ALTERNATE TALES OF THE STAR FORCE

STAR BLAZERS---THINK FOR YOURSELF

Being the third part of THE RIKASHA INCIDENT--- BY: Frederick P. Kopetz

ACT ONE-MISSION OF MERCY

"The strangest thing about the Rikashans that our historical research has been able to discover is that, well, they are a people of many contradictions. They long for a Heaven of green grass and warm beaches but they sing songs and write poems to their Mother, the Desert. They are a religious and ethical people with beautiful scriptures but some of their sects have sacrificed sentient beings to their gods. They sing both of Eternal Life and of Ji'hads of death. In our day, they have been at peace with the major worlds for four hundred years and at war for just as long a time. It is said that a Rikashan will take a homeless man in off the street to share kaf, their strong coffee-like drink, one day and the next morning they might receive a message from their deities to torture him to death. It has never been as bad since the First Ji'had of eight centuries ago, but, still, dealing with a Rikashan can be treacherous, even dangerous, almost as dangerous as dealing with a Free Space Trader. The bards say it may be well to have eyes in the back of one's head when one speaks with a Rikashan clan noble or leader. Perhaps this is still wise advice."--Grasnen the Cynic.

The Encyclopaedia Galactica--Anecdotes of the Great Travelers-Tenth Edition, 2976

I. JOURNEY TO THE WESTHAMPTON BEACH

Medevac Boat attached to Space Battleship Argo

Vicinity of the Moons of Neptune

January 10, 2202--0228 Hours-Space Time
 

"Together again," said Ensign Paul Hemsford, the leader of the Argo's new Marine Group, as he leaned against the pilot's seat of the Medevac craft that he, Nova, and their assistants were in.

"Yes, we are," sighed Nova. "Just like on that exercise a few weeks ago in Quantico, remember?" She smiled for a moment as she noticed two more Medevac shuttles going past; one was from the Argo, and the other was from Triton Base.

"What happened then, sir?" asked a Marine Sergeant named Vic Wallchinsky.

"You don't wanna know," said Hemsford. "She and her sneaky little bunch captured me."

"Really?" asked Wallchinsky.

"Really," said IQ-9. "I read the action reports."

"What did they say?" asked Wallchinsky.

"Yeah, what did they say?" piped in Ensign James Felton, the boat pilot who was flying.

"You don't want to know," said IQ-9. "However, Nova does look pretty in green camouflage face-paint."

"That's enough, tinwit!" snapped Nova.

"You think we're going to have a chance to see what those damn aliens look like?" demanded Hemsford.

"I hope not," shrugged Felton.

"What? You're yellow?" asked Hemsford with a grin.

"No. I've heard they're ugly. I don't like ugly."

"Whatever," said Hemsford, who took a moment to pop off his helmet, exposing his bald, shiny pate and dark brown African-American features. "You think I'm ugly?" he joshed.

"Tough, yes. Ugly, no."

"Ensign Hemsford, you are not ugly," said Nova firmly.

"Great," smiled Hemsford. "Thanks."

"However, God rest his soul, Sergeant Knox was sort of ugly," said Nova. "Of course, he was a brave fighter and he went down...well...fighting."

"Keep on talking like that, and even though we've been part of the EDF since before you were in diapers, ma'am, the Corps will never forgive you," smiled Hemsford. "Ma'am?" he asked, noticing how Nova's facial expression had dropped. "You okay?"

"Yes...I'm okay...I think," said Nova. "I'm just remembering how Knox died."

"Yeah...he had a tough break," said Hemsford. "You found him in his plane right after he crash-landed back on the Argo?"

"Yes...I did. The sight...wasn't pretty."

"War never is pretty, ma'am."

"I know...You're not going to call me a space jockey, are you?" asked Nova.

"You're a lady with a pretty face and a good officer, ma'am," said Hemsford. "However, on the other hand, your husband..."

"You take back whatcha said about Knox, I'll take back what I'm about to say about your husband. Deal?"

"Deal," said Nova. "Do we need to shake on it, Paul?"

"Nawww...your word's okay...space jockey," grinned Hemsford.

