Astral Tides

Book Two: The Huntmaster

Nicholas Kory

ASTRAL TIDES: THE HUNTMASTER is ©2016 Nicholas Kory. All rights reserved.

ISBN# 978-1-68454-473-8

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Thank you for purchasing this book! If you like this story, and want more information on upcoming titles, then I invite you to stop by my author website at nichoaskory.com. If you have any questions, comments, or concerns for me, feel free to reach out to me via email at nicholaskory@gmail.com.

Thanks for your support! It’s what keeps me going as an author and game designer.

My other titles include:

Elephants in the Living Room (2007)

Cybersaurus: The Awakening (2014)

Astral Tides: Rimward (2015)

Behind the Locked Door (2016)

And my game design and tabletop role playing products include:

Round 10: Role-Playing Game Core Rulebook (2013)

This book is for Boston and Jackie, my biggest fans.

Astral Tides

Book Two: The Huntmaster

Nicholas Kory

Prologue

Huntmaster Lizreah peered down the scope of her rifle, her entire world reduced to the circular magnification it provided her, everything else felt a lifetime away. She no longer noticed the grip of her pull cable wrapped around her leg, or the tightening of her core as she held her torso up to get a good shot while still hanging down. The wind whipping by her became a memory, the building from which she was hanging a phantom, and her ship hovering above the roof a distant dream.

She hung there, her body pulled into an awkward L shape as she held her torso in place while she kept her scope zeroed in on the embassy entrance eight blocks down. She saw the timer ticking down in the upper left of the interior of her mask, and she could see the target moving through the embassy, making her way towards the exit, preparing to move to the waiting vehicle outside and get to the spaceport. The red wireframe of the target showed her location, even though she was still inside the embassy and Lizreah was blocks away. The target had been tagged and followed by Lizreah for some time, but now that the ambassador’s vehicle was pulled up outside the embassy, Lizreah knew that her target was only minutes away.

The front doors to the embassy swung open, and she saw lady ambassador exiting with a trio of guards. Lizreah didn’t hesitate. The ambassador, an Ardaxian woman with short-cut hair, pink skin, and the circular facial tattoos of a noble house of Ardax, strode calmly forward, about to descend the steps before her. Lizreah’s sights settled in on the ambassador’s chest, and she pulled the trigger. Her rifle made a soft pop sound, kicking back into her shoulder as the silent round launched forward. She watched in her sights as the bullet pierced into the ambassador, causing the woman to stop in her tracks and clutch at her chest. The trio of guards all watched closely, questioning her and worried for her. And then the ambassador fell to the ground, her bag falling open and various datapads and diplomatic notes scattering about the steps in front of the Galactic Embassy on Nerubys.

Lizreah pulled her rifle to her chest and let her torso fall, keeping her body straight as she retracted the cable. She sped straight up through the air, towards the roof of the skyscraper she had chosen as her perch. When she finally reached the top, she uncoiled her leg and let her body rotate to a more normal orientation, feeling the blood rush back down from her head and into her core once more. She swung herself over to the side of the building, unclipped the grapple from her belt, shouldered her rifle, and numbly climbed her way up the last floor to the roof.

It started to rain as she pulled the grapple from where it was grasping the head of an overhanging gargoyle. She wrapped the cable up and turned towards where her ship was hovering, just above the roof of the building. The Twilight’s Blade, a sleek Council stealth ship with the absolute latest in concealment and reconnaissance technology, was her ship and hers alone. She took as much pride in that vessel as she did every other aspect of her life. For being a Council Huntmaster was much more than a simple career. It was a way of life.

