Blaster Squad #4 Raiders of Cloud City

Chapter 4

2

Unknown Starship

Orbiting Feros III

Feros System

4148.3.4 Galactic

A dead-eyed gaze—irises the color of obsidian—narrowed as they studied the screen displaying the green and blue world hovering in the blackness of space like a Molposan apple. Some would call the planet beautiful. The Master called it his most excellent future prize.

“Master,” said the ship’s pilot, interrupting his thoughts.

“Are they returning?” the Master asked, his voice a deep-throated growl. He unfolded his muscular arms from across his wide chest, covered in blast armor the color of his race’s purplish blood, and stepped to stand looking down at the pilot’s station. He let his arms fall to his sides, one hand stopping to grip the butt of the plasma pistol in the holster surrounding his thick hips.

It pleased him to watch the pasty-faced pilot’s hands tremble and his deep swallow before he replied. The man was frightened of incurring his Master’s wrath, as he well should be. “Yes, sir. Tribune Kron reports they have lifted off and will rendezvous with us within the hour.”

“Good. I’ll be in my quarters. Signal Kron to meet me there.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Master started to walk to the lift at the rear of the flight deck. He scanned the flight crew, his eyes pausing briefly on J’Pal, his mistress, a six-foot-tall auburn-skinned Estuian with a lithe, athletic body covered in a one-piece chocolate brown bodysuit. Then he shifted his attention to Rustor, his most loyal general, a four-armed Lobsan.

Rustor’s slit-like eyes followed his Master, walking across the deck to the lift. Rustor’s ruddy, wide face was clean-shaven like his hairless scalp, and his rugged facial features appeared to be carved in stone. His seven-foot-tall frame bulged in the formfitting microfiber jumpsuit straining to contain his muscular torso, arms, and legs. The large blaster in its holster hanging off the left side of his narrow waist had been used to kill many of his Master’s enemies and a few allies who outlived their usefulness.

A flicker of a smile crossed the Master’s lips as the flight deck disappeared behind the closing lift doors. Once in his quarters, he sat in the leather executive chair behind the smoked glass desk and waved his open hand over the power sensor to activate the monitor on the desk. The screen flickered to life, displaying the symbol of a two-headed Tustin hawk holding a bloody, severed arm in its left beak. He had personally designed the symbol to inspire his forces as his empire steadily began to spread like a benevolent blanket over the whole of a galaxy that cried out for strong leadership. Soon all opposition would drown in its own blood and the new emperor would emerge from the c*****e as absolute ruler bringing order to the galaxy once more.

“Display Feros III data,” the Master said in a low, deep voice.

The data about the world they orbited appeared on the screen. Feros was about the size of Earth, which was the home of his most powerful enemy, the Galactic Alliance. His hatred for the Alliance made his guts burn with fury whenever he thought of that weasel Chairman Whizzar and his smug compatriots on the Alliance Council. He detested council meetings but he had to work from the inside if his endgame were to succeed.

The atmosphere of Feros III would support many classes of lifeforms, a factor very important to his plans for this world. He needed a base of operations near the Lestrom Nebula trade route. A world in the region with a breathable atmosphere was preferable to one where his troops would need to wear pressure suits. The only world close enough to the nebula for his purposes was in the Feros system.

Two of the three large continents of Feros III were inhabited by a race of beings calling themselves Ferosians, who abhorred war and conquest even amongst themselves. Since he relished war and destruction, these peace-loving beings left him nauseated.

They will die violently, he thought grimly.

Fortunately, there was a race of aliens living on a secluded mountain plateau atop the highest mountain range on Feros III’s southern continent. These aliens were the descendants of a race of explorers called the Tuple. The original explorers had been stranded on Feros III over five centuries ago when their primitive starship crashed.

From his spies, secretly transported to the surface to gather pre-invasion intelligence, the Master learned that Ferosian legends told of a fiery ball appearing in the sky seen by millions of people that was thought to be a mythical race of gods coming down from the heavens to live high in the mountains of the unpopulated southern continent. At the time, the Ferosians had been a primitive people who believed this mythology.

A century later, a Ferosian holy man told of a domed city in the mountains where their gods now resided. Too afraid to explore the southern continent for fear the gods would become angry, the Ferosians had never explored the continent during the intervening centuries though their technological and educational levels gradually improved.

According to the Master’s spies, the Ferosian myths referred to a domed city known as Cloud City, a place where the spirits of the dead reside in the afterlife for eternity.

“Such simple-headed nonsense,” the Master mused under his breath. “This is going to be too easy.”

Normally he would have assembled a battle fleet to sweep away the two races, leaving the planet under his control, but it was located too near the Lestrom Nebula trade route. Such a massive attack would attract the attention of the Alliance Navy. His forces weren’t yet strong enough to take on the AN. More guile than he usually liked to employ was required in this instance to accomplish his goals. While he considered such soft, clandestine methods as signs of weakness in others, he knew he would need subterfuge to succeed in this case.

A signal sounded, indicating someone was in the corridor waiting to enter. “Come,” he said bluntly as he eased back in the chair. He let his left hand drop underneath his desk, where he had attached a holster and a small blaster in case he needed easy access to a weapon. Too many ambitious men and women had been assassinated because they failed to take necessary precautions. He had promised himself never to let that happen to him.

The door cycled open and Tribune Kron entered and stood before him at attention. Kron gave him the straight-armed salute he had ordered all his troops to use when saluting him. “Hail, the Emperor.” Kron’s voice was raspy and he smelled of rainwater as if he’d been caught in a storm.

The Master gave the officer a crooked smile. “I’m not emperor yet, Kron, but I appreciate your enthusiasm.”

Kron’s yellow cheeks flushed darker. “Please accept my humble apology, Master. I meant no offense.”

The Master eyed the officer with one eyebrow arched. “I’ll let it go this time, Kron.” He chuckled grimly as he released his grip on the hidden weapon and stood, letting his arms fall to his sides. “Did you make contact?” The tribune nodded curtly. “And did they agree to my proposal?” Again Kron nodded.

The Master turned away, his back now to the stoic officer. Reaching to the wide buckle on his blaster holster, hidden from Kron’s view, he slowly withdrew a stiletto from a sheath secreted within the buckle. The razor sharp blade gleamed in the subdued lighting of his quarters. He let the arm holding the knife fall to his side. He grinned to himself, then turned and stepped forward while raising the knife until it was waist high. He then drove the blade under the tribune’s armored chest plate, upward under his rib cage, and into the heart in a single, powerful thrust.

The tribune did not cry out but his wide eyes registered the surprise and the pain. The officer was dead before he fell backward, the knife imbedded to the hilt in his chest, landing hard on his back on the carpeted floor with a dull thud. His lungs emptied of air in a soft sigh as his corpse sagged.

At least there would be no blood to clean up since the heart had ceased to function immediately due to the perfect placement of the killing blow. The Master was pleased with the accuracy of his strike. He straddled the dead man, one booted foot on either side of the cooling body. Reaching down, he extracted the knife and wiped the small amount of yellowish blood off the blade on the dead man’s arm. He then placed the knife back in the hidden sheath.

No one would know the details of his deal with the inhabitants of the planet. He gazed at the dead tribune, the unseeing eyes still wide with shock, and chuckled grimly. At least no one still alive.