"Okay...jarhead," smiled Nova.

"I think you two are even," said IQ-9. "Neither of you make any sense at all. By the way, the liner's up ahead. It doesn't look good."

"No, it doesn't," whistled Felton.

The Westhampton Beach was, indeed, a smoking wreck.

"How could anybody be alive on that wreck?" asked Hemsford out loud.

"Believe it or not, I am reading life signs," said IQ-9. "However, they are very faint. Blocking out the alien life-signs, which are a bit different because their body temperatures are lower than ours, I read that most of the humans on board seem to be injured. We don't have a lot of time, Nova."

"Felton, put us down in that landing bay over there," ordered Nova from the boat's co-pilot seat. "The time is now 0250. We'd better move as quickly as we can before those fires spread."

II. ANOTHER BATTLE

Space Battleship Argo

Vicinity of the Moons of Neptune

January 10, 2202--0251 Hours-Space Time
 

"Okay," said Venture. "Wildstar, we've sent in two Medevac boats, and two landing boats with most of the rest of Hemsford's Marines on board, as well as some of our spare gunners, sent in as Troopers. The base is sending in two more Medevac boats and two more landing boats."

"How many survivors will that leave room for?"

"About sixty or seventy, Captain," replied Venture. "However, IQ-9's analysis of the ship told us that forty people are left alive on that ship at most."

"How many people could that liner hold?" asked Parsons from her post.

"Our record states that her maximum crew and passenger complement were 450," said Sandor. "Fifty crew members and four hundred passengers at best. I don't know if the ship was fully booked or not, though. It was supposed to be her maiden voyage."

Wildstar got up and began to walk towards Sandor's post. Before he could further examine his readouts, however, the ship tilted under them and the thrum of one explosion hit, followed by another.

"Confirmed," said Ensign Carl Chafer, who was at the cosmo-radar, which he was manning in Nova's absence. "And the other hit on the stern came from four objects behind us, eleven megameters off starboard. Switching to visual."

Derek ran over to Dash's post and said, "Dash, all hands to battle stations! Venture, bring us about a hundred and eighty degrees. Dash, you and Rosstowski open all guns. Who's on patrol?"

"Conroy's and Hartmann's squadrons, sir, " said Dash.

"Good. Homer, order Conroy to sweep the area, for more ships. We're getting those other four. Then, order Hartmann to get ready to get that last sub, and fast."

A moment later, Wildstar looked up. "Sandor, these are different ships. Two are larger than those subs, but smaller than that space fortress, and these are red, too. The other two are smaller, and are also red. Battleships and escorts, Sandor?"

"The battleships look to be about the same size as the Argo, but more lightly armed," said Sandor as the Argo turned. "Battle cruisers, maybe?"

"If they are, well, we're going to teach them a lesson!" barked Wildstar. "Status, Dash?"

"Ready to fire!" barked Dash.

"One-hundred and eighty degree turn completed," said Venture.

"We are now just within firing range," added Ensign Chafer. "Distance to enemy: ten megameters!"

"Great!" said Wildstar as he nodded in Dash's direction.

Dash responded with the command, "All guns, OPEN FIRE!"

And, at that, the Argo's forward gun turrets began to reply to the mysterious enemy's rude wake-up call with several impressive blue plasma energy surges of their own.

The Argo's fire blasted straight into the heart of the squadron. Two of the beams blew apart one of the destroyers, while the rest of them converged in a mighty surge that ripped through one of the enemy battlecruisers like a knife through hot butter, blasting it apart in a spectacular ball of flame.

"Missiles approaching!" yelled Parsons. "It must be from that sub!"

"Checking back five minutes with the Time Radar, no sign of the vessel submerging, can't track it!" barked Chafer from the Cosmo-Radar.

"Damn!" yelled Wildstar. "All hands, brace for impact!"

As usual, the Argo took several hits, but she came out of the blast unbowed and ready to give back as much as she took...which she did as soon as her guns fired again.

I'm not so concerned, we can take damage, thought Wildstar. But what about that liner? They're not going to last for ten minutes unless we can stop this blizzard.

