Page 5 of Sheltered in the Storm

On the surface,the water frothed and churned, tossed by the winds and rain of anuoia—the locals’ term for a strong storm not as large or powerful as a hurricane.

But here in the ocean’s dark, purple depths, I drifted in contented silence.

The swift, deep currents carried me parallel to the shore. Even in my relaxed state I had to be mindful of how far I journeyed along the sea floor before I turned and swam back against the current toward the inlet that was my habitual spot to enter the sea.

All too often, the more troubled my thoughts, the further I ended up traveling before I noticed the distance I had covered. Tonight, I had drifted farther than was safe. The ambassador’s child had reappeared in my dreams lately, their endless calls of “La ka na!” stealing the comfort of sleep.

When I roused myself from my meditative state and opened my eyes, I found myself less than half a kilometer from the camp set up by a group of about a dozen interplanetary raiders.

The bastards had cut down trees to build their base, from which they launched their half-dozen ships that went on day- or week-long runs attacking ships passing through the area. As if that were not bad enough, they had placed mines in the sea only meters from where I now floated. I hated them for that, and a thousand other reasons. The sea was my solace, but they had transformed its beauty into a deadly trap.

I would have killed them all if I did not think it would attract too much attention from their brethren throughout the sector. Solitude and anonymity were more valuable to me than anything—even ridding this otherwise quiet area of murderous raiders and their deadly traps.

So, once again I hissed in the direction of the mines, then slowly turned and rose from near the sea floor to midway to the surface for the journey back to the inlet. My tentacles swirled around me, stretching and preparing for the long swim.

BOOM.

The force of an impact on the surface rolled through the water. I scarcely had time to realize what had happened before it reached me. Ears ringing, vision reduced to gray mist, and limbs heavy as lead, I sank to the ocean floor. I did not lose consciousness, but disorientation left me dazed and lying in the sand.

The first coherent thought that drifted through my cottony brain was,Had I been closer to the surface, I might have been killed.

The realization of how close I had come to death just now barely elicited an emotional or physiological response—much as my earlier proximity to the raiders’ deadly sea mines had not. The Guard’s indoctrination, or my own apathy about my life? Could I even distinguish between the two?

Lingering discomfort and some residual dizziness aside, I seemed uninjured. My need to monitor my environment and identify potential threats compelled me to find out what hadcrashed. My tentacles stirred, undulated to relieve their aches, and propelled me from the ocean floor to the surface.

Given my proximity to the raider camp, I suspected the object was one of their ships. But when my head rose above the water’s surface just enough to see the debris, I found I had been wrong.

The ship was unmistakably an Alliance Defense long-range fighter, or what was left of it.

The nose and one triangular wing of the fighter had crumpled on impact, tearing open the cockpit. The starboard wing was gone entirely, as was most of the tail section. The damage might have occurred during the ship’s passage through the atmosphere, or in the attack that had left telltale scorch marks on both sides of the fighter’s hull. The once-proud fighter—a Delta Seven model, if I was not mistaken—had been reduced nearly to scrap metal, save perhaps some of its inner workings.

My tentacles swirled in irritation. Of all the oceans in the galaxy, this fighter had chosen to crash into mine.

If the pilot had managed to send a distress call before crashing, or the ship had an automatic emergency beacon, the Alliance would send a rescue team and investigators to retrieve the pilot’s remains and the wreck.

I had chosen Iosa as my home for the same reason the small group of raiders created a base here: the moon attracted so little notice, even as a satellite of a popular planet like Jakora. Its violent weather patterns ensured it had no risk of becoming a tourist destination and its sparse population density allowed for solitude.

As the site of a Defense fighter crash, however, Iosa would be of definite interest to the Alliance Defense. Highly motivated to find out what had caused this crash, they would investigate the area and immediately find the raider camp. If they arrested the raiders and destroyed their ships, I would find that agreeable.

My homestead was far enough away that I might avoid their notice. My best hope would be to retreat to my home and keep my head down until the inevitable investigation ended and the Alliance Defense departed with their wrecked ship and dead pilot.

The sound of engines and shouts drew my attention to two boats approaching the wrecked fighter from the direction of the raider camp. During daytime I would have slipped beneath the surface and disappeared. In the dark and rain, I doubted they would be able to see me with only the top of my head and eyes above the surface of the water.

The raiders approached, navigating through their minefield to the wreckage. The fighter would likely sink soon. At the moment it remained afloat, tossed roughly by the waves. The cockpit had been badly damaged and broken open. If that had happened in space or in the atmosphere, the pilot would certainly be dead. If it occurred on impact, though, they might have survived. Not likely, but possible.

The raiders would want to salvage what they could from the wrecked ship and disable any distress beacons. Indeed, one of them—an enormous red-and-black Atolani male, wearing leather from collar to boots and sporting large gold rings on his horns—stood at the front of the lead boat, holding a scanner probably designed to detect signals.

The Atolani let out a shout, tossed the device into the boat, and pointed at the vessel. It sounded like he had not detected any signals. This was welcome news to me as well.

Boarding wave-tossed debris from small boats was no easy feat, but the raiders managed to throw hooks on long ropes and tether their vessels to the wreck. In moments, three of them had clambered onto the fighter. The smallest of the group jumped immediately into the cockpit.

I was about to leave them to their salvage operation when more shouts rang out. The urgency in their voices drew mecloser—enough to see clearly, even in the rain and dark, that they were struggling to lift something out of the cockpit.

It was the limp, bloody body of an unmistakably human female pilot.

One of the blue-skinned raiders on the fighter shouted a word to the Atolani in the boat, who might have been their leader. The language was Ymarian. I knew only a little Ymarian, but I recognized the word the raider had shouted. The word meantalive.

The pilot had survived the crash—and now she and her ship were in the hands of raiders. At best, the raiders would try to keep her alive and ransom her. At worst…well, she would certainly wish to be dead.

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