With the press of a button on the side of her mask, the boarding ramp to the Blade lowered and she hopped aboard, closing it behind her. She moved into the small storage and personal quarters and opened one of the lockers. Pressing one button turned off her helmet display, and then she popped the seals around its base and lifted it off of her head, feeling her plum-colored hair fall free again, hanging down to her shoulders. Setting the helmet into the locker facing out, she caught a warped, glimpse of her reflection in the helmet’s dark visor. She stared at herself for a moment, her purple skin, her sharp blue eyes, her unblemished face warping into the tattooed face of the ambassador. Lizreah ignored it and instead began removing the form-fitting polymer skinsuit and hanging it up in her locker. She then opened another locker and retrieved her casual Council uniform, sliding into that comfortably and climbing the steps up to the small ship’s cockpit. She needed to exit the system now, before patrols locked down her location, but she also didn’t want to draw attention to her ship as she left.

Sitting into the pilot’s chair, she began priming the ship’s engines for breaking atmosphere. As she clicked through the launch procedure, she noticed a blinking message on her console. Lizreah touched it as she continued her process.

The chiseled face of a Council Officer appeared on her communications terminal. He had short black hair, a steep nose, and his soft brown eyes gave him an almost disarming appearance. Lizreah saw her computer fill in information based off of his image, relaying it across the bottom corner of the screen.

CAPTAIN MAX CORDO, COUNCIL SECURITY FORCES, VALIANT CHARGE

I apologize for any disturbance this call may have caused, Huntmaster, Cordo’s recording said. But I have a dangerous fugitive on the run and I need your help. He’s already involved in what we believe to be the death of multiple Council officers, and he possesses vital information on his person which must be retrieved at once. For details on the Hunt, please reference Crell, Sebastian. Please contact me when you are able. Cordo out.

Lizreah stared at the black screen for a moment, considering the captain’s words, before she opened her ship’s terminal and pulled up all Council information on Sebastian Crell. She browsed the pirate’s record, and noted he was last seen at Barruk’s Corner in the Varrous system. That was a relatively short trip. She plotted a course, and set her terminal to call Captain Cordo back as soon as she hit superspace. With her current Hunt completed, she could move on to Crell. Looking at the record, it seemed he would be a quick and easy job. Rim pirates could be tricky, at times, and Sebastian had already been involved in multiple Council deaths, so she shouldn’t take him lightly, but at the same time she had dealt with much worse, more overtly threatening targets that this Hunt seemed like a change of pace.

Chapter I

Far orbit around Varrous IV

Daltir sat in his cabin, leaning forward on his desk, head buried in his hands. How had it all come to this, he thought. It was a simple job, and now everything was swiftly spinning down the proverbial toilet, and not because of any aspect of the job itself. It was because he decided to lead his crew out of their way, to investigate an obvious trap in an effort to capture and turn in some pirates. One thing led to another, and now he found that two galactic officers were killed, and the third was being secured in their cargo hold. He and his crew could very easily get charged with accessory to the crimes, if not directly involved. And the Galactic Council didn’t look lightly upon the killing of it’s agents, especially ranked officers.

Before, he and his crew had to give council ships a wide berth. Now, he was sure they’d have to avoid Council space entirely.

He leaned back, his forehead a bright red color from the consistent, nervous rubbing of his hands on his brow. He ran a hand through his thick black hair, trying to calm his mind. Daltir wondered how long it would be before someone higher up in the council would take notice of their absent officers. Likely not long. They would be hot on the Starstorm’s trail within a matter of cycles. Their only real hope was to burn hard and fast for the Androssi belt, wait out there as long as they could, and then recover the target and return to Eravice. Daltir just hoped that by the time they made it back into Council space, any ships dispatched to look for them were out among the midrim, or further.

Daltir got up and moved to a small, antique-looking wooden chest along one wall. Kneeling down, he produced an old key from his shirt pocket, made of a glossy metal now blemished from the years past. Unlocking the case, he swung it’s lid upwards on creaking, old hinges and peered at the trinkets within.