Wildstar then ran over to Homer's post. "Connect me to Conroy," he said.

Homer nodded and did so.

"Conroy!" he ordered. "Keep your fighter screen up over the ship and order Hartmann to go out and hit those cruisers."

"Roger," replied Conroy. "Hartmann!" he snapped. "Go out and get those ships and order six of your planes to go out and cover the rescue parties."

"We'll give it our best shot, sir" she replied. Even though I'm flying a replacement plane that's a bit beat-up, she thought to herself. "Six of you, break off and cover the landing boats. As for the rest of us... let's go in and kick some butt!"

At that, Laurel and her wingmen blasted in towards the battlecruisers. Their missiles blazed as they homed in on one of the battlecruisers and began to rip it apart like a holiday turkey.

Before long, the enemy vessel was nothing but a blazing wreck, along with another one of the battlecruisers that the rest of the squadron had attacked.

Satisfied with their lethal work, Hartmann ordered a second attack run.

However, things were not going near as smoothly near the Westhampton Beach herself.

On the liner, video gossip columnist Constance Rademacher had been holding an interview with a famous pop music star, with the assistance of a young reporter known as Keri McCullough.

At least it had been that way before the attack had begun. But now, there had been several explosions on the vessel, and it looked like half the people in the area were dead. She heard only moans from Constance, and her pop star subject was certainly dead.

But, her camera was still running. She found herself in an unexpected role: hard news reporter, even though she didn't like it.

"This is Keri McCullough...news reporter...even though I don't want to be," said the young girl as the smoke cleared on the Westhampton Beach.

"I hope this is going out," she cried over the airwaves. On Earth, a surprised and frightened Karl and Teri Forrester (Nova's parents) watched the TV in their kitchen, since Karl had arrived home early in Boulder from a conference at his law firm in the central district of the Megalopolis.

The Forresters had been watching a late, late movie, but, instead, this news report had just come on. "We're still on the Westhampton Beach, although I don't know how much longer we will be. Kyle Argent, one of my assistants, is holding the camera on me, and I'm...I'm holding J.W. Peters in my arms," she cried. Kyle roughly turned the camera towards the pop star's still form, halfway covered with blood from the waist up, where a huge piece of metal protruded from his stomach. "My producer, and poor J. W. they're all bloody...bloody...and I can't get a pulse. J.W.'s eyes are fixed open, and he's not responding to anything! I think he's dead! I've yelled out to Constance, but all she can do is moan."

"We're...we're not in the best of shape ourselves..." cried Keri over the noise of another blast in the liner's innards as another one of the mysterious torpedoes that came from nowhere slammed into it. Her picture faded in a burst of static that still left the network's hastily superimposed red SPECIAL REPORT-- LIVE title up on screen for a second before she reappeared again. "And...I just saw one..."

"Two, stupid!" yelled Rex as he looked at a ball of flame outside. The frigate Isoroku Yamamoto, which had been trying to offer assistance as it came in towards the base, had been caught with its pants down by the enemy sub, which promptly finished her off.

"That's another vessel down," said the sub's Captain. "Now, for that damned liner..."

"Haruenda, prepare to break off attack; I have assumed command of the area battle," said a strange voice.

"I am Commander Daruell, operational survivor of this attack," snapped the R'Khell officer in charge of the last sub. Who are you?"

"Admiral Kierzden, Fourth Sacred Attack Corps. I have assumed command. Launch two more pods of troopers and then pull out. Before we finish off that sub, I want prisoners, for information and for a profit at the slave markets."

"Yessir," said Daruell. "All hands, we are changing the operation. Submerge!"

At that, the Haruenda's periscope disappeared back down into hyperspace.

"No one..." sobbed Keri. "I mean...one...of our spaceships...our gunboats...frigates...whatever...have just been blown apart by these people. They were trying to help! Where are they? When are we gonna get rescued?" she screamed as her image faded again in a loud, final burst of static.

It didn't reappear again.

"Karl...isn't poor Nova out there someplace?" cried Teri Forrester back on Earth.

"I think so...she said they were on that special training mission..."

"I hope they're not in trouble out there!"

