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BIGGS FIRMLY BELIEVED in delegation, enabling him to pull strings while keeping his hands clean. Some critical matters, however, had to be dealt with personally because you couldn’t trust anyone. Not 100 percent anyway.
Which his contact had proven by failing to check in, necessitating a surprise visit to Elementa.
He slipped into a hazmat suit, settled the hood over his head, and then switched on the respirator. After the pump hissed reassuring it was working, he tapped his chest comm. “Ready to disembark,” he signaled the bridge.
“Roger,” the captain replied. “The colonists are sending a team to meet you outside the habitat.”
The inner airlock sealed to keep the toxic air from flooding the ship, the gangway lowered, and he stepped onto alien soil. Starlight filtered through a hazy sky ablaze with swashes of scarlet, orange, and yellow, the brilliant background transforming the towers of rock into dark silhouettes. The planet presented a stark landscape as dangerous as it was beautiful. The air was toxic to humans, the native fauna venomous, and the ground unstable. Volcanic eruptions occurred daily. Fissures could crack open at any time.
If it wasn’t for the metals and other compounds that would afford the country military superiority over every other nation, he’d say, let the fucking space lizards have the goddamn planet.
No, he wouldn’t.
He stepped away from the spacecraft and headed for the human habitat about a half mile away. He would never relinquish the planet to the space lizards because they desired it.
If he had the power to do so, he’d wipe the galaxy clean of every single dragon. That wasn’t feasible—at least not yet—but eliminating their leader was possible. Cut off the head of the snake, and the organism died, right? Take out King K’rah and his royal court, and their society would crash into chaos. Aggressive, temperamental beasts, the dragons would turn on each other.
He didn’t know why the lizards wanted Elementa so much, only that for them, the hostile, dangerous planet was a line in the sand. Of course, its volcanic geology suited the fire-breathing space reptiles, but the burning in his gut hinted there was more to it.
With an automatic, deep revulsion, he loathed Draconians as much or more than people hated snakes or spiders. If venomous alien serpents came to Earth, would you befriend them? Invite them into your home? Take them to meet schoolchildren? Hell, no! Yet, that was how officials had acted when the space lizards arrived. He couldn’t believe it when scores of nations had enacted treaties with Draco.
In horror, he’d watched on television with the rest of the world as Prince K’ev had toured Earth, feted by fawning leaders and common citizens alike. Before the world went completely insane, he had to prevent further incursion.
In an incredible, almost fated—not that he believed in fate—fortuitous happenstance, his nation’s space exploration arm had discovered Elementa and its wealth of noble metals. Biggs’ company bought the mining rights. The nation staked a flag, established a small colony, and began extracting metals.
And shit hit the fan. Draco broke off the alliances and threatened to attack if the settlers didn’t vacate. He knew then they had something the dragons desperately needed. Earth had leverage. Biggs had leverage. With a state of emergency declared, normal government operations and procedures had been suspended, and he’d been able to solidify his power. He played on another hunch, albeit a risky one, that the two planets would not come to war.
He’d been proven right when King K’rah blinked first by asking for the president’s daughter to become his son’s concubine. The idea of a filthy space lizard, touching, let alone copulating with any human repulsed him, but he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to cut the head off the lizard. He’d planned to send a doppelgänger implanted with a bomb, and at the right moment—boom! Except the president’s stupid bimbo daughter warned Rhianna. He didn’t know how, but again, his gut told him she had.
He’d salvaged the plan. Helena was on her way to Draco, giving him a second shot at the king.
Seismic rumbles vibrated through his heavy boots, but encountering a dragon worried him more than earthquakes or volcanic eruptions. The protective hood cut off his peripheral vision, so he swiveled his head to keep watch. Lately, colonists had reported an increase of Draconian ships to and from Elementa.
He patted his holstered weapon. The laser scythe could take the head off a dragon in a single swipe, according to the manufacturer. It had been tested on models but not real live dragons. Still, it was the best weapon available. Bullets bounced off their thorny hides. Bombs worked, but he had no intention of blowing himself up to kill one of them.
Normally he never would have set foot on Elementa, but when his contact failed to check in, he’d decided a surprise visit might be in order. Only the operations manager had been informed he’d be arriving. Besides putting a little fear into his contact, it wouldn’t hurt to see Elementa for himself, maybe figure out why Draco wanted it, meet face-to-face with the colonists, and visit the site where his brother had died.
The ground shook, and he picked up the pace. A fissure. A goddamn fissure. He pictured his brother jumping into the gap then falling, falling... Why, Bobby, why? Where did the self-hate come from? Why couldn’t you embrace what you were?
The biodomes came into view. Nearly five hundred people lived and worked there.
The weekly reports included at least one death a week from a toxic bite, a torn hazmat suit, a cave-in. A few colonists had been killed in spontaneous volcanic eruptions. Stepping outside the habitat was akin to playing Russian roulette. Given enough time, something on the planet would get you. Staying inside didn’t guarantee safety, either. The glass resisted heat and fire, but it couldn’t withstand a protracted barrage if dragons decided to torch it.
Thus far, only three fatalities could be attributed to a dragon attack, and those had occurred when Rhianna had dropped in unexpectedly. Mistaking her for a dragon, the jumpy colonists had shot at her. Prince K’ev had retaliated, killing two colonists outright. A third later died from his burns.
