Moonshadow

Part 4 - Creeping Shadows

 

 

 

            The woman sat alone in her residence, not working or indulging, simply meditating.

 

            Her dwelling was modest, and many would view it as average, at most. One might expect someone of her position to live in greater splendor, comparable to those she served. But she was happy to live in a traditional home, even if it was located in a wealthier estate than most of its kind.

 

Her wishes and desires were unimportant anyway. Her duty was all that mattered. Few had the duties that she did, and it was considered a tremendous honor to bear such responsibility. So be it if her individuality and personal opinions were the price.

 

After several deep breaths, she leaned back on her carpeted floor and stretched. She was in exemplary physical shape. That was obvious from her frame and figure, though her build was more attuned to muscularity than feminine physique. Her outfit was a sleek one, outlining both her broad curvy hips and toned solid muscles. Her garb was also bright. Brilliant, magenta knee-length boots, dark indigo tights, elbow-length gloves colored just like the boots, and a lavender halter top that exposed the muscles down her back as she sat up in a stretching exercise.

 

When she wasn’t on duty, she occupied herself with such physical training. It was basically all she could do in her spare time, aside from eat and sleep. Time outside of her profession was scarce, and even had it been more plentiful, recreational hobbies and similar indulgences would’ve set a bad example had she pursued them. Selflessness was more important than personal interests and pleasures, if not the only importance.

 

She sat up after another exercise repetition. Her gold and brown hair swung forward, than backwards before hanging still at its usual length, barely past her chin in the front, shorter on the sides, and even shorter in the back. As she inhaled once again, a communication console behind her beeped and flashed. She reached over to the appropriate button and answered. “Lepordria.”

 

“Greetings Lepordria,” came a male voice on the other end.

 

She recognized that voice. Despite saying only two words, she knew the speaker well. “Greetings Emperor Lion-O.” Hastily, Lepordria rose to her feet and stood with her feet together and her legs straight. Commoners could get away with such irreverence, but it was unbecoming and unprofessional for someone of Lepordria’s position to act negligent. It was punishable, and could cost her the occupation she held. When in the presence of noble Thundercats, Lepordria’s class was required to stand unless permitted otherwise, even when the nobles were addressing someone else.

 

As Lepordria was being addressed directly by the Lord of the Thundercats, who also served as Thundera’s planetary ruler from the local capital, she would not chance disrespectful informality. That he wasn’t present meant nothing. She stood firm and tall, as thought the Thundercat leader were visiting in person. “What can I do for you, Emperor?”

 

The Thundercat leader’s voice answered her through the com-link speaker. “A short time ago, some object of unknown origin entered our atmosphere at high speed and crashed. Our first guess was a small meteor, but there were no seismographic readings that would follow such an event. It crashed without exploding.”

 

“A scanning droid of sorts?” questioned Lepordria.

 

“Possibly. Another alternative is a crashed space vehicle. In any case, we have the crash site’s coordinates.” A video screen displayed the information for Lepordria as Lion-O went on. “It took place deep in the mountains to the southeast of your position. That’s why I contacted you. You’re the closest to the spot. I know you’re off duty at the moment, but we need someone to investigate this. Cougroi and Ocelette are on duty elsewhere, so it’s up to you.”

 

Lepordia nodded unquestioningly. “Yes, Emperor. I’m on call, even when off duty. I understand.” She printed out the coordinates displayed on the monitor.

 

“If this is a precursor to something more, we should know about it. If you find something or feel you need assistance, don’t hesitate to contact us. And if you sense excess danger, pull out. Good luck.” The Emporor bid Lepordria farewell.

 

“Lepordria out,” she said on her end. Before shutting on off the com-link, she placed her right hand to her heart in a salute of compliance. For a woman of her status, it was customary, if not obligatory, to salute one’s superiors in such a manner when receiving orders. After a few moments, Lepordria withdrew her hand from her breast and shut off the com-link, taking the location print-up and leaving the front room of her dwelling.

 

In the back room of her residence, she kept her belongings. Not much of personal nature was placed there, but more important possessions were. On a polished, armory-style shelf was a gear and arsenal belt, which she removed from its rack and fastened around her waist. Something else of professional importance was on that shelf too. Off duty it was optional, but on duty it was required, as important as standing for and saluting her superiors. A pair of armored shoulder plates rested on some shelf hooks, and from the plates hung a long, dark red cape. Lepordria dutifully fastened the shoulder plates around her neck and armpits and let the cape dangle down to her ankles. On the back of the cape was a slivery Thundercat emblem. It was the compulsory dress of one in her position

 

Her position was among the Knights of Thundera. They served the nobles directly, and helped establish authority when Thundercats weren’t present, for only Thundercat nobles outranked them.

 

Of course, Knights of Thundera had many other duties. Security and investigative tasks were also included in their line of work. Lepordria was on her way to conduct the latter.

 

Behind her house in a fenced enclosure was a silo. It looked like simple tower, but inside was the Knight’s scouting transit. She pressed a series of buttons on a panel to open the entry door. Her craft was a small one, not much different than the Thunderclaw owned by her employers. Though this vehicle had an additional feature, a cockpit cover dome that could be slid over the pilot should they fly in bad weather.