"Teri, for the sake of those people, let's hope Nova, Derek, and their shipmates are out there. We just can't think of ourselves at a time like this..."

Teri bit her lip sadly and nodded, knowing that Karl was right. In spite of the quarrel she had been through with her eldest daughter a few days after the wedding over Yvona and her prior relationship with Derek, she still loved her dearly.

On TV, a hastily summoned news announcer said, "We have lost contact with the Westhampton Beach...and all attempts to restore our live feed have been unsuccessful. We have no idea what has become of the vessel...and..."

He was interrupted by a young lady who ran up and handed him a teletype printout. "This...dispatch came from our telex...in a couple of minutes, at exactly 4:00 AM, the Federation will have an information officer up in a live briefing from Earth Defense Headquarters in the Great Megalopolis. She will be able to report on the measures that are now being taken by the Defense Forces to neutralize this threat and rescue the passengers and crew of the Westhampton Beach. Also, they are considering suspending all commercial space traffic until further notice. That's all I have for you at this point..."

"Karl! This is horrible!" yelled Teri as she shook her head in panic. "What can our Defense Forces do about this?"

"I'm sure they're trying to do everything they can, Teri," said Karl as he took a deep breath.

III. THE BATTLE RAGES

Space Battleship Argo

Vicinity of the Moons of Neptune

January 10, 2202--0312 Hours-Space Time

Aboard the Argo, the ship's gunners were quite busy as the battle raged around them.

"Okay, guys. Once again...stand fast!" snapped Densbury.

"You always say that, sir," said Sergeant Rodham Maxwell, who was in his usual place at the center gun. "Did the angle change?"

"Nope," said Tech Sergeant David Norris, who was, as usual, manning the port side gun next to Maxwell. "Hey, Mike," he yelled. "What about you?"

"Negative, Dave," replied Tech Sergeant Mike Garrand from the starboard side gun.

As the turret crew awaited new orders, the turret speaker suddenly came on, and Paul Rosstowski's voice came over the speaker, stating, "Main Turret Number Two, correct gun angle by plus one point five two degrees."

"Roger that," barked Densbury. "Crew, correct angle by plus one point five two."

"Acknowledged," barked Norris as the two blurred video images that represented the two halves of the target met. They were aiming at one battlecruiser and its escorting destroyer. "Correction completed, sir." That Rosstowski, he thought, getting to be an officer in a battlefield promotion when Ensign Shandling bought it last year during the Comet Empire thing. Lucky stiff! I wonder how he likes it? Damn, I miss being back in number three with him. Gotta talk to him later and see how he likes it up there in officer's country as compared to being down here, he thought. I'll bet it's a more glamour-filled job up there.

As usual, from his station behind Maxwell, Norris, and Garrand, Ensign Densbury quickly pushed a button that sent a "Green" signal up to the Artillery and Combat stations on the first bridge as he said, "Sir, all guns are on target!" As soon as he did that, the three gunners sat waiting with their fingers on the green firing buttons at their stations.

"All guns ready and on target," barked Rosstowski over the speaker.

"FIRE!" barked Dash a moment later on his circuit.

A cheer went up in the turret as soon as the two of the beams of energy ripped through the battlecruiser. At the same time, one blasted through the destroyer. Both enemy warships then went up in bright balls of flame.

"Sir," said Dash on the bridge. "All turrets were right on target: we scored three hits."

"Confirmed," said Parsons from her post. "One cruiser and two destroyers just disappeared from my scope, sir."

"Where are the others?" asked Wildstar.

"They're still coming," said Holly Parsons. "Range, seven point two megameters."

"Correct firing angles," snapped Dash.

"All gunners correct angles by another plus one degree," said Rosstowski.

In the turrets, Densbury and the others soon re-trained the guns, and, a moment later, the Argo's main guns fired yet another salvo at the enemy fleet.

Soon, the Argo's fusillades, combined with Hartmann's attack runs, whittled the enemy fleet down to two battlecruisers and three destroyers.

"They're down to five, now. Distance, four megameters, " said Chafer. "They're getting in close."

