was one-sided. If anything, she was an aberration … a curiosity to the young Tahli warrior. Although he had taken her under his wing, stood up for her presence there … as a Calhoom … a freak human, she suspected she’d become more like a sister to him than anything else.

  Part of her Tahli warrior training, now occupying more than five years of her life, was dedicated to furthering her Kahill Callan mastery. Two of those years were spent right here, on Harpaign, in pursuit of becoming a Goldwon Warrior—perhaps even the Goldwon. Part of her felt unworthy of even contemplating such a feat … such an honor. She’d embraced every aspect of the Blues’ way of life—even their strange cultural and spiritual predispositions. Kahill Callan was a package deal. Boomer had known that from the start, when she first entered the underground cavern five years ago, and sipped Jahhlorine—the transformative potion that initiated her journey toward mastership. What she didn’t know then was that becoming a Kahill Callan Tahli warrior, albeit a great achievement in itself, was but one step toward the ultimate goal—to become elevated to what was akin to a lord status—the Goldwon—something even her dear friend and mentor, Prince Aahil Aqeel, had not aspired to.

  Boomer looked at herself in the mirror and nearly laughed out loud. Who the hell is that looking back at me? After three hours of primping and painting and beading, Boomer hardly recognized herself.

  “You are beautiful, no?” MarGiline asked, seeing her stunned expression.

  “I don’t know. It’s embarrassing.” Boomer, a tomboy as far back as she could remember, had never before worn makeup. Perhaps she should have been born a male. She quickly shooed away errant thoughts of Drom again. Well, maybe not. But viewing herself in the mirror—her outlined, accented eyes looked twice their normal size and appeared captivating, even to her. Her lips, now painted bright yellow, looked full and … she searched for the word … kissable?

  She let her eyes fall to her exposed neck and bare shoulders and the violet band of leather covering her small breasts. Using the fingers on both hands, she attempted to tug the fabric higher up.

  MarGiline slapped at her hands. “Do not hide your femininity, Master Tahhrim Dol … or do you not think they too are a weapon?”

  Boomer looked at her cleavag
e … When the hell did that happen? Then again, she was sixteen now—no longer a young girl. She shook her head—no way! She’d never played that card—never even thought she could, realistically. She’d no more use her body like that than allow herself to cheat or steal—if she couldn’t prevail on an even playing field, she’d rather lose.

  “How long do I have to wear this silly outfit?”

  MarGiline stopped with her beading and tilted her head.

  “When do I change into my Shadick?”

  MarGiline snickered. “No, no … you will not be dressed like a common peasant on this important day, my dear.”

  “Oh no, there’s no way I’m going into combat dressed like this!” Boomer stood and gestured toward the mirror. The leather-like material barely concealed anything. The narrow band, covering up her chest and leaving a bare midriff, was bad enough, but the skintight leather leggings, conforming to her body like nothing she’d ever worn before, left zero to the imagination—hugging every inch of her long legs and derriere. She brought a hand up to her mouth and scowled toward the mirror. Oh my God … Drom will see me like this.

  “You should be thankful you were born when you were. A mere two hundred cycles past, contestants were unclothed during the trials.”

  Boomer tried to imagine past combatants running around all butt naked with their long pratta-shafts and enhancement shields. She let out a breath, still looking at her body. MarGiline had used a perfectly matched skin-color makeup to conceal the scores of small scars and lacerations normally visible on her exposed upper arms and torso—accumulated over the years. A part of her felt angry they were hidden: She’d earned those scars … each and every one.

  MarGiline tied the last of the tiny knots into her hair and stood back. Together, they appraised Master Tahhrim Dol’s reflection. “You are ready, my dear. May the Gods of Arkain protect you and lead you to victory today.” She moved behind Boomer and wrapped her in her own long, slender arms. “My heart and best wishes go with you, Boomer.”

  It had been years now since anyone had used her Earth name. Boomer patted the old Blues woman’s arm and with a bemused smile said, “Guess it’s time I go kick some ass.”

  At some point, two ceremonial guards had entered into the chamber, and now stood both erect and stone-faced on either side of the arched stone entrance. Boomer enviously took in their silver metallic breastplates and their draping, scarf-like, wraps of azure blue. What she would give for even one of those body-concealing wraps.

  She glanced back at MarGiline, then, with her head held high, walked into the adjacent, larger Master’s chamber, located within the ancient Acropolis, where Prince Aahil Aqeel stood waiting for her. Master Sahhselies, standing several paces behind him, looked frail, as ancient as the Acropolis itself. He bowed in concert with Aqeel. Both had been instrumental in her training over the years. Prince Aahil Aqeel, much like an older brother, was more than a mentor—he’d become her friend and confidant.

  “You look beautiful, young Tahhrim Dol.”

  “I’d rather look scary and frightening … but I’d settle for formidable.”

  Approaching her, the prince said nothing as he affixed her enhancement shield to her left forearm. He tested it, ensuring it was secure, then stood aside for Master Sahhselies, who, extending his arm, held out a long pratta-shaft. “This spear was my father’s and his father’s before him, Master Tahhrim Dol. May past generations of Sahhselies warriors help bring you victory today.”

  Boomer took the long staff from him and held it vertically before her. More than a foot taller than the top of her head, the staff’s razor-sharp point held steady, now caught in a band of sunlight. The three stared at the reflective pinnacle.

  “A good omen … it seems supernatural elements are definitely at work here,” Master Sahhselies told her.

  A chorus of Tasmillian trumpets began playing somewhere within the stadium, outside the chamber’s walls. Both Aqeel and Sahhselies, bowing in deference toward Boomer, looked toward the entrance. “It is time,” Prince Aqeel said.

