All-Patron Reward: "Baptism of Fire" Chapters 1 and 2

The last few months we were seeing old Varan draft material that time-wise came before anything in the released version of Demons of the Past; background events that, in some form, still remained in Varan's past. 

Today, I'm posting the first few chapters of "Baptism of Fire", which starts about the same place as the published version of Demons of the Past: Revelation. Chapter 2 is probably the most interesting ,as it shows the character that WOULD become The Eonwyl, but at this point named the Starhawk and male, rather than female! One also will note that the main adversary aliens were just called "Doradans" -- at the time I was just using star names as a basis for such names. 

BAPTISM OF FIRE

i.

I pressed the Disengage button on the console. With a whining screech, the compact fighter disintegrated itself and reassembled, now normal matter instead of a hurtling mass of coherent tachyons. I had been destroyed and rebuilt in the same second, but fortunately the conversion process isn't painful; just a fractional second of pleasant vertigo.

The proximity alarms screamed panic and there was a sudden feeling of an avalanche hitting me as the gravitic drive took the place of the Tachyon Conversion engines. I had emerged from T-space at the same near-light velocity I had entered it, and the alarms meant that there was a large and solid object directly in my path. I had expected this; I had purposely calculated my exit point to drop me hellishly close to Outpost Seven, knowing that the proximity reactions of the fighter would prevent collision; It was more a matter of style(avoiding having to maneuver too far) than nescessity. Besides, it was fun to give the normally bored Outpost observers a shock.

The acceleration ceased, and I glanced at the viewscreen. By the Seven Towers, I could SEE the station! It wasn't much more than a dot, but on a lightspeed scale I was practically inside it! I activated the communicator. "Outpost Seven, this is Lieutenant Commander Sasham Varan, ID code 01287-88-77608, requesting docking clearance."

The watch officer's voice was just the faintest bit shaky. "Affirmative, 878787 Varan. You are cleared for docking, Outring Sector 5." His tone shifted to annoyed. "Damn Navy hotshot! You're lucky we didn't scramble a squadron to blow you across space!"

"That good, huh?"

I heard a snicker in the background. "Yeah, damn good." he admitted grudgingly. "I've seen Marine assault strikers do worse."

That made my day. Assault strikers are supposed to be the best. As I vectored in towards the station, I noticed another vessel, docked at Outring 3. It was noticeable, not just from the mere fact of its presence at an out-of-the-way outpost, but because it was clearly a civilian vessel. There were no distinctive markings I could see, except for a small starburst at the edge of both engine pods. This struck a faint chord in my memory, and I was annoyed that I couldn't quite place it. It was a small independent trading vessel, and it was in perfect condition, even though the general hull design was fifty years old, which was enough to make it memorable; most independent traders operate at the very edge of bankruptcy and their ships look like flying wrecks.

I shrugged mentally. I'd find out what was going on once I was on the station. I felt the Outpost's tractors take over and unstrapped. I was out of the lock as soon as I felt the little fighter settle to the landing deck.

There was a Marine there to greet me, in full battle dress, mirrored visor and all."What did you think of my Tach Downbreak arrival, Sargeant?" I said after returning his salute.

"Frankly, sir, a brain-dead Doradan could have done better." he answered after a pause, his voice somewhat muffled by the visor.

"What?" I admit I did a double-take. I may not have been a short Commander for long, but I'm used to a little more respect.

He flipped up the visor.. "I said you fly like a wounded windwailer, Varan." said Dior Jearsen, a grin bigger than the landing bay stretching across his face.

I was stunned for a minute. Then I stepped forward. His grip was even stronger than it had been fifteen years before. "Torline's Swords, Jearsen! This is great! I had no idea you were out here."

He smiled, the same perfect teeth in a considerably more lined face. "Yeah, I've been out here for, oh, must be getting on four years now."

I glanced at the rank wheel on his chest. "Getting up in the world, too; a White Sargeant already! Last I heard you'd just made Green."

He made a dismissing gesture. "Get enough time behind you, they promote you just to get something new on the record. But I heard about that rescue you pulled on the Emissary. You like taking chances or something?"

I shrugged. I'd already gotten more than enough congratulations and medals for that, some of them for being clumsy enough to get in the way of flying metal. "Hey, Jearsen," I said, changing the subject, "what's the story on that independent docked on Outring 3?"

"Oh, our visitor." I could tell his interest by the way he got secretive. "Let's go to the mess hall and you can see for yourself."

ii.

One mess hall is like any other. The food is usually pretty good, if not great in variety, and there's a lot of it, especially when the usual customers are combat Marines. I loaded up a tray and followed Jearsen to an empty table; it was between shifts, so there weren't that many people there. "So, what's the story?" I asked.

In answer Jearsen nodded his head towards the far corner of the room.

The figure seated there I could've recognized anywhere, even though I'd never seen him before. No one else in the Galaxy could have that impossible head of hair, pure white just over his forehead, going to pure gold in a halo about that snow-colored center, and shading through orange to deep red at the back. The hair flared out a full fifteen centimeters above his forehead, a dazzling sunburst of color. Two incredibly bright blue eyes looked out from beneath that stellar radiant, piercingly aware and darting about the room. Those eyes had already noticed, analyzed, and dismissed me before mine had gotten past their owner's hair. The Starhawk.

"What in the Seven Towers is he doing here? Isn't there a warrant out for him or something?"

Jearsen shook his head. "Not as far as I know. He's been questioned a few times, had a couple of scrapes where the Empire thought he was riding the edge awfully close, but he seems pretty honest -- well, as honest as any Independent Trader ever is..."

I looked over at the Starhawk again. He sat there, sipping something green, seeming to watch everything without paying attention -- if that made any sense. "I never really believed it about him. He doesn't carry a gun. I NEVER heard of any Independent who didn't wear one."

