Black Sunrise

Dedication

To Ma, who taught me everything worth knowing – and the importance of being able to laugh at myself.

Black Sunrise

Imagine, if you will:

The Ruminarii Hammerhead was so named because of its peculiar hull shape. Being the main warship of the warlike Ruminarii, they were as much feared as hated. (The current advice in general circulation would be 'if you see one, look for a hole – crawl into it and then pull it in after you.') A hammerhead is about a kilometer long and is a dark shiny black, as black as space and – as some whisper, as dark as the souls of the Ruminarii themselves.

As you may follow, they are an extremely hostile species (i.e. there is no word for 'welcome' in the Ruminarii language.) In four short centuries they had managed to lay waste to almost a thousand star systems, enslaving their populations and stripping them of all they wanted.

It has been said that if the Harrt'shisk Hab'arr'oun (Empire of the Golden Sun) ever had any allies it would've been a short-lived alliance indeed. The Ruminarii displayed only the negative emotions, and their ferocity was matched only by their boldness. How a race founded purely on hate, spite and evil managed to flourish as they did is a question on which very, very few civilizations have survived to speculate.

Half-Lieutenant Marsh'k Kluss'ta was not a happy man. Naturally, that didn't bother him as things were rarely otherwise. As the commanding sub-officer of the Black Sunrise, happiness was not a state of mind expected of him, though in reality – our- reality – he was probably not such a bad person. The crew, though terrified of him even under normal circumstances, believed that he had the heart of a little child. (Let's leave it at that, shall we?)

Being the commander of a Ruminarii war vessel meant that he had risen to the rank by means of assassination and ruthlessness and was therefore implicitly distrusted by the Tidhii Mah'k'hai (Naval Command, that is The Queen Of Suth Herself.) He was expected to mete out, in generous portions, brutality to conquered subjects and to act swiftly and mercilessly in dealing with alien encounters. In short, he was expected to be a bad example.

The Ruminarii are bipeds. They are a reptilian species (which probably goes a long way to explain their cold-bloodedness.) Suitably shaped is the best non-offensive description I can find. Otherwise, they're just plain ugly – at least by Terran standards.

A device in the arm of his chair made an obscene noise. The murals on the chair suggested disturbing things being done to some briefly unlucky beings.

"Yes?" Said Marsh'k.

"We're about to enter the targeted system, Lord." Said a tinny reptilian voice in Ruminarii, which could only be described as "hissy".

"Ah. Bad. I'll be there in a moment." Marsh'k paused. "You forgot the salute."

"Lord?" Said the voice, suddenly overcome by panic. "Ses'ach L'ru!"

"Too late. You know what you have to do?"

"Y-yes, Lord." There followed a sound reminiscent of a head banging against a steel bulkhead, suitably muffled by the pick-up.

"Are you done?"

"Y-yes, Lord."

"Does it hurt?"

"Ouch. Yes. It hurts a lot, Lord."

"Bad. Don't forget again, or you can bring me your fingernails yourself."

"Yes, Lord! I won't forget, Lord –"

Marsh'k cut the circuit on the rest of the helmsman's whining and rose to his feet, stretching to his full height of just under six standard Terran feet.

Not many Ruminarii warships had ever been captured intact by any enemy, and so for those the Ruminarii "invited" aboard their vessels, this was usually a one-way sight-seeing trip. For those who really want to know, Ruminarii Hammerheads have an extensive corridor network, the interior walls are heavily decorated, savagely militaristic and inevitably, close together. He strode down one. Lesser ranks seeing him, fell to the deck and groveled like their fingernails depended on it. There was a chorus of shrieks and whimpers as he passed. When he arrived on the bridge, everyone was face down on the deck, each endeavoring to grovel lower than the next. Nothing like discipline to keep the crew in its place.

"Ses'ach L'ru!" Came the slightly muffled chorus. This was Ruminarii for 'Hail the Captain.' Marsh'k sat down on his seat of office. It made a muted and rather obscene noise as he sank into the seat and the device registered his presence.