  For the first time Boomer saw something in the prince’s eyes. The look of foreboding?

  “What is it?” Boomer asked.

  “You need to concentrate on the Trials that lie before you, Master Tahhrim Dol.”

  “Will you not be escorting me to the arena?” she asked, aware something was amiss.

  “My presence at your side will not serve you today, young Tahhrim Dol. You must own this moment by yourself.” His face became tight—his gaze even more intense. “You must win and take possession of the Goldwon effigy. Boomer, you must not relinquish it to anyone … do you understand me?”

  She held his eyes and nodded. “I will do as you say, Prince Aqeel.” She then turned away, heading toward the heightened cheering outside.

  The solemn-looking guards left the chamber, waiting for her just outside the archway. Now, an audible rise of cheering voices could be heard coming from the stadium. The other combatants were emerging from their own respective chambers too: Each of these nine Tahli warriors—who likewise spent years in disciplined training—was among the very few selected from those hundreds and hundreds of others, within the Dacci system, who had not made it this far. Those competing today, in reality, had already graduated and would be honored with a Goldwon Warrior title—that is, if he or she survived the day. They were the best of the best and today they would race and fight until either too incapacitated to fight any longer, giving the sign of Drench—surrender—or were killed in battle. Only one would become the Goldwon.

  Chapter 4

  If the Dacci system’s Tahli ministry had their way, Boomer would not be standing among them today. A mixture of politics, favoritism, and out-and-out prejudice had constantly been at play. Along with that came two years of extended, nearly impossible, roadblocks. Always an extra physical challenge the others were not required to meet—like a new match against older, and far more experienced, opponents she had to prevail against. But, in the end, the Council of One, the true elders of the Blues, put their collective foot down—Enough! She’s more than earned her rightful place to compete.

  Now, as Boomer stood upon her four-foot-square crystal pedestal, she took in the spectacle around her. Apparently, the ancient stadium held close to fifty thousand souls. No open seats could be found here on this most important day. The crowd, all Blues, had been cheering non-stop for the past ten minutes. Boomer let her gaze move from contestant to contestant, standing upon their own crystal pedestals, around the oval-shaped, ancient—eroded by time and wear—stadium. Each contender stood tall, with legs apart, a vertical pratta-shaft clenched in one fist. Hanging in front of each raised pedestal was the contestant’s banner, which bore the warrior’s home symbol, suspended in a field of bright colors. Twice Boomer’s height, the banners were well over ten feet tall and were dramatically whipping and flapping now in the mid-morning Harpaign sunlight. She’d been allowed to choose her own home symbol and, perhaps as a secret measure of defiance, she’d selected the bright red lips and extended tongue of the Rolling Stones on a field of white. Truthfully, she didn’t particularly like the Stones’ music—but that was beside the point. She liked knowing the symbol was offensive—vulgar, in fact—to virtually any Blues individual upon seeing it.

  Directly across from her, and looking right at her, was Carmotta. Dressed nearly identical to Boomer, her exposed, well-toned, light-blue skin practically glowed. While most Blues inherited thickly matted black hair—like dark steel wool—hers was black but straight … a clear sign of interbreeding, somewhere back in her lineage. Carmotta had joked more than once that Boomer, being a human Calhoom—had taken the spotlight off Carmotta’s racial impurity. They’d been like sisters for two years—while ferociously competing against each other. Honing their individual skill levels ever higher and higher.

  Purposely, Boomer avoided looking over in Drom’s direction, at the narrowest end of the stadium. She felt his eyes on her. Felt the heat of his stare on he
r exposed body. There were seven males competing, wearing the same skin-tight leggings, but they were bare-chested. Drom’s physique was crazy—his chest pectoral muscles round and prominent—his abdominals ridiculously chiseled. She was embarrassed, seeing him compete without his loose-fitting Shadick on.

  Why am I thinking about Drom? Think about the match … the obstacles.

  The floor of the stadium had been transformed into multiple zones—each contained its own death-defying obstacle. Boomer studied each sectioned-off area: One had multiple pools of flesh-eating Gamby fish; another had a tower of jutting, knife-like rocks that seemed to leave only a few places to make a stand. Below, directly in front of her were large sand dunes, mimicking much of the terrain of Harpaign itself. She already knew the dunes were nearly impossible to stand erect upon. Off to her right, directly below Drom, sat a Shintuco Cat. Easily twice the size of a Bengal tiger, the greenish-furred feline was all claws and teeth. Secured to a post by a long chain, attached to a thick collar around its neck, the creature had free rein of its zone. The obstacle was not to kill, or even harm, the deadly dangerous beast. An endangered species, protected by law, the zone was all about avoiding the big cat while going up against your opponent. It just so happened that the zone was directly below Drom’s position. Easily, the two most dangerous aspects to the competition were initially paired. It was never a secret that Drom was expected to win today—becoming the next Goldwon.

  There were other zones—other obstacles. Boomer took it all in and formulated a battle strategy for each zone one by one. Eventually, her eyes moved to the center of the stadium. Elevated, even higher than the combatants’ respective pedestals, stood a towering tower, black as obsidian. One hundred and thirty feet in height, just climbing to its top, with its near-vertical sides, presented a formidable challenge. Atop the tower awaited the Goldwon effigy—a seventeen-inch-tall diamond-like statue of a half-bird creature, half-warrior. It was said to be the creation of the Gods of Arkain—older than the Acropolis—even older than the Capital City. Boomer could almost see it up there … or perhaps she only imagined she could.