Atalan Adventure Pack: Books 1-3 (Atalan Adventures) Read online

  R.M. HAMRICK

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design by R. M. Hamrick

  Editing by Sticks and Stones Editing

  Copyright © 2019 R. M. Hamrick

  All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  BOOK ONE: RATS AND BOLTS

  BOOK TWO: RETURN TO SENDER

  BOOK THREE: PLANETARY PURSUIT

  ATALAN ADVENTURES BOOK FOUR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Rats & Bolts

  R.M. Hamrick

  ONE

  “Captain, we’re approaching Raeth,” announced Lorav over her shoulder.

  “And there’s a massive ship moving to intercept,” reported Patav, Lorav’s sister, over their shoulders since they sat side by side in front of the captain’s chair.

  “Are you sure they’re not just dropping off something too?” asked Tarke, Frankie’s second-in-command. She lounged more than stationed on Frankie’s right, smacking gum, eyes glued to her console screen.

  Lorav, her pilot, had set course for Raeth’s Transportation and Distribution Center (or, the post office, if you were in a verbal hurry) with their shipment from Zimmer 1. The haul was an intra-stellar system transport within the Norma 6B Galaxy. Low payout, but it covered the cost to get to Raeth, where they’d find another job.

  Running on a ‘shoe-string budget,’ Frankie called it. No one from her crew, and absolutely no one from her species, understood. Well, her crew understood the no money part of it, but they didn’t know the North American Earth saying. Apparently, NA citizens had shoes made of strings or something like that, although not while Frankie lived there.

  “It’s a ship-shipping ship, but Raeth isn’t equipped to accept Class RHH cargo,” said Patav. Frankie tried to remember the acronym, but could only recall her own mnemonic – ‘Really Honkin’ Heavy’. Patav was her weapons specialist. If she was reporting the ship, it was because she didn’t think it belonged here. “They’re set in high geosynchronous orbit. Rail guns charging.”

  When Frankie had hired the pilot and weapons specialist, they had immediately unbolted the pilot’s console and moved it close beside the weapons console, so they could sit shoulder-to-shoulder. Frankie hadn’t approved of the remodel, especially on a leased ship. It blocked her view of the ship’s windscreen that relayed pertinent information, but there was really no separating the two specialists. Well, except for the doctor who had. Rapcorhs were born in groups, often connected. When a Rapcorhian family reaches maturity, they decide whether they will remain physically connected or not. Lorav and Patav decided to separate, but not by much. The sisters looked similar, but not identical like some human multiple births. They both had broad shoulders, square features, flat smoky coats, and one antenna off to the side, as if typically there were two.

  “Compi, send a message on the cargo ship’s frequency.”

  *What would you like the message to say?*

  “This is Farkhanix —” Frankie disliked her birth name, but the assumptions that others made when they heard it gave her an advantage in these situations. “— of the Atalanta Empress, registered as Franklin and Sons’ Couriers. We see you’re preparing your weapons. Is it for us? Or, maybe we’re just in the way…?” She trailed off.

  She received no answer.

  Frankie tried Raeth.

  “This is Farkhanix of the Atalanta Empress. There seems to be a hostile ship obstructing our landing. Do you know anything about it?”

  “Maybe the office hired the ship for protection,” suggested Lorav.

  That would be unusual. The airspace above the post office was usually a peaceful one, except for maybe small traffic jams, road rage, and a queue that could go on for weeks — also the Anaphylactic Bubble Wrap Incident of 2076.

  Lorav maneuvered the Xavier-class ship closer to the planet, while trying not to provoke the gunners of the Xavier-class-ship-sized weapons on the cargo ship.

  Builders advertised Xavier-class ships as durable with spacious sleeping quarters. This was false advertising. The hull was designed for short-hauls and was only as durable as their energy shields. Although much better than stacked bunks in a common room, the private rooms had narrow beds, built-in shelving, and enough room to turn around.

  *Flight, please be aware of —*

  The crew didn’t catch the end of the sentence from traffic control as their small ship shook with a small fury.

