Hell's Reach (Galactic Liberation Series Book 6) by B. V. Larson

Author:B. V. Larson [Larson, B. V.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-11-03T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 19

Hell’s Reach, SBS Trollheim.

“General Straker to the bridge.” The SAI’s voice echoed through the public address system in the crowded gym, where Straker was pumping iron in triple gravplating. He’d woken with surprisingly little hangover, and the workout had sweated out the lingering aftereffects.

Physical aftereffects anyway.

As the klaxons for Alert Status One hadn’t sounded, he grabbed his comlink and said, “Ten minutes.”

A fast shower and fresh uniform later, he stepped onto the bridge, nodded to Salishan, and turned his attention to the holotank. An icon blinked, ahead along the ship’s plotted course. “What is it?”

“Distress beacon. Furmian trader, it looks like.”

“Furmian... why does that sound familiar?”

Zaxby spoke from the auxiliary Sensors station. “The assault carrier Richthofen masqueraded as a Furmian trader when we approached Terra Nova.”

“Right... nomadic humanoids. Closed societies, each ship a tribe unto itself, like bands of Roma gypsies on Old Earth. Is their ship any threat?”

“Not conventionally. It’s big—pushing the sidespace limit—but not heavily armed. They stay far into flatspace and transit out if threatened. In fact... ” Salishan’s face expressed deliberate puzzlement. “In fact, they never send one of their motherships into curved space. They detach smaller vessels to trade or deal with outsiders. That makes it particularly weird they’re this deep into the nebula. It’s all curved space within the boundary. They’re trapped.”

“And transmitting a distress call. How far away can it be heard?”

“The distress call? With all the interference, they’re lucky anyone ran across them.”

Straker chewed his lip. “So no chance this is a trick? An ambush?”

“I wouldn’t go that far... but the odds of them laying specifically for us are small, I’d say. I propose we be very careful, though. The Furmians are known for their tricks, but mostly in shady trade deals. There’s a saying: if a Furmian shakes your hand, check your pockets. Then again, some stories say there are no better friends to be had. A complex society.”

“Let’s see what they want.”

Salishan gestured at Comms. The main screen changed to show a vidlink of a youngish, pudgy humanoid male, apparently on the bridge or command center of the ship. His skin was purplish and his head-covering seemed to be made of fine orange feathers—or perhaps the feathers grew like hair from his head. Other than that he seemed quite human. Convergent evolution, or a split from true human stock back in the days of the First Expansion?

His lip movements showed he was speaking some other language, but the auto-translation came through in good Earthan. “Hail and well met, human warship. We could use some help, if you can spare it. I’m Dromian, Senior of the Homeship Rodolfian.”

“I’m General Derek Straker,” he replied. “You don’t seem very senior.”

The man inclined his head in acknowledgement. “My father was killed in the attack which left us stranded here four months ago. My mother is... unwell, so I assumed leadership in the crisis. However, our succession issues are irrelevant to our current situation. What we really need is to escape this Divines-forsaken nebula.”

“How do you envision us helping.

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