"Too close," said Parsons. "Now at three megameters. Speed...just ten space knots. I don't think they like what we did very much," she added with a little smile.

"Dash, aim the guns for one last time," snapped Wildstar. "Let's finish them off."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Hold it!" said Chafer. "Those guys are turning around! They're picking up speed...I think they're trying to make a run for it! Speed, fifteen, range, five...now it's five-point three!"

"We can still get them, sir," offered Rosstowski. "They're still in range and we can hit them with a quick turret correction."

"Wildstar, should we pursue?" asked Venture.

"Hold off...let's see what the situation is," said Wildstar.

"Captain, I'm picking up another SOS from the liner," said Homer. "It's very weak this time. Trying to decipher it."

"We'd better go assist the liner and cover our landing parties," said Sandor. "We can get those ships later."

"All right," said Wildstar. "Dash, break off the attack and call in Hartmann and the second element of her squadron and order the other two elements to join up with Conroy's squadron as we approach! Venture, take us towards the Westhampton Beach. I want us to stop one hundred kilometers away from the ship."

"Break off the attack, Ensign," said Dash as he looked back towards Rosstowski.

"Yessir. Gun crews, we're breaking off, stand by," said Paul.

"Okay, changing course to R-341," said Venture. "Thirty degrees to port, full speed!"

As the raid went on, the atmosphere aboard the enemy command ship, a large spacecraft carrier that was sitting over near the asteroid ring between Pluto and Brumus, grew rather somber. The reason was the news coming in from the remaining destroyers and battlecruisers that the raid had gone seriously wrong.

The R'Khell/Rikashan command ship was a large spacecraft carrier known as the T'Renda, and its commander, Admiral Kierzden, was very worried right now as he sat on his large command bridge. It wasn't because he felt his own warship lacked for anything; if he needed a reminder of his carrier's raw strength, all he needed to do was to glance around his huge command bridge. The austere dark red grid-like deck and the bridge's operating stations, which bristled with screens, controls, and exposed cables, all underscored one general impression; this ship, like its people, was built and bred for combat and destruction. Kierzden certainly wasn't worried about the capabilities of his ship, no, not at all.

Kierzden was worried about his own priestly warrior's honor because his squadron was being beaten in an operation that he thought would be easy, in spite of the words of his superior, Baron Anton Cha'rif, who had warned him not to undertake this raid without permission from headquarters on Rikasha.

Of course, Cha'rif didn't know about the Technomugar battle fortresses that had been part of his fleet until a few hours ago. Now, they were both gone, and Kierzden felt nervous. That madman cyborg named Gralnacz was an emissary from the Lord Ekogaru himself, or so he claimed, thought Kierzden. Now, for whatever reason, he's defeated, and I'm out here without orders from either Rikasha or the priestly hierarchy on R'Khelleva, our sacred world of Temples. If we don't have a victory, and Baron Cha'rif questions my actions or comes calling, it'll probably be my head. And I'd rather die in battle than be decapitated, thought Kierzden gloomily.

His Fourth Cruiser Squadron was just part of Cha'rif's overall task force, which was known as Battle Task Force III. His Task Force, in turn, was just part of the Fourth Sherikhan Group, the vast Rikashan starfleet that had been assigned to guard the area around the planet Pellias in the Beta Valentis System and its environs.

He had detached himself from the main force without orders when his fleet had encountered Gralnacz's space fortresses out near Arcturus...and Gralnacz had began the conversation by speaking to him in his own language. Believing Gralnacz to be a prophet, he had decided to enter his service, especially since he seemed to know a great deal about this star system. It seemed like a wise move at the time, but now it seemed to be a foolish move. This was giving the balding R'Khell commander a major headache.

"Why, Captain?" raged Kierzden as he looked up at his video panel at Captain Shandlai, the ranking commander of what was left of the Fourth battlecruiser squadron. "How did that accursed old ship beat Commandant Major Disla so badly? Gralnacz told us it was junk!"

"Sir, they had superior tactics and firepower. Disla was able to damage them by staying back, but when the Argo was able to get in close enough to engage, its guns chopped the rest of the squadron into pabulum! They didn't seem to care that it was many ships against one! They just held on through our barrage until they finished us off! I had to run for my life!"