"Mor'dek'hai de suul." He retorted dismissively. This has been translated to mean something like 'Oh Shut the **** Up.' The crew ceased their groveling routine and got back to their stations. There was a flurry of activity as they tried to look busy.

"Report!" He ordered, his dark eyes falling on the picture on the view screen. They were passing one of the outer planets of the system, a frozen ball of ice.

"Lord, there are nine planets in the system." Said the helmsman, sporting a rather large fresh-looking bump on his forehead. "The fourth seems habitable. We may find life there."

"Life means death." Said Marsh'k. "For them, anyway. Conquest and plunder await us!"

* * *

Life as a private investigator, slash bounty hunter wasn't all Gary Beck wanted it to be. There weren't any big mansions on a palm beach owned by an affluent writer generous enough to let him live rent-free and use his spare Ferrari. But then you have to ask yourself, what could you expect living on a planet like Deanna? As a third-rate colony in the Terran Empire, Deanna had more than its fair share of dull moments. It orbits a star called Ramalama. If you think that's funny, Deanna's two moons are called Ding and Dong, respectively (this is a local joke) and one of them falls down occasionally.

The sun was hot and his shirt stuck to his back. He had just told himself again, under his breath, that this was a result of him hanging around too long.

It was a beautiful 46 degrees on the dry desert plains and in case you're wondering, there wasn't any shade. Beck's boots made dry gritty noises as he slowly made his way down the deserted main street. Nervously, he adjusted his hat so he could see a little better. The air hung hot, dry and stifling. He could hear every breath he took, it was so quiet and still. The sun was blinding. It was hot. Silent. He was tense. He knew he was there, somewhere. He tracked a movement to his left with the shotgun. A tumbleweed made a name for itself as a light gust of wind blew it along till it fell off the boardwalk outside the deserted jail. He exhaled, glanced round. He's here somewhere, I know it.

A large boardinghouse loomed over to his right, broken windows yawning darkly at him, the broken glass shards seemingly snarling. He walked on, studying the decaying buildings. He adjusted his grip on the shotgun again. The stock had become wet and slippery. Then, rounding a corner, he spotted something.

At last!!

A horse stood tethered to a decaying post in the street outside the saloon, making no attempt to nibble the grass close to the dry water trough by the post. It seemed like the horse was eyeing it suspiciously, as though waiting for it to move first.

He is here! Probably close by!

Cautiously, he moved further out, checking the roofs, doors, windows. Nothing. He walked out further, keeping against the wooden wall of a building, just in case. His heart was pounding in his ears. Strange, isn't it? You could be in hundreds of fights, but everyone always seemed like the first time. A million different things could happen, go completely wrong. Then it might well be his last.

Where is he? Which building?

He decided to try the saloon. The horse snorted, scratched in the dust with a hoof, and – rather bravely – bent down to nibble at some scrubby grass. Beck took another cautious step forward. There was a sudden familiar clicking sound. He froze.

"Don't move bounty hunter!" A rough voice grated from somewhere close behind, "Don't even breathe!"

He swallowed. He's got the drop on me. This is where I really start sweating.

"Hi, Corrigan." He called as casually as he could manage. "We should stop meeting like this."

"Cut the crap and drop the hardware. The pistol too." Came the barked retort.

Reluctantly, he dropped the shotgun. It clattered to the gravel, fell over and went off. A hole magically appeared in the dry trough close to the horse, splinters flying. The horse bolted – and so did he. A couple of shots went off, bullets whistling as he ran, keeping his head down. He reached the safety of an alley and kept on going till he reached the corner. He was breathing hard, the dust in the air closing his chest. He eased the pistol from his holster.

A shot rang out, followed by a loud thud as the bullet struck somewhere close by. He fired three shots blind. Corrigan's reply to that came so close he could feel the heat.