 

Pressing buttons on her belt, Lepordria caused the dome to roll back, allowing her to step into the piloting seat. Once in place, she recovered the cockpit, activated the craft control panel, and started the vehicle. As it hummed to life, she typed more buttons on the console cluster. A hatch in the ceiling moved backwards, and the craft lifted itself up and out through the opening in the roof. As the hatch slid back into place, the small craft broke from its hover and flew off to the mountains beyond.

 

Lepordria, female Knight of Thundera, was on duty once again.

 

* * * *

                       

            He could see little from his position, lying on his back. He just knew he was in danger, pinned under dead weight, exposed to heat, and possibly inhaling smoke fumes. The air was rank with the stench of burning engine oil, an odor quite different from burning fuel but no less fowl or noxious. His nose burned when he inhaled, and when he tried breathing through his mouth, he started coughing. It was almost ironic. He had remarkable physical endurance. The gravity of his native Moon was so intense that space craft made from the average foreign materials, durable in their worlds, would fold upon themselves like cardboard when they got close enough. Yet he was a mortal being who, like all his race, lived and thrived in such an environment, and had developed technology that was suited specifically for such surroundings.

 

            But while his bones and muscles were extremely resilient and durable, his lungs were not. If the fumes of the lubricant fire weren’t drifting down into his respiratory system by now, they would be in moments. He had little time. And like his lungs, his tolerance for heat was also limited. He could hear the crackling of the fires around him, and could feel the amassed heat. Even if the flames themselves didn’t get to him, the heat would. He needed to get out of there.

 

            The problem was that “there” didn’t allow for easy escape. Large pieces of deformed metal alloys pinned him down, burying him in a tomb of burning scrap metal, the wreckage of an evacuation cruiser he’d been a passenger on until minutes ago. He’d not lost consciousness. He just had no idea how he’d gotten here. There was a crash, but little was known regarding the cause. He had other immediate matters to acknowledge.

 

            The vehicle remnants weren’t crushing him at this point. At least something was in his favor. His arms were free. He’d covered his face with his hands upon impact. With his remaining energy, Tugmug planned to rip his way out from this titanium would-be grave. With characteristic zeal, he reached upwards in an attempt to break apart the rubble pile.

 

            That was a mistake. No sooner had he lifted his right arm had something long and sharp cut into his bicep. He shouted and cursed at the pain in his upper arm, and realized his motion had been straight into a piece of jagged shrapnel. Digging his way out would be even less convenient now, but he was focused upon his single, short-term goal. With more caution, the Graviton pulled his arm down slowly. Painful as it might have been, he expected it when his arm slid away from the metal shard.

 

            Tugmug felt about his small space between the mountain rock and the shuttle’s twisted corpse, mindful not to injure himself on random sharp-edged debris again. He felt a long slender object above him, a machine tube or structural truss rod. He would’ve bumped his head if he’d sat up in haste. He wondered about ripping it away, but had second thoughts when he couldn’t see or feel what it connected to one on side. His arm wound instilled a sense of caution. The last thing on his mind was to disrupt the scrap heap and bring it down upon him even more. He felt for the other end, and found it was free from anything. Tugmug gripped the stray end, bending the object back upon itself. He could sit up now, and was soon able to “stand” at his full height, not very high for a legless being as he. A taller individual would still have to squat in that low space.

 

            The gravity-defying Lunatac waved the smoke from his vision. He could see much better now. Not only had he fanned out the smoke curtain, some of the metal was illuminated. On the flipside however, this glow meant the heat was rising faster. The oil fire’s heat conducted itself through the metallic wreckage. He took shallow breaths, as the air was getting to hot to breathe deeply with comfort. Tugmug tried hurling himself upward at full, anti-gravity force, but a sparking from below got his attention. One of his tripod robotic “legs” was damaged.

 

            Sweating, with a damaged bionic implant and bleeding arm, Tugmug took the alternative route. He grabbed at the first object of debris and tried pushing it. When it went nowhere, he reached with both hands and tried bending it. That did the trick. He moved forward, a few paces. He kept it up, pushing and bending what he could without making the pile collapse. While the heated metal was hot to the touch, it was far more pliable than its non-heated counterpart. It bent easily under his strength, and his mechanical left hand was mostly undamaged.

 

            A headache welled up in the Graviton’s skull, but he shrugged it off. Heat was more tolerable than toxic oil fumes.

 

* * * *

 

            Chilla rolled onto her back. The agony of lying on her right side and stomach was beyond unbearable. While lying on her back made the pain decrease, she was far from comfortable.

 

            Her forehead throbbed, and the world was still spinning. Even with her eyes open, her vision was still a blur of fuzzy, clashing images. Deep breathing amplified the horrendous cramp in her abdomen, and the harsh rocky ground below her did her back no favors.

 

            Her last clear memory was of being in a space cruiser on a crash course with some unknown mountain range on some unknown planet near the Moons of Plundar. When the vessel crashed against the rocky surface, there was a spinning sensation. She felt airborne a moment later, but only briefly. Something had bashed into her front side and broke against her weight. After that, she felt inert, battered, and dizzy. The excruciating pain in her lower side seethed in torment.

 

            As the Icewalker blinked her world back into focus, she felt her stomach with her hand. A small surge of pain exploded when she put pressure on the area in question. Yet, it felt dry. There was no blood. If that was the case, this injury was internal. She was lucid enough to conclude that.