"And what are you doing alive?" sneered Kierzden.

"Sir? I wanted to be...of further service to the Empire and the Warbringer, our Dark Lord! By the Gods...I wanted to..."

"Enough babble from you, you idiot!" roared the red-tunicked R'khell cleric-admiral at his younger, wavy-haired inferior. "If you want to be of further service to the Empire, turn about and join up with Admiral Varnava near location 35. If the rest of the EDF didn't catch up with him yet, you can make the rendezvous in just twelve kannen. Then, I can attack the Argo with my planes. Got that?"

"Yes, but..."

"Do as I ordered! Then, you might prove to be worth something after all, since you didn't fight until the death, as we demanded. Do you understand?"

"Yessir."

"Good. That will be all for now. Do your duty."

At that, Kierzden cut off the transmission.

"Earth's accursed Star Force...." he hissed. "Now I know why Gralnacz hates you so damned much!"

IV. RESCUE ATTEMPT

Near the Westhampton Beach

Vicinity of the Moons of Neptune

January 10, 2202--0318 Hours-Space Time

Things had been bad aboard the Westhampton Beach beforehand, but now, a new element had been introduced to the game with the two attack pods launched from the R'Khell submarine Haruenda. Vishell Ka'mok, the commander of this raiding party (and a slaver himself back on R'Khelleva) had been in psychic communication with his fellow R'jkharrazim aboard the subs, and they had told him there was some holy profit to be made. Daruell's orders fit nicely into this general plan. So, a few minutes later, two boarding pods slammed into the hull of the stricken ship about a minute before Lieutenant Nova Wildstar's party landed on the ship along with Hemsford and the rest of his Marines and corpsmen.

The pods slammed into the stricken liner not far from one of the berthing decks.

One of them slammed into the hull of the ship not far from a corridor leading to the twin cabin suite that Jonathan Hartnell-Iiyama had been sharing with his sister Michelle and his parents.

The panicked boy had just been separated from his sister when more of the bulkheads in the area had collapsed. He had no idea if she was alive or not as he ran towards the bridge to look for his parents, huffing, puffing, and freezing in only his pajama bottoms and flip-flops since the ship's temperature was dropping due to the failure of many of the atmospheric control units. It was actually a good thing that this section of the liner still had some heat, air and gravity. Otherwise, Jonathan might have already joined many of his fellow passengers in death.

What he saw there was chaos. The Captain and most of the crew were dead...and, as he noticed with horror, his father seemed to be dead, too. Sadly, that section was empty, although the chairs had been torn apart by some force.

"Dad?" he cried. "DADDY?"

The boy tiptoed closer. He looked down at his father's body and promptly felt very ill.

With a scream, he ran back down the stairs to the main corridor, and tripped over his mother.

She was lying face-up on the carpeted deck, staring at the overhead light with eyes that were too wide, fixed, and far too vacant for her to still be alive. Her dress had been partially torn off, and the exposed parts of her body were covered with blood.

"Mommy?" he cried as he ran over. "MOMMMY?" he cried as he shook his limp, unresponsive mother. "Wake up! Please! Are you dead? NO!"

"Damned right she's dead, you stinking pile of SCUM! " yelled a rough voice that suddenly came from down the corridor.

"Who...?"

Then, the alien raider who had recently murdered his mother was upon him like a demon from hell. The figure was a bit over two meters tall, so tall that his head brushed the overhead of the corridor. He was clad in dark blue armor with bits of red trim, and looked like a faceless monster or type of robot to Jonathan, since his helmet and its ugly facemask entirely obscured his features.

"You stop that, scum, or I'll shove your cursed cuyones up into your guts," hissed the invader in a guttural voice that Jonathan recognized as being filtered through an artificial breathing system and comm speaker that was somewhere inside his battle armor. "Or maybe I should cut 'em off with my blade instead! Was that lady important to you, lad?"

"She was my MOTHER, you monster!"