  “Oh, mevix,” cursed Frankie. Her pink skin pulsed a bright coral in anger. “Fire back, I guess.”

  Patav and Lorav communicated with each other in a mixture of their home language and their triplet-speak to coordinate movement and weapons fire, disabling one of the ship’s many rail guns. Frankie had no idea what they had done to offend the large whale of a ship. They were both couriers of a sort, having no competition with each other. That ship transported ships, biodomes, and satellites. Her ship delivered like… solar panels and tea towels.

  Then, they took another hit.

  “Damage report?” asked Frankie.

  “You can look at it just as well as I can,” retorted Tarke, her eyes flitting back and forth on her screen.

  Actually, she couldn’t see the report. Lorav’s head was in the way. Frankie looked around Tarke’s meaty leg, which was coated in a fine layer of fur and strategically propped onto her command console. Turns out, Tarke couldn’t see the damage report either, because some Earth reality TV show was playing on her screen.

  “Can you do that in your free time?” asked Frankie.

  “This is my free time. I don’t have anything to do until you keel over.” She ruffled her long mane as if perhaps it was just her duty to look pretty and wait. Today it was teased into a shaggy poof, like the singers in those retro-metal rock bands. When Frankie had first met Tarke, she hadn’t seen the lioness likeness that all the other students teased. Instead, she just saw someone that was different, like her.

  Frankie looked as different from Tarke as she did her human family and schoolmates. As a Nurflan, she had a humanoid shape — Frankie imagined an elder Nurflan shaking their head at Frankie’s perspective, lecturing that ‘a Nurflan should think that humans looked Nurflanian’. But for so many years, Frankie had grown up as one of the few others. On Nurfla, the patina of her soft scales would declare her generational family, and would communicate her emotions as part of full, nuanced conversation. But, adopted into a family from Earth, her broadcast expressions quickly became a source of shame. Humans had much more difficulty with emotion. It wasn’t something that was supposed to be displayed. And humans actually got offended by other people’s emotions, as if it had anything to do with them.

  “How about you give me the mevix damage report?” she shot back at Tarke. They had quickly become the best of friends, and just as quickly, got on each other’s nerves. While Frankie felt like an outsider, Tarke had dived into human culture and quickly became popular in the school. She’d pulled Frankie along with her clique, demanding she stop apologizing for her colors and helped her come out of her shell. Not literally, though. She wasn’t a cortaneous, or shelled, species. When Frankie got an opportunity to lease a ship, Tarke was the first person she’d hired, for better or worse.

  Tarke gave a dramatic sigh and flicked her fingers near the screen’s surface. The television show minimized and brought up the damage report.

  “We’re skagforged
,” she said simply after glancing over its contents.

  Skagforged was an unprofessional phrase for ‘screwed’. Then, Tarke promptly brought her show back up, not bothering to hide it anymore. On screen, humans in matching uniforms and utility belts chased a man without pants in between domiciles.

  “See, this guy —” Tarke started to explain.

  “Ground Control, we are taking fire. Please advise,” broadcast Frankie, using a professional phrase for ‘What the Skagforg?’

  *Sorry, we can’t take any defensive measures. We’ve got better things to do, Flight.*

  “Better things to do than their job?” asked Frankie, staring down Tarke through her dark goggles.

  Tarke shrugged and batted her eyes underneath long black lashes. Her flat nose flared ever so slightly.

  Frankie’s stomach turned as Lorav barrel-rolled and Patav rapidly fired, causing the tiniest inertial kickback but still adding another axis to their motion. Their verbal communication had ended and the sisters worked as one, leaving Frankie to guess which way she’d be jerked next.

  So, it was a surprise when the ship started nose diving toward the post office at a speed which would not be sustainable once they met the ground.

  Her second-in-command, ground control, and pilot didn’t seem invested in keeping them alive and well. Should she take the day off too? Sneak in a few Earth cat videos before they were shot out of the sky or help to steer the ship into something massive and unmoving?