Lousy cover!

He turned and saw his only possible escape – a window. He jumped through it, glass shattering around him. He landed on a wooden floor and, scrambling, made right for a doorway, cursing as he realized he'd lost his hat. Under this hot sun you could end up looking like last week's bacon 'n beans by the time you hit thirty. He loved his hat. He kept on going, making a quick note of where he lost it, so he could go back and get it later.

The building was dark inside – broken furniture and rubbish everywhere. The passage wound a bit before it led to a room with some large windows. The light streaming through the decaying stringy old curtains showed up collapsed bar tables and the skeletons of bar stools and chairs.

There he heard a muffled noise outside, like footsteps. Time to run! He knew Corrigan's reputation. He sure didn't want to go up against a convicted wife-beater – at least, not unprepared. The man was capable of anything.

Beck just made it to the derelict bar when bullets shattered old glasses and empty bottles close to him. He vaulted over the top, the mirror behind the bar exploding shrapnel at him. It was a hard landing behind the bar. The floor planking was a lot harder than he was, and there were bits of old glass and other crap lying scattered everywhere. Gunshots were ringing out, growing louder. Corrigan was close now. Far too close. Glass was shattering and raining down, tinkling and clattering everywhere. Wood splinters and dust were dancing to the melodious chaos. Then abruptly, silence fell.

Corrigan crept up to the bar, cautiously moving around it. It looked like he was copying all the moves he'd seen in old cop movies and westerns, and doing it rather badly. He lowered the pistol. There was no one behind the bar. There was however, an open trapdoor. And that would mean the bounty hunter was -.

"Don't move!" Came Beck's distant, slightly muffled, barked order. "My turn, I think!"

From his vantage point in the basement, Gary Beck had a good view of his prey. Or at least, a good view of his feet. The rest of him could only be in so many places. The knotholes in the floorboards had come in handy: one he was aiming through, the other had the muzzle of his ten-mil in it, aimed upwards at Corrigan. It was a 10mm Jupina Black auto, one of the finest handguns known to Human-kind. Well, to Beck anyway. He didn't have to warn Corrigan – after all, the man was trying to kill him. But Beck had a conscience – and anyway, dead men are a lot harder to carry than live ones.

* * *

It was the dawn of manned spaceflight. Well, okay – more like just after midmorning. The Terran Empire had been around since – well, a century or so ago, and more colonies were being established every year. Tordrazil was one of those planets that any average citizen of said Empire had probably never heard of. At least, not unless they were investors in the Beljan Interstellar Mining Company, and if they were really studious about reading the company prospectus and cared where their minerals came from. Said company specialized in deep space mining operations. They were the largest, having a fleet of mineral survey ships and loderunners almost an eighth the size of the Imperial Space Fleet, which as you can imagine, was pretty darn big. If there was a demand for it, Beljan Interstellar would be out there digging it up. Tordrazil was their latest operation, and of necessity, it was on the fringe of then explored space.

TR424 Duval was a loderunner for Beljan Interstellar, Bannor class, equipped for long term deep space. The Bannor class ships required little maintenance. Fully automated, Duval had a remarkably long fuel endurance, which meant it could be out for years at a time, much to the consternation of the small crew – but more about that a little later.

Bannor class loderunners were not to be taken lightly. One look would convince you that you were facing megatons of hi-tech transport. With a length of 4.3km and a beam of 800 meters, it would be a gross understatement to call such a vessel a mere 'loderunner'. In its five major holds, Duval could carry enough food supplies to feed a whole colony for several months. Duval was a profitable ship, which was just as well, because the Bannor class didn't come cheap.

