Sniper-space

  Bimi knew that what he was doing was very, very dangerous. He was tethered to an x-craft zooming a million nots through the depths of sniper-space. He was thankful that motion was relative. He wasn’t moving at all, or so he fancied. It was the stars that flew by like flaming bullets, not he. Absolutely nothing bad could happen to him, hovering innocently in space, minding his own business as the universe whizzed past. He wondered where it was going in such a hurry, and whether it would be disappointed when it got there.

  Still, the immensity of space was disconcerting, and he was eager to finish repairing his ship and get back inside. Whatever had impacted his ship had caused a fair amount of damage and left a huge mess. His windshield was coated with a hideous mass of yellow goop. Much had drifted away or been thrown off the ship, but a thick, sticky layer remained caked to the windshield. When he first saw the mess from inside the craft, he'd been in shock. Never had he seen anything like it, or heard of any extraterrestrial object that could hit a craft at such speeds, but leave little more than a mess and a broken power converter. Fix the power converter first, he reminded himself. Then investigate the windshield.

  The power converter was covered in a thin layer of the same yellow goo. He scraped it clean and examined the box. It was partially torn from the ship; wires were loose and bolts were stripped. The unit was responsible for a quarter of the craft's power, and Bimi was determined to repair it. He worked with the skill of a human and the patience of a Ciri. The task was not easy, but thanks to centuries of training and experience he soon found himself snapping the lever which secured the converter back in place and taping up the cracks to keep dust out. The ship's lights came back to full power, encouraging him as he moved to the windshield.

  The yellow goo covering the front of the ship seemed to be filled with veins, eyes, and hair. Bimi at last realized what he had hit: a Gwalior. Nothing else could leave such a mess and so many eyelashes.

  Bimi had never heard of anyone hitting a Gwalior. Even to spot one was unusual; only rarely did they show up on radar as little more than a faint zigzagging light as they meandered through space. The Gwalior was something like a six-foot wide space mosquito. Almost nothing was known about them; their random flight through deep space seemed without purpose, and they were occasionally found lying dead on asteroids far from the galactic center, apparently passed away from old age. This particular Gwalior had a more untimely death. It must have been traveling through sniper-space in roughly the same direction as he. Had the creature been moving towards him rather than away from him, his x-craft would not have survived the impact. Even though there wasn't much to a Gwalior, a crash at high speed would be catastrophic, with or without a shield. The Ciri will never believe this, he mused. He pulled a paint scraper out of his toolbox and began to fling the giant bug's remains away from his windshield.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  * * * * * * * *

  Zartro stared at the scout in horror. “Thousands? Is that even a number?”

  His voice echoed through the stone building near the center of Tsyanou. A sign on the outside of the structure read 'Atakalan Defense Guild' in dim, worn letters. Neither the stone walls nor the name of the building made the group gathered inside feel any safer.

  Joao stood, shouting over the growing commotion. “Everyone: silence, please! Perhaps we misunderstand! Tell me, Sharusu, how many enemies did you see, and where are they currently? Surely you did not mean a thousand. Were there fifty? Sixty?”

  Sharusu crossed his arms angrily. “I have already said. There were thousands. Two thousand, three thousand? That Sharusu does not know. But they travel with a hundred more oxen and carts besides, pounding a path through the jungle. This I saw yesterday. Sharusu has run fast to tell you this… they follow right behind.”

  Corran paced furiously back and forth. “Thousands! Who are they and where do they come from?”

  “And where is my army?” demanded Zartro. “Why isn't our capital better defended?”

  “The army is in Sentinel City,” said Joao. “That is where it has been for centuries, guarding our land.”

  “Some guards.”

  “Yes, clearly we need to rethink our defensive strategy. It is beyond my understanding how so great a force has come unannounced, over the Kor Mountains.”

  “There is some good news,” said Corran. “While you were off investigating those instruments, I sent a message to Sentinel City asking for a third of their armed men. The rumors of this foe have been trickling in for some time. Yet only now do I see I requested too little support, and too late.”

  “We're doomed,” moaned Zartro. “We may as well hide in the jungle. Do the townspeople know yet?”

  “They are suspicious of the threat, having heard the same rumors as I, but they await our orders. Tsyanou is our capital, and its people are sworn to defend it and their king.” He nodded his head in respect for Zartro.

  “Joao, you're the weapons technician. Do we have anything that will stop a couple thousand invaders?”

  “We have an ample supply of dynamite. I am not certain how it could be used for the purposes of war, but I may be able to come up with something.”

  “What is dynamite?” asked Neb.

  “I will show you later… it is an amazing substance. A year ago, we found the formula written on a redbrick.”

  “Zartro,” asked Corran, “may we send another messenger to Sentinel City? I think we need more soldiers.”

  “I concur,” agreed Joao. “Though we must not wear them too thin… to lose that fortress and our libraries of redbricks would be an unbearable blow to the land.”

  “A good task for Sharusu,” said Zartro, turning to him. “Tell the Chief of War that one more legion of soldiers is needed for Tsyanou. And come back with warriors, not digditchers! We don't have a vat of tsetse flies lying around like they did in the olden days.”

  Joao shook his head. “How can you say such random things at a time like this? This is no season for jokes.”

  “With great practice,” responded Zartro proudly.