 

            She forced her breaths to slow. Though her stomach still burned, the slowed breathing made the pain more tolerable. Finally, the world was clear again. She could see the details of her immediate surroundings. Grey, puffy clouds hovered above, and the tops of a few trees were visible in the foreground. One such tree had a branch which had snapped and now hang at an angle, connected to the trunk by mere splinters.

 

            Chilla pulled herself up to gauge the rest of this location. She’d barely lifted herself upright when she felt a wet sensation upon her forehead. The fluid dripped down into her eyes. The female Lunatac reached for the only thing she could think of, her white dress, and wiped off the mystery liquid. When she saw its color in the torn and soiled white fabric, she knew immediately what it was. She’d been bleeding from a head wound.

 

            Still mildly disoriented, Chilla got to her feet and tried piecing together the last few minutes. Obviously, she’d been ejected from the crashing shuttle, though how this happened she did not know. But she knew what happened after being thrown free. The impact of something breaking against her was answered by the dangling tree branch overhead. While the limb cushioned her fall to an extent, she received an injury because of it. Her bleeding forehead or stomach trauma could be attributed to that. After hitting and snapping the branch, she landed on the rocky ground if this…unknown mountain.

 

            The Ice-race Lunatac allowed herself a moment to collect what she could of her bearings. She glanced around her, shaky on her feet, trying to…what was she intending to accomplish? Did she even know?

 

            Behind her was a smoking junk pile.

 

            Faster than wise under her conditions, Chilla staggered towards the smoldering junk mound, nearly stumbling on a tree root. She thanked her build. Her physical condition was always something in which she took great pride. Now, it was more than just an aesthetic. Had she been in less of toned state, she wouldn’t be walking after getting thrown around as she had.

 

            As she neared the pile which was obviously the star cruiser’s bent, broken corpse, noises to the left got her attention. It sounded like footsteps in gravel, with someone swearing line after line as accompaniment. While Chilla was still in partial shock from the fall, she was able to recognize that voice, one she’d heard many times over many years.

 

            Predictably, the tall form of Alluro hobbled into view. Chilla notice the Psi Lunatac was limping, his right foot moving noticeably shorter distances than his left. One of the straps that went over his shoulders and connected to his belt had ripped and hung loosely behind him.

 

            Alluro mentally thanked the hair growth tonic he’d stolen from Captain Bragg. Were his scalp not covered with hair now, his cranial flesh would’ve endured many cuts and scrapes from his landing on the gravel hillside, and his subsequent roll down. The tall Psi had gotten banged up something fierce before hitting his face against a flat stone and momentarily blacking out.

 

            “Alluro!”

 

            While the mind-bender assessed his wounds, a familiar voice had called his name. “Chilla? Is that you?”

 

            Sure enough, the slender, blue skinned-woman approached. Alluro never felt so glad to see and hear her. Did she feel the exact same way? Did she have a feeling for him that compared to his interest in her? Alluro pushed that thought to the rear of his mind. It could wait until much later. Chilla’s presence meant he wasn’t alone, and that was enough for him right now.

 

            Alluro observed the dark indigo streaks in Chilla’s eyebrows and bangs, and the additional smears on her dress. She’d not faired much better than him, from the looks. As fast as his limping allowed, he approached her. As he went to place an arm at her waist, he pulled his hand back after seeing a large rip in her bodice. Behind the tear was a unique pattern of bruising. While he was no medic, he knew enough about medicine to recognize such a wound.

 

            Chilla had some broken ribs. Simple breathing must’ve been a chore. Just talking could’ve presented problems, but Chilla didn’t indicate such. “Alluro, what the hell happened just now?”

 

            The Psi looked around, not sure if he knew anymore than she did. “We crashed, and how that happened, I have no idea. I just know that after the shuttle touched down, I was no longer inside. I’d been hurled from it somehow.”

 

            Chilla nodded in understanding. “Same here. I was thrown onto a tree branch before landing in a rock bed. I don’t remember actually exiting the ship.” She placed a hand upon her bruised ribs. Evidently, talking had yet to be fully painless.

 

            Alluro winced as Chilla massaged her ailment. He wished he could do something for that abdominal wound, even if she objected. But he had nothing of medical use on him. He just sighed and shifted his weight as to not overwork his dislocated ankle. “When thrown from a crashing vessel, do you ask about the cause, or just focus on the experience of being airborne?” Alluro pointed to the deformed heap that had been their ride until minutes ago. “The shuttle must have split open, tossing us out upon doing so. As to what made us crash, I wish I knew. I recall Red-eye looking-”

 

            “Red-eye!” Chilla cut Alluro off. Until that point, she’d been preoccupied in her disoriented state. The other Lunatacs had only been on her mind at a sub-conscious level. Now that Alluro had mentioned Red-eye, their companions were at the forefront of her mind.

 

            Debilitating injuries aside, the two began searching for any signs of their companions. When they found none, they turned to the smoldering wreckage. It was largely unrecognizable, save for a small area of paint that hadn’t been chipped or melted away. Alluro recognized it as markings on the ship’s rear section. He’d observed such markings before they jacked the ship and blasted out of the supply vessel. Now, the marks were hardly apparent. The dented, charred corpse of the shuttle looked nothing like their escape from Way Out Back. However, its size told one important detail. It was too small to account for the entirety of the craft. Alluro smiled grimly as he saw confirmation of his the-ship-broke-on-impact hypothesis.