This one was only eleven years old and had done the regular Samor – Barantis run for the past five years. Transporting ores and metals was one thing, but sometimes there would be open spaces in the cargo holds – and management didn't like open spaces. Open spaces were bad for business. Open spaces in the payload could result in another open space in the crew manifest, so to keep management happy a portion of Duvals' space would be assigned to carry items dispatched by private individuals. Her cargo manifest currently boasted 80 superkegs of export-quality Samorian sherry, industrial equipment and three hundred used crop-tender droids sold by a farmer on Aldoria because they kept getting stuck in mud. Well, hey, everybody knew tracked droids didn't perform too well in mud anyway. Everybody except, apparently, the Aldorian farmer – and Aldoria wasn't known as the mud planet for nothing. Crops didn't grow well in the mud either – except for Hessian Chill Weed, which could grow almost anywhere (but Duval's Captain, Bran Johanssen, suspected that would be part of the problem).

Aside from all that, she was carrying about a million tons of titanium ore to the heavy industries on Gorda. All told, that would take care of their traveling arrangements for the next year or so, pretty much.

Being captain of such a vessel was not a stressful job, despite the sheer size of the thing. Everything was automated, and this meant that this behemoth could be efficiently handled by a far less seasoned captain. Besides, hiring mature skippers with actual experience would cost real money. And hey, the computers ran everything anyway – and that's how Bran Johannsen enters this story – as a fine young inexperienced graduate of the Merchant Space Academy in Mars City, who only got his Executive Officer's ticket four short years ago.

Everything was automated, from navigation to engineering. Even transport fees were negotiated with Head Office via the internet. No negotiating skills were needed on the part of the crew whatsoever. Despite the automation, insurance companies still wouldn't insure fully automated ships unless they had at least a token crew aboard, so that's what he and the other eleven were – a token crew. The small crew of twelve was only there in case – gods forbid – something went wrong. And at least, if something did go wrong – gods forbid – and horribly so, the company would only have to answer for the loss of a mere twelve people.

Captain Bran Johannsen, 25, sat back and relaxed. The observation deck was nice and quiet. Deserted would be a better word. It wasn't half bad, being a passenger on his own ship, especially considering he was getting paid for it.

The rest of the theoretically expendable crew was either sleeping or eating – or both – in various amusing combinations. Only five would be on duty at any particular time – two on the main bridge, one in medical, one in cargo control and one in engineering. The computer would handle everything as far as navigation and management was concerned. All they had to do was be there and watch and to give the occasional order. He couldn't help feeling he wasn't needed. Perhaps this was for one obvious reason – he wasn't. This was not good for his ego, this not feeling important gig. Sometimes he felt like a stowaway on his own ship. The dreams weren't the same anymore. They had the tendency to become worn out through all the editing and reediting and sometimes, the complete redrafting of the script.

He had joined the Company four years ago and found himself posted to the Duval. At first it was great – then boredom struck. There was no excitement anymore. After a while, the sheer thrill of a huge space ship accelerating to beyond the speed of light became as dull as a ride on a Mars City bus. Even the regular girl in every call-port provided little excitement (with the possible exception of that girl on Salus. He remembered her husband as a violent, unfriendly man who had recently taken up shooting at him).

It did occur to him that perhaps he'd gone to the wrong Academy – the guys in the Space Fleet always had more interesting stories to tell at the spaceport bars. You know, tales about the dude who got vaporized in a plasma accident in the engineering section, or the fella who got turned into a blob of weird space jelly by some alien virus – or the time someone flew a starship into an astor-field at warp four by mistake (they were still trying to find the black box on that one).

The Imperial Space Fleet's recruiting office sure didn't go around advertising 'Join up, see the universe, meet interesting aliens and die screaming', but it was known there were risks involved. It was part of the job after all, and yet somehow, they still got recruits signing up in droves. Yes, indeedy – the stories were far more interesting than his – took a load of ore to Gorda, took a load of mining equipment back to Tordrazil. Took a load of Florpavian Flame-birds to a zoo on Deanna, took a load of machinery to Salus. Picked up and dropped off a few passengers on the way. Still, Florpavian Flame-birds were a risky cargo... and damned tricky to transport – which is probably the only reason he'd had any entertainment at all on the last trip.