  If it was a game of chicken her crew were playing, Frankie lost as she shrieked, “Am I the only one trying to come out of this alive?!”

  Lorav didn’t respond or change directions immediately, but Patav began firing energy pulses into the ground. Patav’s handiwork created a trench with just enough room for Lorav to pull up and run parallel to imminent destruction. Even with the trench, Frankie could feel their tail end kicking up dirt. A warning that landing gear had not been deployed flashed on the big screen. Forget the runway, the Atalan settled at the post office’s front door, taking out a parking meter in the process.

  “Here we are,” said Lorav brightly, her toothy smile nearly wrapping around her square nose. Her eyes shined with pride.

  Frankie peeled her fingers off the arm rests. Maybe having part of the windscreen blocked was a good thing.

  “You scared the captain,” said her sister, who didn’t need her empathic skills to come to that conclusion. Frankie’s skin had turned from bright coral to a muted, greenish-pink.

  The ship above them stopped firing, Frankie assumed out of fear of hitting the post office they had parked so close to. Deciding not to cause an inter-corporate incident, the ship took off with as few words as they’d spared during their attack.

  Frankie pressed the ship’s intercom. “Brian, damage report?”

  Brian replied, his voice groggy, as if he was waking from a nap. Frankie hoped that wasn’t the case. *We’ve arrived.*

  That wasn’t a damage report.

  “Anything need to be repaired for next takeoff?”

  *Nah, you should be good.*

  Frankie flicked her personal tablet to a map of the ship and saw his signal coming from his chambers. As the post office-sanctioned mechanic and liaison, Brian did more liaising than anything else. And he didn’t do much of that.

  *Wow, that was a bumpy ride,* came the voice of their cargo supervisor through the intercom. *It was like a pinball game back here.*

  Lorav and Patav exchanged confused glances. Frankie didn’t bother to explain. It was always more trouble than it was worth, especially since half the time she knew the meaning of the idiom, but not its origin.

  “Sorry about that, Gail. How’s the cargo down there?”

  *The cargo? What about me? I’m an old lady. I could have broken a hip.*

  That seemed unlikely. To counter the issues an eighty-year-old widow from Earth might have, Gail had preemptively replaced many of her failing body parts with bionic devices. Besides replacing her pelvis and reinforcing her back with a titanium alloy, she’d also opted to replace her arms, which were withering with osteoporosis. The technology had opened up her post-retirement options and she now worked as Cargo Supervisor and Transporter of Really Heavy Things.

  “Prepare the shipment for delivery,” said Tarke.

  *It was prepared until we crash landed! I’ve now got to sort it all out again.*

  “I think the determination of ‘crash’ should take into account that we were being shot at. This landing was more of an evasive maneuver than anything else,” defended Lorav over the speaker.

  *Well, I don’t blame the shooters one bit. I’d like to shoot you myself. If you guys keep mistreating me, I’ll find one of those senior citizen cruise ships, drink mai tais on the deck in my hover chair, and visit the top ten planets with a knitting theme as judged by SpaceSeniors.com. Then the only thing I’d have to sort is birthday cards for my grandkids.*

  “Should we notify your grandkids that you’ve crash landed?” asked Lorav.

  *Uh, no, I don’t think that will be necessary.*

  As far as Gail’s family knew, she was already on one of those cruises. Gail kept up the charade by sending them postcards whenever their work landed them on a SpaceSeniors.com destination planet. She had even gone as far as doing video chats with cruise deck and beach backdrops, sipping a mai tai. That part was true. She liked mai tais, and she did drink a lot of them.

  “We’ll be down to help you out,” apologized Frankie, feeling bad that she hadn’t announced to batten down the hatches. The postal official would be out with her paperwork any moment to meet with Brian. In fact, they were usually out by the time the ship landed. Probably didn’t want to catch crossfire or an earful.