 

            As he and Chilla stared at the disfigured pile of metal, unsure of where to start searching, they heard noises from within. The two paid close attention to something moving behind the bent and broken fragments of ship hull. At last, a large sheet of metal was thrown aside, revealing a hole. Emerging from the new orifice was a silvery metallic fist attached to a wrist of pale flesh. The fist emerged some more, and was soon followed by two upward-curving horns and a head of dark, dim purple hair that was pulled into a long braid. A face with large yellow eyes, short pointed ears, and a long mouth were soon visible, upon a short stubby neck and a pair of wide shoulders clad in a vest of plate male armor. The escapee pulled himself from the burning scrap heap and swore in a colorful manner which Chilla and Alluro recognized all too well.

 

            The Psi and the Icewalker ran over to Tugmug in unison. Chilla noticed the bleeding scrape on Tugmug’s upper arm, and the sparks shooting from one of his frontal spring/wheel pegs.

 

            The Graviton noticed he wasn’t alone. “You alive!” he exclaimed, still rubbing at his injured forearm. “Shit. I thought you’d been buried in the ship remains.”

 

            Chilla shook her head. “No. We both we thrown out from the ship as it split apart. We didn’t find anyone else out here. Were you alone in that pile?

 

            Tugmug looked back at the rubble with great reluctance. “I think so.”

 

            Alluro noted Tugmug’s bicep wound, presuming that whatever caused it had damaged a muscle or two. He grabbed his flopping strap and tore it off the rest of the way. Tugmug had no objections to letting him tie the strap around the incision tightly. For all his strength and mobility, the Graviton’s flesh and muscle were still vulnerable to injury. It was hardly encouraging in this situation.

 

            “Where’s Red-eye?” Chilla asked to neither present Lunatac in particular. She doubted Tugmug or Alluro could answer.

 

            Alluro did, however, offer a possibility. “He was piloting the ship. If he wasn’t thrown clear of it, he could be somewhere near the front end. I imagine the ship broke in half, its front end getting severed from it back.”

 

            It was just speculation, but it was something, an option to pursue. If the three of them had survived, surely their Darkling friend could be just as lucky.  With their share of injuries, Chilla, Tugmug, and Alluro took the only promising direction. They followed a trail of scrapes in the ground and broken shrubbery. Alluro’s limping and Tugmug’s damaged wheel kept them from moving at their desired pace. For reasons even she didn’t know yet, Chilla refused to go ahead of them.

 

            The trio of injured Lunatacs followed the damaged scenery until they came to another pile of metal. These were generic shards, clearly nothing that resembled a piloting bank. Of course, none of them expected to find anything that even vaguely resembled a pilot’s console. As they got closer, they heard another voice, a pained voice. Thought it wasn’t exactly one of physical pain.

 

            “Mmm, snff, snff. L-Luna. Where you go?”

 

            Around the second junk heap they found the source of the noise. His eye was blackened, his saddle ripped and blood-soaked, and one of his horn tips was chipped off, but he was alive, and aware that his “official” company was not with him. Her absence was troubling, if not traumatizing. The observing Lunatacs wondered if his physical wounds were only a secondary concern.

 

            With his large, bloodied paw, Amok tore at the pile of twisted debris as he mumbled Luna’s name and made those odd sniffing noise. Maybe he was trying to smell her out amid the debris. Amok’s nose was quite keen, as sharp as Red-eye’s vision. But when he stopped to wipe his nose, the others realized that the dim-witted Lunatac was actually sniffling. Had Amok been sobbing? In spite of his limited intelligence quotient, the Brute wasn’t beyond feeling emotions. And he also knew what safety and danger were. He clearly knew Luna was in serious peril, and his concerned rants of her name were the only words needed to communicate his distress.

 

            Tugmug, Chilla, and Alluro watched in a mixture of amazement, due to Amok’s obvious feelings, and hope. If Luna were in that wreckage heap, maybe Red-eye was too.

 

            They watched and waited as Amok threw debris to the side. Unlike the others, Amok didn’t seem to have any serious injuries. Or if he did, he was able to ignore the pain in pursuit of his mistress. He did have a series of scrapes and lacerations on his white flesh—he’d call them “ouchies” were he not preoccupied—but they seemed mostly surface wounds. No major damage to muscles, bones, or blood vessels.

 

            At last, the scrap pile was dismantled, and the prize lay beneath. The three observing Lunatacs stepped in for a closer look.

 

            It was scene they all dreamt of several times over the course of several years, more frequently and explicitly as that time went on. They despised her. While she may have served a purpose when they first met, they soon grew to not need her “assistance”. Even after they collectively viewed their debt as paid, she still insisted on using them for her means, and even shared goals was to be performed to her liking and preferences. While they first thought themselves lucky to cross paths with her, in due time they wondered if they’d left the frying pan to jump in the fire. When her ideas ended in a humiliating failure, she placed the blame on them. She was the authoritarian, and Amok her tool. She even treated him poorly, one time going so far as to abandon him when she recovered the belt of her ancestor and went on a power trip. They were glad they’d never met that ancestor. Living with her was enough. Yet now, it seemed as if karma had turned the tables.

 

            Luna’s small body lay on the ground under the wreckage. The tiny Lunar woman had nearly been dismembered by the sharp hefty chunks of the former starship. Her face was soaked with blood, as was her striped hair. She lay on her back, motionless, eyes tightly shut.