"Never has carried one, from all I heard. He CAN use one, though; he was down at the firing range and I saw him score in the Red Master range." Jearsen took a huge bite, crunched and swallowed.

"You still haven't told me what he's doing here."

"The official story is that he was bringing a food shipment from some of the Far Rim worlds." Jearsen grinned and winked. "Scuttlebutt is that he was delivering a sealed package from the Empire that they didn't dare ship by normal channels because of the chance of Doradans or pirates getting it; those types leave the Starhawk alone, because he's too small to worry the warships and no regular pirate ship has survived attacking him."

"But why would the Empire trust him? I mean, he's been involved in some pretty questionable deals."

He nodded. "That's true, but he's got his own wierd code of honor. He may sneer at the Empire and deal with the gray market, but if he accepts a contract he'll die before he fails to fulfill it. I happen to know of one case where he agreed to give passage to someone for a thousand credits. Turned out the person in question was an important official with a lot of enemies. The Starhawk managed to get him there safely, but only after going through one pirate who got in the way and his ship sustaining twenty K in damage. But he refused any extra payment; he said that he'd contracted to get the passenger there for a thousand and that if he took a loss it was his fault, not the passenger's, that he'd set the fee too low.."

I raised an eyebrow. "You seem to know all about him."

Jearsen blushed faintly. "He's kind of a personal hero of mine."

"Well, since you seem so well-informed, maybe you can tell me who he really is."

Jearsen snickered. "Don't I wish I knew! No one does. That's why everyone calls him by the name of his ship. He gives no other name; heck, even the Imperial Registry lists it as 'Free Registry Vessel Starhawk, Owner of Record: The Starhawk'."

"I'd heard something like that, but I discounted it. I mean, someone has to know who he is."

"If they do, they aren't talking." Jearsen answered, taking a big swig of beer. "I just know what everyone else does: he inherited that ship and a big debt, paid off the debt, and is one of the richest traders around; he hates slavers and turns them in wherever he goes; and he originally comes from Fanabulax."

I sat bolt upright. "Fanabulax? That I hadn't heard before."

"I knew there was something about that planet but noone's ever been able to give me the straight scoop. Your turn to talk, Varan; what about Fanabulax?"

I took a long pull from my mug, arranged my thoughts. "Fanabulax is under Code Yellow edict; only accredited ships who can prove their rights to land are allowed to do so, and security is tighter than an airlock seal. I was there once, we were picking up a shipment of metals that the planet produces." I shivered involuntarily.

Jearsen raised his eyebrows. "That bad?"

I nodded. "The planet's liveable; though it's colder than optimum it's still a lot warmer than Borealis. The sky is almost always cloud-shrouded, and the color of dried blood, which is unsettling in itself. But the worst things about the planet are the cities and the feeling." I glanced over at the Starhawk, looked away as I met that brilliant blue gaze. "The planet had some civilization on it before the Empire, and the ruined cities are...strange. Black, shattered, and very uninviting. And no matter where you are on the planet, even in a warm room with bright lights underground, there's the feeling that something is watching you; something ancient and very hostile." I shook my head. "It's not a place I'd like to live."

"You'd like it a lot less if you had to live there as a worker."

Both of our heads whipped around. The Starhawk was standing there, even though neither of us had noticed his approach."Um..." I said, brightly.

"I thought I should at least display the courtesy of introducing myself to two gentlemen so obviously interested in myself. You I have met earlier, Sargeant Jearsen, but your companion is unfamiliar. I am the Starhawk, Commander...?"

"Varan, Sasham Varan." I shook his extended hand. His grip was firm.

"Ahh. You were the one who made the Tach Downbreak arrival that set off every alarm in the station. Well done, Commander. I could get you a job... if you ever decide to work for someone else."

I smiled but shook my head. "I can't imagine doing anything else than working for the Empire. It's the most important job anyone can have."

The Starhawk's expression barely shifted. "Important? You may well be correct. But being an overseer is an important job as well, though whether it is a good job..." He nodded to us, turned, and walked off before I formulated any kind of reply.

"Politeness sure isn't one of your hero's attributes, Jearsen." I said finally.

"Well, Varan, some people don't like the Empire, you know."

I dismissed that statement. "Sure, mostly outlaws like PSI's and Doradan spies. But most loyal citizens couldn't have any real objections!"

Jearsen stared at me for a minute. "I really think you believe that, Varan! You must be one of the last innocents."

I grabbed his arm. "Just what in Atlantis do you mean by that?"

He disengaged his bicep from my hand, gently but firmly. "Varan, as Imperials we get a lot of privileges that the rest don't have. People will resent that no matter how well-meaning you are."

"That may be so, but we've got a lot of responsibilities they don't have either."

Jearsen nodded. "But what if the power is abused?"

That was like a punch to the stomach. "You're talking about corruption in Imperial officers. I've known some jerks in uniform, but no traitors."

"No, I'm talking about if the High Command was interested more in its own power than... look, Varan, I don't want to get into an argument. But look at what happened to Helkoth before you just dismiss what I said."

"Helkoth? I heard he was killed in a Doradan raid! That doesn't-"

"Varan." Jearsen's voice was quiet but I shut up. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. But before you make up your mind, see if you can get the real story of Helkoth's death."

There was an uncomfortable silence for several minutes while the two of us finished our meals. Then Jearsen stood up and clapped me on the back. "Come on, Varan, let's see the rest of the station, especially the gym; I'll bet I can still beat you two out of three falls in Tor."

I grinned, feeling my gut relax. "You're on! I've been practicing, you flat-topped Marine moron!"

"Practice all you want, you tech-brained Navy wimp, I'll still beat you blindfolded!"

We left; the uneasiness retreated to a small corner of my brain...