Two months ago, his previous cargo-master was accidentally incinerated by a female Florpavian flame bird with a bad case of hiccups. The female of the species is widely known to be way more stable than the male – chemically stable, that is – perhaps similar to most other species. The male birds, on the other hand, just tended to hiccup and then explode unexpectedly. As a result, almost all Florpavian Flame-birds transported would be female, unless the males were suitably sedated – I.E.: transported in a cryogenics chamber, preferably lined with lead and concrete.

Even that little – er, flash of drama had only provided temporary relief. All Bran had to do was fill in a few reports about the incident, send a few emails – and the Company took care of everything, including insurance and funeral arrangements (matchbox and postage). He also made a mental note to stay as far away from Florpavian Flame-birds as possible in future. The more uneventful his job was, he'd felt initially, the safer it was going to be for him. Well, so far, so good. He was safe, but bored. But he was safe. He was far more likely to live long enough to spend the money he made from this rather lucrative gig. Who the hell else got paid what they did for the amount of actual work? Seriously.

Money – now, money's important! Other than politicians who got paid to fool themselves into thinking they actually ran the Terran Empire, he couldn't think of anyone. Well, except maybe the crews of other Bannor class ships. A few more years of this lark and he would be able to retire before he even reached 30. Then he could really start living. Until then, he was stuck here aboard the SS Nowheresville.

Thing is, he really, really didn't like doing nothing much. After a while it got really boring. It wouldn't be long before he would start talking to the potted plants on the rec-dec. Trouble was one of them would actually talk back to him. It would talk. He didn't like talking plants; it made him doubt his sanity a little more than usual.

Through the huge observation windows, each spanning at least ten feet and almost reaching the deck and ceiling, he could see the star-splattered universe outside. Even through triple layers of alloyed plasti-steel, it reminded him of an ant's view of the inside of a shower nozzle. They were about to enter the next system where they were due to stop for a brief layover. An artificial voice, not unlike that of an insane dictator, sounded over the intercom.

"General - announcement. (Pause) We – are - now – entering – the – Ramalama - System. (Pause) E–T-A – Deanna – orbit – 23 – hours - 6 - minutes. Thank - you."

"Wise ass machine, " he murmured just as the sphere of one of the outer planets crawled into view. The swirl of multicolor cloud patterns created the impression of the last work of a mad artist with an illegal habit who was surrounded by too many sharp objects.

Oh – before he forgot – the Duval had a passenger. One passenger. Yes-sir-ee-Bob, a bona fide passenger. A woman, bless her heart. A bit stuck up, though – kept pretty much to herself, didn't talk much. Cute platinum blonde type, figure any man would go weak-kneed for. Boarded at Salus a month ago, bound for Deanna. Just about time for her to be leaving, then.

The transitory object of Captain Johannsen's present frustrations was currently enjoying the respite offered by the rec-dec. It was a pleasant recreational facility, roomy, well decorated, ambient lighting – the whole trip. Potted plants were arranged on a stand in a semi artistic manner in an attempt to create an atmosphere conducive to relaxation. There was a little fountain lost somewhere among the cluster of potted vegetation. It didn't gurgle. This was probably because of a blocked pipe, she thought. A decent fountain ought to gurgle or at least go splish-splash. This one did a fair imitation of a bowel movement.

Her name was Cindy-Mei Winter, and she had once thought that life in space was going to prove exciting. This isn't the most appropriate word to describe space travel. It's dangerous out here. It's cold and cruel. Consequently, the less excitement there is, the longer you're liable to stay alive. These thoughts looped through her mind like a roller coaster as she watched the stars settle back into the inky black curtain of space through the large windows. A voyage through some undiscovered systems, a little exploration, she had thought originally – perhaps a few alien encounters? This is just the sort of hopeful attitude of one who is just begging to be proved wrong.