  TWO

  They marched down to the cargo bay, where Gail was a fury of mechanical arms and boxes. Frankie bobbed back and forth, trying to enter the sorting fray like an industrial game of double-dutch rope. Eventually, she gave up and just listened to Gail gripe.

  Tarke opened the bay’s doors and mimed kissing the parking lot ground.

  Lorav said, “You’re welcome,” while Patav ignored the gesture.

  Frankie had seen it before, Lorav responding to the thoughts. Patav responding to the emotions.

  Gail brought out the stacked boxes—knowing just how much clearance she’d need. It had to be at least two galactic tons of cargo. Frankie couldn’t recall what was in them. She focused on flying the ship. And actually, Lorav did that, so maybe she just sat around like Tarke.

  But the Atalan, formally the Atalanta Empress, was hers, or at least would be hers in sixty more EZ lease-to-own payments—and she was proud of it. They had become the best couriers in this sector, with deliveries that arrived quickly and with minimal piracy loss.

  Still no one had emerged to accept the goods. Nor did Brian waltz by them to execute one of his few responsibilities.

  “Don’t bother setting them down, Gail, I’ll just be a moment,” she said as she passed the woman. She would go in Brian’s stead. She had a few choice words to share anyway.

  “Sure, as if they aren’t heavy,” Gail replied sourly.

  For Gail, they weren’t, but she made faces all the same.

  The entrance revealed a narrow hallway which solely led to a clerk’s window. Along the walls, motion-activated advertisements and notices created a flashy tunnel full of lost and found dog pods knocked off course, fertisrat exterminators, missing persons, and the Galaxy’s Most Wanted. A pink- and purple-hued Nurflan with massive cannons strapped to her back cocked her hip and winked, posing for her wanted poster. The woman resembled Frankie, same species, same color family. However, the fugitive did not wear radiation goggles, or much else. One million credits.

  Frankie hadn’t managed to pull her eyes off the poster as she rang the bell on the clerk’s sill.

  “Please don’t do that.” A generic bald white head rose into view. Frankie could tell he didn’t mean ‘please’.

  “Then why is
it there?” asked Frankie. “I figured no one knew we were here since the office didn’t come to our aid. Why are you letting pirates circle overhead?”

  “We will send someone out there shortly to retrieve the shipment. Any damage to the shipment to report?” The pale head bobbed.

  “No, no thanks to you. If you cared about the shipment, you should have protected our ship.”

  “What’s the order number?” he asked, continuing to ignore her.

  Frankie got on her radio. “Gail, what’s the order number?”

  “You mean to say, you went in there and didn’t even have the order number? What about your papers? Do you even know what you’re delivering?”

  “Dolphin-safe tuna?” guessed Frankie.

  “No, that was last week. We’re delivering sixty tons of fuel in packages compatible with the Norma 6B-style vending machines.”

  “Manfloon’s Appendix, if the ship had taken more damage, we might have exploded. You really need to tell us when we’re shipping hazardous cargo.”

  “I did tell you. I tell you every morning in the briefs I send out. Did you read the brief this morning?”

  Frankie didn’t read the briefs if she could help it. Where was Brian? This was his job.

  Gail didn’t stop there. “And you really need to tell me when we’re taking fire, so that I can secure the cargo, so we don’t explode.”

  Fair enough.

  “So, uh, what’s the order number?”

  Gail pushed the talk button on her radio just to sigh into it.

  “Received,” said the peg head clerk, watching his screen. A stiff hand came from behind the window and rang the bell on the sill.

  Warmth crept up Frankie’s neck and face—warmth she knew was accompanied by another shade of pink.

  “That’s how it feels,” he said before his head lowered from view.

  The fugitive on the wanted poster mimed laughter as Frankie sulked out of the building.

  With Gail’s help, the shipment was loaded into ugly neon orange trucks. Fluorescent coloring communicated sexual arousal in Frankie’s species, pervading much of the Nurflan advertising. Sexy doughnuts. Sexy vehicles. Sexy cereal. Neon sells. The trucks looked like obscene promotions for the transportation of goods.