 

            Amok picked up his mistress in his hulking paw. The size difference was comical. Her torso fit into his palm. Yet no one could deny the animalistic Brute his connection to the troll. “No Luna. No Leave, not die. Amok not whole with no Luna.” The big creature made those sniffing noises again. And the bruised areas around his eyes began to look wet.

 

            Amok was sobbing over the fate of his mistress. It was quite disturbing. In all the years they’d know him, they’d never seen Amok this emotional. It was moving to see the usually-reserved and oblivious creature act this sentimental. Tugmug almost reached over to console Amok with a back pat, but stopped himself when he was realized the despair was over Luna. If Luna was dead, that was no cause for despair at all.

 

            Amok carried Luna around as he paced aimlessly. As he did so, the others noticed something beyond him. The trail of ground scratches led up to another object emitting smoke. As Amok continued to express his woe, the others made their way to the end of the scratch trail.

 

            Sure enough, they found what they’d been after. The last piece of the shuttle had been located. Its frontal end had plowed headlong onto a massive boulder, where it came to a stop with such force that the pilot seat had been dislodge from its fixture and thrown forward against the control bank. Alluro limped toward the stray seat with apprehension. The flight harness was still fastened around the seat’s occupant. The hobbling Psi reached for the loosened chair and hoisted it back. Their search was completed, but not as they’d hoped.

 

            Red-eye had remained a pilot up until the final moment, and even after the crash he remained in a natural piloting position. It was a testament of his flying skills. Yet for all his deft maneuvers and precise, quick thinking, even he was unable to avoid the impeding doom. If a commanding officer went down with his stricken ship, Red-eye was this shuttle’s officer.

 

            The piloting seat had been thrown against the control bank with such force that even emergency air cushion, which inflated to prevent injury to a pilot, failed to step the impact. Or maybe it worked perfectly, but only once, after the initial crash, failing to work again as the ship fragment bashed into the obstruction.

 

            Red-eye had been slammed face first into the piloting control panel, his head sandwiched between the console and the dislocated seat. Alluro cringed as he looked over the Darkling. Red-eye’s lips were blood-streaked, blood oozed from his nostrils as the telltale sign of a broken nose, and his pale skin had these terrible bruises on the temples and forehead. He didn’t respond when shaken, and when Alluro opened the Darkling’s closed eyes, Red-eye did not react in any way. He was out cold, less bloodied than Luna, but just as lifeless.

 

            Tugmug wheeled to Alluro’s side. “Is he still alive?”

 

            With doubts, Alluro placed his hand to Red-eye’s neck, and placed his ear to the inert Darkling’s chest. “He’s got breath and a pulse, but they’re both weak.”

 

            Chilla joined them above the prone Darkling. Now that they’d found their missing comrades, they could look at the bigger picture. Tugmug asked the looming question. “Where the hell are we now?”

 

            Chilla bit her lip. “This is no Moon of Plundar, but we were in close proximity to the Lunar System before getting,” she didn’t know the operative word for what happened in the flight’s last moment. “blasted out of space.”

 

            She exchanged a nervous look with Tugmug as Alluro expounded on her scenario. “There are two inhabited planets this close to the Moons. Plundar itself obviously, and…” He was uncomfortable mentioning the other one by name.

 

            “Either way, it’s deep shit for us,” Tugmug put in. “If we’re found, we’ll either be captured, if not executed on the spot, or detained and questioned. We could even be sent to Way Out Back again, at which point we’ll all be wishing for the execution outcome.”

 

            Chilla look up at the sky, and at the broken remains of the former shuttle. “Something like this won’t go unnoticed by the locals of either planet. They both have the technology to pick up this kind of activity. Sooner or later, they’ll be on their way to investigate.”

 

            “Than we move out now,” Alluro spoke up in a true leadership fashion. Luna wasn’t able to demote him now, but there was a sinking feeling in his gut that said leadership in these circumstances was hardly his desire. Banishing that vague thought, he unbuckled the seat harness upon Red-eye’s waist. “If we’re leaving this crash site behind, we need to get him out of here.”

 

            Tugmug and Chilla saw his point and had no arguments. Red-eye was one of their own, a fellow Lunatac. They’d grown close during their “indentured servitude” of Luna. While the Darkling was less overt than his peers in objecting to Luna’s iron fist, his feeling was the same, even if he was more silent on the topic.

 

            Additionally, Red-eye’s piloting expertise had prevented a crash that would’ve killed them on the spot. As such, only four of them had emerged standing, and very scathed at that. They had no intention of leaving Red-eye, not after what they’d been through, old and recent.

 

            Alluro bent down to lift the comatose Darkling from the stray seat, but the flaring pain in his ankle stopped him. He stifled a groan and remembered his injury. Lifting a huge load such as the bulky Red-eye was beyond out of the question for him, even if he did it with assistance. He limped away and looked down at Tugmug. “Can you lift him?”

 

            The Graviton pointed at his bandaged forearm. “Are you seriously asking me that? And even if I can with one arm, I couldn’t move with him. Look.” He pointed next at his broken, sparking wheel peg.

 

            That left Chilla. Before Alluro asked, she answered. “I don’t think so. Yes, I’m physically fit, but less massive than him. He put on some flab since we got sent to that shit hole Way Out Back. And that’s before taking into….GHHH!” The pain of her cracked ribs was back with a vengeance. Her grunts reminded Alluro and Tugmug of their own crippling wounds.