"Guess what, kid. She was a load of fun before I finished her off! You gonna stop struggling, or do I have to cut thine throat out?"

"Where are you from? Are you a Gamilon?"

"HELL no!" raged the invader. "I'm not one of their scurvy blue maggot-ridden breed! Thank the Gods! I'm a R'Khell, boy, and you're a pain in the ass! I'll show you my face now, child, to shut you UP!"

At that, the enemy trooper, who was named Kranel, pulled back his face visor, which tilted up on its helmet. What Jonathan saw was a huge, muscular, snarling face covered with skin nearly the same tone as his, although it looked slightly orange. The trooper had strange, narrowed, green-on-green eyes, a huge nose that the boy guessed had once been broken, and his right cheek and his forehead were marked with huge, ugly scars. He had only a short haircut, and he had a huge beetle-brow that made him look a bit like a caveman or ape-man of the sort he had learned about in school.

"How do you know our language?" cried Jonathan, hoping he could distract this alien monster long enough for help to come. It didn't seem to work, though, as the huge trooper pushed him out into the smoky passage, not breaking his fierce lock upon the boy's bare arms.

"Our Gifted Ones learned it from our allies elsewhere in the galaxy," growled Kranel in a deep voice that somehow sounded even uglier without the facemask down. "Then, in turn, the almighty sorcerers used their guiles to force the vowels and consonants of your tongue into our heads, just as we shall force thy rotten tongue to speak Rikashan when we're done with yea!"

"Rikashan. Is that what you are?"

"Bless the Gods, NO! I'm of the R'Khell master race, not of those alien radiation-scarred mutants called Rikashans, even though I speak the Imperial tongue. I'm named Kranel. You'll meet me properly when we get to my ship, scum!"

"Then?" squeaked Jonathan.

"Then I'll beat the crap out of yea for asking me so damned many QUESTIONS!" snapped Kranel, punctuating his outburst with a cruel slap to the side of Jonathan's head that made the boy's right ear begin to ring. "Resistance is USELESS! I'll...."

"DROP him, sucka!" yelled another voice in the smoke through another filter.

Jonathan was promptly dropped as the snarling Kranel reached for his weapon.

The boy hit the deck very hard, landing on his butt as one of his thongs flew off his bare foot into the smoke.

What happened then was very fast and confusing, but Jonathan would remember it for the rest of his days.

Jonathan's head hit the deck hard enough for him to see stars. When he landed, he saw the massive Kranel's crotch looming up over him as he drew a big hand weapon of some type.

Jonathan promptly kept his head down as a blue laser bolt whizzed in from the other direction, missing his head by centimeters as it ricocheted against the metal bulkhead to his right. He guessed they had been aiming at Kranel, but had missed.

Jonathan picked up his head again in just enough time to notice his R'Khell tormentor snarling and firing at his shadowy enemies.

From what Jonathan could make out of his would-be rescuers before the shot caused them to duck behind a U-shaped support beam that towered like an archway over part of the elegant brushed aluminum facade of the passage, there were two of them. One was massive and in a green uniform, and the other was very slight and dressed in gold with black markings and a bright red helmet.

Then, Jonathan watched transfixed as their heads and firing arms came around the beam and pumped two more shots at Kranel. Jonathan knew enough about weapons to recognize their arms for a moment; the green-clad one was carrying an AK-01 assault pulse laser rifle, while the one in gold had a weapon that was definitely an Astro-Automatic pistol.

Jonathan's eyes went wide as he suddenly noticed more of the form of the rescuer in gold. Holy Moley, it's a girl! he said to himself. And that looks like a Star Force uniform! What's the Star Force doing here?

One of the shots hit Kranel's armor, ripping it open near the waist with a hiss of melting metal which made the huge raider scream like mad for a second. He almost hit the deck, but Jonathan was stunned to see that the ugly enemy trooper just staggered back to his feet. Then, he blasted three more of those nasty green surges of energy at them, just as the green-clad one (whom Jonathan now recognized as a Space Marine) fired another shot at him. Jonathan noticed that the girl, who came all the way around for a moment to get a good bead on her tormentor, followed him.

