Tusk Origins: Part II

From the data excerpt titled: “Tusk: Origins” In The Wake of A Hurtling Asteroid

Log ID: 2⁰¹⁹⁶

Uther Beaumond weaved and danced along the corridor between the panicked crowd that rushed toward the safety of the central hub.

“Tusk! Chief, come in!” he yelled into his transponder, trying to reach her for the third time, though all he got was blank static.

She should have waited. That woman was going to get him killed, or captured at the very least. He cursed and bit his lip, trying to peek over the swarm of hurrying bodies to see if the transit-bay entry was still accessible. The bay’s great metal doors were slowly sliding closed as Beaumond shoved and shouldered his way toward them.

“Hold those doors!” he barked, narrowly missing a collision with a pilot who was running full pelt in the other direction. No one seemed to have heard him, or cared to, for as he reached the transit-bay the doors had slid shut, the words NO ENTRY appearing glowing letters above the doors.

“Shit!” Bueamond was about to turn back when the clanking of heavy boots on metalwork rose from further down the corridor. A company of soldiers jogged in tandem toward the transit-bay, the crowd parting easily to let them file through. The door beside Beaumond hissed open and he stepped away quickly to let the advancing soldiers pass. When their last member jogged through the transit-bay entrance, he slipped in neatly behind her, crouching a little so he wouldn’t stand out as the company rushed ahead.

MUD crews scurried across the landing to docked ships as red emergency lights flashed above them. Beaumond detached himself from the marching company, ducked behind a large cargo crate for cover and scanned the hubbub to find the landing pad where Tusk had grounded their ship earlier.

His eyes stopped on an empty strip, about twenty yards north along the platform, where the ship should have been. The empty landing pad’s guide-light blinked disappointingly.

“Dammit Juri!” he hollered, and kicked the hard side of the tall crate he was hiding behind, unsure of what else to do. He yelped and grabbed his foot, cursed as he hopped on the other. A passing foreman, squat and burly, halted and squinted into the shadows. The emergency light flickered overhead as Beaumond tried to slink away.

“You, pilot!” came the bark, and Beaumond grimaced as he turned to see the heavy foreman pointing at him. Amidst the strange coincidence of finding Lermnis Nader and the chaos that had followed, Beaumond had completely forgotten that he was wearing a crewman’s jacket. A MUD-replica for that matter. Beaumond straightened his face and hurried toward the stocky foreman.

He stumbled, straightened up and gave an awkward salute — his best impression of a rookie.

Best not to invite any unwanted responsibilities, he thought, and made his eyes fog over just a little bit, as if he was straining to see something in the distance. The foreman winced at him and shook his head slowly.

“Younger and dumber, these days,” said the short man under his breath, still pointing at Beaumond’s insignia.

“You got an assigned ship or what? I’ve orders to round up any free hands — the west-wing is under attack from multiple assailants. In case you haven’t heard. Or understood,” said the foreman sourly, and he wheeled Beaumond around by the collar of the jacket like one might a lost child. A fighter ship loomed before him, rusted, scarred from plasma rounds, but seemingly in one piece. Beaumond guessed it was a Pearce X5, going by the crablike extensions of the rear and front thrusters.

“Pilot’s go star-side, rookie. Good luck. You might need it more than anyone,” said the foreman drily, and shoved a lock-ignition into Beaumond’s hand before not-so-gently pushing him toward the fighter.

“Multiple hostiles? I thought it was just one ship?” he asked, but when he turned he saw the squat foreman scrambling away, no doubt to find more suitable help elsewhere. Beaumond clicked his tongue and fiddled with the ship’s ignition-lock. An odd buzzing came from the X5, and though he was no expert, he was sure most fighters weren’t supposed to make that noise.

But the old Pearce’s lights beamed on, and the cockpit opened with a satisfying hiss. He was halfway into the pilot’s seat when Tusk’s voice exploded through his transponder.

“U-er…Wa…mmodore…Beau -?” came the scattered, fuzzy fragments. He tilted his head like a confused pup, as if the sound might suddenly render clearer.

“Repeat that! That’s a bad read cap!” he shouted into the receiver, engaging the rear and front thrusters so that they spun vertically. The X5 rattled with energy and the ship rose twenty feet high, buffeted by the searing-white glow that pulsed beneath it.

“Stay pu — …I…repe-…Tio-.. Not…ide -” hissed the transponder, a note of nervousness detectable in Tusk’s voice, despite the fragmented signal.

“Ragghh!” snarled Beaumond, and he kicked the cockpit dash in frustration, ever-so-slightly nicking the flight joystick with his angry punt. The X5 dipped suddenly, like a lumerfly falling asleep mid-flight, and he heaved at the controls to bring it stable. Beaumond reared up in his seat, scanning the dock below to make sure no-one had seen his little outburst.

Satisfied, he turned the ship toward the transit-bay departure patch and raced toward it.

I hope you’re reading me Juri,” he began, following the steady stream of ships that were hastily exiting the bay. Three fighters wearing the Commodore’s blue and white raced overhead in a tight formation, criss-crossing each other as they cut the line and careened out of the transit-bay exit and into the treacherous space outside of Serdevanika. Dead static hummed at Beaumond from the transponder.

“I really hope you’re reading me. Listen, I have no idea what’s going on, but there’s a fleet big enough to raid a planet heading directly to the dead-zone outside of Serdevanika. Please — ” he paused to catch his breath, noticed that the exit of the bay was only five ship-lengths away.

“Please tell me you’ve just gone off for a wander somewhere, that you have nothing to do with the army of vessels pouring out of the spaceport!?” he pleaded as the X5 hurtled out of Serdevanika behind a swarm of fighter vessels. Far in the distance, ahead of the convoy, a faint red glow flickered.

“……I…” came just a single syllable from the transponder.

“Juri?” asked Beaumond, though he knew it was hopeless. Whatever had interfered with her comms signal did not seem to affect it any less out here in open space.

As his ship flew after the small armada of fighters, Uther Beaumond felt as helpless as a speck of dust trailing in the wake of a hurtling asteroid.

About the Author

A love for video-games has fuelled an extensive lore-writing project that has resulted in Daniel’s first published works, the “Captain’s Log” and “Distant Conversations” series. These ‘data logs’ are part of a collaboration with Star Dust Economy that aims to highlight the pioneering spirit being cultivated in the video-game, Star Atlas.