 

            Alluro frowned. His ankle wound and Chilla’s abdominal one presented the obstacle of moving Red-eye. As for Tugmug, he’d be terribly off balance, even if he succeeded in lifting the unconscious Lunatac. The three of them deliberated, cursing their injuries. The Psi kicked aside a rock with his good leg. “Damn it! If only one of us weren’t so…” He suddenly remembered.

 

            Behind them, Amok was still despairing over his mistress. He carried Luna’s limp form as though she was Lunar young, even though she looked more like a dirty, beaten up rag doll. If Amok could dig for Luna in the pile of ruins like so, he’d have no problems in carrying Red-eye.

 

            But that presented another issue.

 

            The trio joined Amok, who barely gave them any acknowledgment. They weren’t sure if Luna was still alive. Her small form was hardly resilient, though her size could’ve helped her escape death by allowing her to squeeze into the indentations of debris pieces that would smash larger beings. Still, her condition looked no better than Red-eye’s.

 

            With Amok whimpering over Luna’s still form, Alluro leaned in close. “Amok, is she still alive?”

 

            He was unsure if Amok heard him. Amok didn’t have the galaxy’s most disciplined attention span. In his mind, the universe consisted only of himself and his unconscious mistress. Or so Alluro thought. But if Luna wasn’t going to answer, Amok would need to learn the world was much wider.

 

            With eyes sore from crying and swollen from getting banged around, the Brute regarded his three associates. “Luna weak. Weak breathe, weak heartbeat. What if Luna dying?”

 

            Alluro shared a glance with Tugmug and Chilla. Luna was alive, and as long as that remained true, Amok would not leave her side. They all knew him well enough to conclude that part. Alluro leaned in close to the others. “We can’t leave her here to die, tempting as it may be. Without Amok, Red-eye’s going nowhere.”

 

            “They both stay or they both come with us,” Chilla reasoned with obvious complaint. “Here we’ve got the perfect chance to off Luna, only to have it bear a price.”

 

            Tugmug looked up and curled his lip. “I’m not leaving my drinking buddy of many years to die out in this nowhere.”

 

            “Nor would I abandon the Ice-runner’s chief fix-it mechanic.” Chilla was defensive at Tugmug’s accusing tone, but it passed quickly when she realized they were of a like mind, sharing even the stress of their dilemma.

 

            “We’ll all die if we keep this up. I’m sure the locals are on their way. Neither of those close planets have ever been all that Lunar-friendly,” Alluro reasoned. His hard logic was as cold as Chilla native Moon. “As much as I hate giving Luna a second chance, we’ll be screwing ourselves in the ass if we don’t.” He voiced more logic, another point to solidify his idea as worthwhile. “If we leave her, and she gets picked up alive by Mutants or Thunderians, she may spill the beans on our presence just to save her little ass. I wouldn’t put it past her.”

 

            Chilla and Tugmug looked at each other. Though Alluro was arrogant and full of himself, he wasn’t stupid. Maybe his smarts were the root cause of his ego. The Graviton and the Icewalker nodded to one another before turning their eyes to Alluro.

 

            “I don’t trust Luna,” he went on “and I’m sure you both can second that.” Nods and chuckles were the replies. “Besides, I don’t really hate Amok, even if he’s been Luna’s flunky all these years. She ditched him once, and it was he who brought her back down to a mortal level by destroying that fucking belt. Amok is useful, and maybe in Luna’s absence he’ll come to his senses and ditch the bitch.”

 

            Chilla laughed, as much as she could without her rib ailments causing cramps. “I seriously doubt that last part Alluro, but everything else makes sense.”

 

            With some coaxing, the three managed to lead Amok over to Red-eye. Alluro described it as “working with a really big baby”. When the Brute saw the dark dweller out cold, he mumbled “Red-eye not well” and started pawing at him until even he realized he’d get to response.

 

            “We need you carry him,” Alluro instructed. Amok was more receptive to him than he anticipated. The primitive Lunatac did recognize those of his Lunar kind, at the very least. Maybe the fact that Luna was comatose just like Red-eye instilled some idea in Amok’s dense mind that helping him would also help Luna.

 

            Amok knelt down, took Red-eye’s black-gloved hand in his own, and pulled the Darkling upon his back. With some spare straps found in the pouches of Amok’s saddle, Alluro and Chilla secured the Darkling chest-down atop Amok. Luna was placed in her usual spot, atop Amok’s head.

 

            “So what now, oh wise leader?” Tugmug asked of Alluro.

 

            The irony wasn’t lost on the Psi. He always had the arrogance and ego to think he could play decision maker in Luna’s place. Now that the opportunity had risen, it was in a perilous circumstance of being injured and lost amid a rural wilderness in some unknown but hostile territory with two comatose partners who could perish any moment, only one of them deserving it.

 

            Alluro had the chance to be leader at a time when he wanted anything but.

 

            However, Tugmug’s point was undeniable. It was Alluro who’d gotten the escape from Way Out Back started, and he’d also co-piloted the late starship with Red-eye. It was Alluro who suggested they leave with Red-eye and bail from the crash site before curious locals arrived, and it was Alluro who suggested Amok carry the Darkling when the others could barely move him due to their own wounds.