After she fired, her dark brown eyes scanned Jonathan's and widened under her clear helmet visor as they met for a second through the smoke and haze.

Could that be Nova Wildstar? Jonathan mused as she tapped the Marine's arm and cried, "HEMSFORD?"

"Ma'am?"

"Careful about that fire near the deck! He's got a little boy down between his legs!"

"A rugrat, ma'am?"

"Yes! Cover me while I make a run for it! I've got to get him!"

"Ma'am, you're NUTS! That alien mother is twice your size and a thousand times uglier...uh...meaning' you're a thousand times prettier, of course, ma'am!"

"Thanks for the compliment, Paul, but...he's..."

"RAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRR!" screamed Kranel as he fired at his opponents three more times, and then kicked a flashing red panel that Jonathan suddenly noticed was a few meters down from the archway, not far from where they were.

Some mechanism went off, and a heavy blast door began to drop down between Kranel, Hemsford, and Nova.

Jonathan guessed what was up, and the boy tried to make a run towards his Star Force rescuers.

Sadly, Kranel caught him by the seat of his pajama bottoms and pulled him back just centimeters away from the blast door and Nova's grasping hands.

The last thing Jonathan heard before Kranel knocked him out with the butt of his weapon was Hemsford yelling "oh, DAMMMN, man!"

Then, as usual in those instances, Jonathan heard nothing more as he passed out. Then, a laughing and whooping Kranel hauled him away like a sack of frozen hash browns from the local McClellan's Mini Mart.

V. RESCUE ATTEMPT (Continued)

The wreck of the Westhampton Beach.

January 10, 2202--0332 Hours-Space Time.

"What was that sound?" asked Nova. "Oh, God, what's he doing to that poor little boy?"

"Damnit, ma'am!" bellowed Hemsford as he kicked the door. "That ugly son-of-a..."

"Ensign...can you find a way to flip this open without hurting whomever might be on the other side?" cried Nova.

"Maybe I could hot-wire it if we find a switchbox!"

"Nova?" said Ensign Starkey, the leader of the other Marine Group squad, over her headset. "Did you find anyone down there?"

"One little boy who was captured by the enemy. But the enemy trooper put up a good fight and shut that blast hatch in our faces before I could get to him."

"Was he alive?" asked Starkey.

"Yes," said Nova with eyes squeezed shut. She was trying to keep from crying in sheer anger and frustration.

"Which way was he headed?"

"Back up towards the promenade deck, Starkey!" cried Nova.

"Okay, we'll try to get Mister Ugly twenty-five up there when we get Uglies twenty-nine through thirty-two. Hopefully, we can free the poor kid. Place is swarming with these big ugly bastards! Hemsford! Did you get to the observation deck yet, Chief?"

"Negative," said Hemsford. "Who's up there?"

"Keri McCullough from the holovid network. She's screaming all over the third comm circuit for help. Can you get to her?"

"We'll be there in a minute," said Nova. "Where's IQ-9 gotten to? We were separated when we got in here in the aft shuttle deck from the Medevac boat."

"How?"

"More of these big alien troopers shooting at us."

"They're in blue, ma'am. Could they be a new kind of Gamilons?"

"No, the armor looks different. It's blue and Gamilons never used markings like THESE. Most of their troopers always wore brown armor. And, at any rate, they're much bigger than Gamilons," said Nova.

"And way uglier," snapped Hemsford. "They sound like UGLY jackasses, at any rate."

"What do you think they are? The ship needs a report, and I know you guys are being jammed down below."

"Tom," said Nova, referring to Starkey, "tell Derek I think they could be warriors of some type who must've been genetically altered to be more massive and strong than ordinary humans...or men from a heavy-gravity planet of some kind. Can't talk more now. We have to get to Keri and any other survivors before this ship blows. Over and out."

"Ma'am, whatcha want me to do?" asked Hemsford.

"You're staying with me. I need backup, Hemsford. We're going up two decks to where we left the others," said Nova.

"Let's go now, ma'am."

"Okay."

To be Continued with Part Two of Think for Yourself.
To return to the Introduction to the Rikasha Incident Please click here