The case itself was an oddity. Not many people used wooden trunks any more, preferring sturdier metal or the sleek, softer finish of plastanium. But this was an artifact of his youth, the very trunk that had been gifted to him by his mother when he was just a boy. Where once it held toys, or, in his adolescent years, stolen items he wished to keep a secret from his mother, now it held items that reminded him of the past. Most of these items he ignored, leaving them within the case’s dark interior, not wanting to give them the recognition they deserved, but not able to simply throw them away either. He was not interested in the small, purple drawstring pouch, nor the shining silver chain and clinking metal coins, nor the long, black gun case on the bottom. Instead, he reached to one side, where he kept his supply of Hyterian brandy. He pulled out a bottle, and sat there for a moment, turning its glass form over in his hands, admiring the label and the dark liquid within.

Just then there was a soft beep from his door, the sign of someone requesting entrance. He gave a start, and quickly and carefully closed and locked the lid to the chest, before standing.

Who is it? He called to the closed cabin doors.

Merrill, came the familiar voice.

Daltir set the bottle on his desk and crossed over to the doors, pressing the button on one wall, sliding the left door open. His quartermaster stood there, looking worn and tired, but also concerned. Her auburn hair was pulled back and wrapped in a quick bun, and the sleeves of her reddish-brown shirt were rolled up to the elbow. Along with the bags under her hazel eyes, she had a rugged, practical look about her. He stepped aside, allowing her entrance, and she strode in to stand by the large, round table in the cabin’s center.

She saw the bottle of brandy, and gave her captain a nod. Good idea, she said.

Daltir smirked, and then closed the door, moving around the table and back towards his desk. I thought so.

Merrill leaned her backside against the table, legs straight, crossed at the ankle, arms folded across her chest. She watched Daltir as he slumped back down in the plush chair behind his desk. He opened a drawer, producing two small glasses.

What are your thoughts, Merrill? Daltir asked as he poured two glasses of brandy without looking up at his head officer.

She reached forward and took the glass he slid towards her, resuming her position against the table but not drinking immediately. Nothing good right now, sir.

Daltir drained his drink and looked up at her. Be frank, Rynn, he said.

There was a brief silence as she considered him, and how he looked as haggard as she felt, and then she spoke. Firiz is steady, but still out. The lieutenant has been chained to one of the support struts in cargo. Thad’s watching him for now, but he’s still out, too.

Good, Daltir said. How is Sebastian?

Warming up, Merrill said. The suit they put him in was a fairly old model. Had he been out there a half hour longer, he probably would’ve gotten frostbite.

Daltir frowned, and then began to pour himself a second drink. I wonder if he’ll hold that against me, he said, his voice tinged with hints of resigned humor.

He isn’t the only one I’d worry about, Merrill said.

Daltir stopped mid drink, holding his glass just inches from his lips as he considered Merrill. Who else?

The crew is loyal, she said. There’s no doubt about that. But Captain Sahrrim’s crew didn’t waste time in damning you. Yours will follow, but if we have another incident like this, I wouldn’t be surprised if we lose some after the job is done.

Daltir continued to stare at Merrill as her words sunk in. She was right, and he knew it. One crew member badly injured, another shot into space, and then the murder of two galactic officers doesn’t exactly bode well for morale. He downed his drink, setting the glass on the desk’s surface with a thunk.

Captain, Merrill said, her tone changing from gravely informative to softly inquisitive. May I ask you a question?

Daltir’s eyes didn’t look up to her, and instead his gaze fell down to his desk, though his mind was miles away. Of course, he said almost absently.

Why fly your crew into a trap like that? Why risk the safety of everyone on board, let alone delaying our already well-paying job?

Daltir’s mile-long stare remained, his eyes boring through the desk, the floor of the cabin, the hull of the ship, and seemingly into the very depths of space itself. While he took the concerns of his crew very seriously, Merrill’s were always a deeper seed than the rest. She was his quartermaster, his right hand. She would speak to the crew for him when it was needed, and she would speak to him for the crew. She would uphold the ship in the manner he wished, and would only ever question his word when they were alone. She was immeasurably loyal to him, and now, he was certain, he had