 

            Alluro was the decision maker now. Chilla folded her arms and waited for a response. She and Tugmug had promoted him. Amok would lend neither support nor objection to Alluro taking charge. Someone needed to do it. If nothing else, Red-eye’s life depended on it.

 

            With a deep breathe the Psi looked about, his eyes stopping at the remains of the ship’s front end. “We scavenge this wreckage heap for any emergency supplies, food, tools, water, medicines, anything we can find. Odds are that if there’s a crash kit, it’s here in the front end. We need to hurry. Locals are surely on their way.”

 

            They took a few minutes to search the piloting section of the former ship. Sure enough, they found a survival kit in a small storage compartment on the floor between the two seats. They used its first aid contents to clean and bandage their wounds. A flashlight, galactic compass, portable tent, and bottles of water were also taken. They did find a portable, multi-band radio that could send messages from even the deepest regions of space, but they all decided against using it, at least right away. They were not in friendly territory, and the message could easily be traced from a radio of that caliber. Calling attention to themselves would be more than a tad unwise.

 

Most of what didn’t get used right away was placed in Amok’s riding gear pouches. Alluro even tore off a bent truss rod fragment to use as a walking cane for his limp. When they packed what they could salvage, Alluro spoke of step two. “Now let’s beat it.” He looked around. The compass didn’t really help them with which direction to take. While it served as a navigation device for the four directions, no direction seemed any better or worse than the others. They were out in a rural area with no idea which direction led to the closest batch of civilization.

 

            Of course there was the more pressing matter at hand, evading local patrols. With a more decisive mentality, Alluro looked toward what the compass indicated was south. “We’ll head that way. It’s covered with dense trees. They’ll help conceal us from whoever comes looking. I imagine they’ll be using aerial transportation, flying above the tree line.”

 

            “So let’s haul ass” Tugmug wheeled toward the tree-covered path Alluro had pointed out, Chilla close behind him. Amok caught on quickly and walked after them. Alluro’s improvised cane helped his walking speed noticeably. He kept pace with the others.

 

            Once they were shadowed by the trees above, Chilla mentioned to Alluro, “I think I know what planet this is. It just doesn’t look…ugly enough to be Plaundar.”

 

            “New fuckin’ Thundera,” Tugmug growled. “How promising. We crash land in Thundercat Central. Even if we get to civilization, we’ll still be in danger.”

 

            “We have plenty of time to plan ahead for that Tugmug.” Alluro tried sounding like the smug leader he wished he could be in this uncertain time. “Let’s head for some high ground. Look ahead.” Off in the southern distance was a mountain top. “If we get up there, we may be able to get a better fix on our exact distance from an urban setting. It’s the only option for the time being.”

 

            As they walked, Chilla ran her fingers through her silver hair. Alluro liked when she did that, for some reason. “You know. Maybe it’s for the better that we crashed in the wilds,” she commented. “Had we landed in the middle of a city, we’d have Thundercats coming out the ass with no chance of escape.”

 

            “Prejudice,” grumbled Amok in regards to New Thundera’s native population

 

            Alluro laughed. “You’re quite the optimist, dear Chilla.”

 

            “I can be whatever the hell I choose when Luna’s not around to bitch. I’ll take this opportunity to vent. Besides, we need all the encouragement we can get right now.”

 

* * * *

 

            Trees and hills sped by outside below her craft, but she paid them no attention. There was nothing to see among to the peaks and foliage. She only had one destination, and one purpose for being out in this rural wilderness.

 

            At last, the console of her recon craft started beeping, a sign that she was nearing her destination. Moments later, she was slowing her vessel’s cruising speed, finally coming to a hover above the spot in question. It was a clearing atop a short, broad hill, a large gap in the trees. And strewn randomly about that clearing were bent, smoldering heaps of metal.

 

            Lepordria had reached the spot of interest. The female Knight landed her craft on a bed of grass, opened the cockpit, and stepped out to observe what had crashed here. It was a crash, obviously. The Emperor’s guess had been correct.

 

            With her burgundy cape flowing behind her in a mild breeze, Lepordria inspected the various piles of twisted rubble. It was too large to be some kind of scanning bot. Even had the piles been separate objects originally, even the smallest of them was still to large to be an AI droid of sorts. Clearly it was the other possibility, a space vessel.

 

            Lepordria pulled a scanning visor from her utility belt and slid it on. As she expected, there were so signs of life in any of the wreckage piles. That didn’t rule out the possibility of casualties within those jagged, smoking mounds. Black waves of smoke seeped from various places in them, dissipating against the cloudy, darkening sky. Fires had burned at some point.

 

            The front end of the vessel, the only semi-recognizable part remaining, was empty. No one, living or dead, occupied its loose piloting chair. Having searched where it was needed, Lepordria returned to her cruiser. She didn’t take a seat however. She merely reached for the radio. With the press of a button it crackled to life. “Lepordria to capital. I have reached the crash site.”

 

            The responding voice was none other than Emperor Lion-O. “Excellent. What have you found?”

 

            The Knight would’ve shot to her feet, were she not already standing. “It looks like a space craft, or at least it was before crashing. It broke in half, and one of those halves broke again after the initial impact. I found no signs of life, or death for that matter. There could be cadavers under the burning debris, but the pilot seat was empty. He or she could’ve fled the area.”

 

            The Emperor’s voice answered amid the faint static. “A very perceptive observation Lepordria, but it doesn’t answer a different question. If the ship was going down within our airspace, why didn’t we receive a mayday call?”