Biggs’ mining company paid colonists an astronomical salary, but attrition was still a revolving door. A new group no sooner got installed and trained, and another exodus occurred.
He thumped his chest and swallowed the acid lighting a fire in his throat. Damn reflux. He should see a doctor. He couldn’t recall a time when he hadn’t suffered some heartburn, but lately it had gotten worse.
He’d drawn close enough to the habitat to spy workers scurrying about their business. The reports always included colonists’ complaints of feeling exposed in the transparent structure, but the glass, made from Elementa sand, resisted heat better than anything they had. Manufacturers tried darkening it by adding metals and dyes, but it always cooled clear. So he turned a deaf ear to the complaints because, in the end, what was more important? Feeling safe or being safe?
A lone person in a hazmat suit exited the compound.
Idiot! You can’t fix stupid. This man had just gotten his ass fired. He hoped the approaching stranger wasn’t his operations manager because, other than this stupid stunt, the guy had done a competent job. But rule number one: no one leaves the habitat alone. No exceptions. It didn’t matter who you were, how brief the time, or how short the distance. Minimum requirement was a group of three. If you went outside to take a piss, you still had to bring two people with you. Not that anyone did that. Of course, being in a group of three hadn’t saved the men who’d shot at Rhianna, but at least one of them had lived long enough to tell them what had happened.
“Who are you, and what the hell are you doing out here alone?” he snapped.
“Is that any way to say hello, Jackie?”
The voice! Nobody called him Jackie, or Jack or Jackson, except for...no, it couldn’t be... “Bobby?” No. Impossible.
“The one and only.”
The flame in his gut surged up into his throat. “My brother is dead! Who the fuck are you?”
The man unhooked the latches and pulled off the hood.
“Jesus Christ! Bobby! They told me you were dead!”
“The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated,” his brother joked.
Biggs stumbled forward and grabbed his brother in a bear hug. With the thick protective suits, he could hardly get his arms around him. Bobby was alive! A weight of a thousand pounds lifted from his shoulders. He could float away on the elation he felt. And, just as quickly, anger ignited. Somebody, most likely multiple somebodies, had fucked up by reporting his brother had committed suicide. Did they have any idea of the hell they’d put him through? Heads would roll.
But for now, he had Bobby. He slapped his brother on the back and froze. Where was the breathing apparatus? Oh, fuck, the hood! Biggs shoved him away.
“Your hood! Put it on!” Shit, where was it? The protective head-and-face covering had vanished. Bobby had had it in his hand after removing it. Biggs scanned the ground.
“I don’t need a hood,” his brother said.
“Are you crazy? The air will kill you!” Before he finished the sentence, Bobby began to bleed. A single red drop slid from the corner of his eye. Then another. And another.
“We have to get you inside. Now!” They were fifty yards from the habitat, a ten-second sprint. He could hold his breath that long. “Take my hood.” He started to unlatch it.
“I’m sorry, Jackie. I’m so very sorry.” Scarlet tears rained from his brother’s eyes, sizzling on his face, burning into his flesh.
“Help!” Biggs thumped the comm link on his chest. “Help!” He pulled off his hood.
His expression incredibly sad, his brother backed up. There was a cracking sound as horns thrust through his skull, his neck stretched, and his jaw lengthened into a snout. His hazmat suit shredded into tatters as his body morphed and enlarged, wings unfurling, a barbed tail snapping. Brown eyes yellowed.
Not his brother. A fucking dragon. He stumbled, nearly falling on his ass.
The space lizard tossed its head and roared.
He grabbed for his laser scythe, but it had disappeared. The dragon opened its massive fang-filled maw and hurled a fireball straight at him.
His bladder went slack. Biggs screamed—
He bolted upright in bed, his heart pounding. Not real, not real. Another damn nightmare. He lunged for the bedside lamp and turned it on. No dragon. His brother was still dead. He was in his suite in Bunker One on Earth.
Biggs swung his legs over the side of the mattress and sat up, dragging air into his lungs. The acid reflux hurt so bad, if he hadn’t known what it was, he would have feared he was having a heart attack.
The fucking dream. Since learning of Bobby’s death, he’d had the nightmare every evening. It always followed the same pattern: landing on Elementa, meeting his dead brother, Bobby turning into a space lizard. Then jolting awake before death by immolation. He loathed the fucking lizards more than ever. They had caused this!
He hated the swing of emotions the dream forced him to feel: elation at seeing Bobby alive, terror at facing down the dragon, then awakening and plunging into grief, feeling as if he’d lost his brother all over again. Then the humiliation of finding himself lying in his own piss. In the dream, just as the dragon spit the fireball, he’d wet himself. That part was real. During every dream, he pissed himself.
He stripped off his wet boxers and the bedsheets, shoved them all into the incinerator and then remade the bed. He couldn’t leave his humiliating weakness for the maids to find.
He strode into the bathroom to shower. When he came out, he eyed the bed warily. He’d never had two nightmares in the same evening, but a gut feeling warned him not go back to sleep again.
Not that he could. He was wide awake.
He donned a pair of clean shorts and robe then grabbed his laptop and plopped into a chair. He called up the reports from the colony.