 

            Lepordria offered two potential answers. “Maybe they weren’t local, and had no idea we live here or how to communicate. Maybe the radio was damaged before they went down.”

 

            “They’re both possible, and compatible,” The Emperor reasoned. “But what would cause a vehicle to crash like that. Our scanners didn’t pick up any signs of some galactic dogfight, so it’s safe to guess this was no military conflict amid foreigners. What kind of ship was it?”

 

            “It was too damaged for me to identify its make or features, but enough of the cockpit remained for me to observe two seats and a rather small control bank.”

 

            There was silence before Lion-O replied. “Another possibility is a drone, an unmanned ship controlled via remote. But of that’s the case, what would it being doing up there, and why would it be blown up?”

 

            The Knight shook her head. “I wish I knew. Maybe we should expect similar activity in the future.”

 

            “A worthy discretion Lepordria, yes. In the meantime, collect a sizable piece of rubble using your craft’s grappling claw and report back here. Leave the piece with Panthro and Tygra. They’ll learn information about this vessel in no time.”

 

            “Yes Emperor. Lepordria out.” She clicked off the radio and, predictably, placed her right hand over her left breast. She held the female Knight salute for a moment before returning to her seat and closing the cockpit dome. The recon craft’s engine started up and began hovering over the remains of the mystery ship.

 

 * * * *

 

             The scenery was menacing. “Ominous” and “foreboding” would hardly describe such a terrain. “Grim” and “dark” were mere understatements.

 

            Sunlight was abnormal. Huge dark clouds covered the sky most of the time, and natural darkness took over in their absence. When total darkness wasn’t in the sky, a lesser fog turned it into a shade of grayish blue, not pitch black but still plenty gloomy. Other times, the distant sun would merge with the clouds and illuminate the sky in a crimson red or fiery orange.

 

            The land was no better, if not worse. Wastelands dominated the soil, jungles with hideous, demonic trees that were every bit carnivorous as the animal life, barren mountain peaks that housed twisting caves and smoky volcanoes which further darkened the skies with their ash discharge, searing deserts that suffered droughts all through the local calendar year, swamps of putrid water that steamed as though alive.

 

             Civilizations and towns were also a grotesque sight. Dwellings were merely ruins of former buildings, skeletal towers and half-gutted structures that would be deemed unlivable had they stood elsewhere. They were haphazardly arranged, laid out in some random, disorganized placement from one another that would never meet approval elsewhere.

 

            The sounds would also strike fear in outsiders. Howling winds swept through the flatlands, resembling the cries or a tortured lost soul. Storms thundered within those massive black clouds, which only expelled a slimy form of rain. The noises of wildlife in the parts were also frightening. Growls and screeches of ravenous creatures would intimidate anyone unfamiliar with this world, their calls echoing throughout the setting long after the source noise died.

 

            This was the planet Plundar. Surely no outsider would willingly set foot upon this hellhole.

 

            But, there were isolated parts that didn’t invoke nightmares, even in a planet as malicious as this one. Atop a hill in one of many living forests was a looming palace. While its coloring and exterior design fit with the surrounding terrain, inside was much different. There were spacious chambers and long extending hallways filled with artifacts that somehow looked out of place in such a world. Paintings, pottery, and metal-cast statues seemed more at home on Plundar’s distant satellites than the chief planet itself. If one saw a picture of the palace’s interior placed next to another shot of Plundar’s environment, they wouldn’t believe the two differing places were part of the same world. But that they were.

 

            In a large room with a dining table, a rotund individual sat in a chair eating some hearty food. His appetite was deep, as his large frame would suggest. He and his crew had docked their ship in the palace hanger a few hours ago and he was hungry. This hunger was amplified by the fact he was anticipating news. He was searching for something long lost.

 

            A flash of lighting briefly illuminated the dark skies outside the dining hall windows, but the lighting on the inside made the flash an after thought. As the skies went black again, two armored individuals approached the dining table’s occupant. He placed his wine goblet down and addressed them both. “Mantisark, Boariek. Have you an update?”

 

            Mantisark gestured with this long arm. “Ravion’s team found no trace of it, General. We’re still awaiting a report from Aquias’s group.”

 

            “What of the other parties?” asked the General between sips of wine.

 

            Boariek shook his elongated head. “Their findings were all negative, and our scanning tech is strong enough to pick up various energy readings, especially from something as powerful as what you seek. If we get no signals, it’s not here.”

 

            The Lord pondered the implications. “If we don’t hear from Aquias, than we’ll have to search a foreign area. Though it belongs here, its current whereabouts are perhaps elsewhere. Last I knew it was…” He paused. “We’ll wait to hear from Aquias, but in the meantime, prepare a new search team. I have an idea where we’ll find it. If the rumors are true, it will be there.”

 

            “Which of us will lead this new party?” Mantisark questioned in his usually, buzzing voice.

 

            The Commander shook his head. “Any of you will attract unwanted attention. I have a better idea. Even if these search scouts are discovered, the locals will suspect nothing.” He stood up and took one last bite of Graviton organ meat. When he swallowed, he rose to his feet and punched his fist in the air. “And it will once again be wielded by the proper hands!”

 

            Outside, a clap of thunder and another flash of lightning accentuated his ambitious declaration.

  

 

To Be Continued

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