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   Chapter 33 No.33

Dead Beckoning By Christina Engela Characters: 5828

Updated: 2018-06-30 12:01


"You still alive, sir?"

Blachart recognized Brenton's voice. It was coming from somewhere behind, where the younger man stood, trying to open the flight deck door to the rear compartment. He was, somewhat surprisingly, still alive and not missing any body parts. Brenton looked okay too.

"I think so." He said, discarding the seat harness. He joined Brenton and together they forced the defunct door open in its rails. He picked up his sword from the slightly buckled deck plating and stuck it in his sash.

"Any idea where we are?" Brenton asked, provoking an eye-roll from Adam. This was the pilot asking.

"Yes." He chirped. "On the ground somewhere, I'll wager."

Brenton paused, then probably decided – wisely – to ignore the sarcasm, and pulled the emergency release for the outer hatch. There was a rush of air, a few mechanical sounding 'clonks', and the heavy door fell away downwards. Light flooded in – a filtered, cool green light that reminded Blachart a little too much of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'.

"Would you look at that!" Brenton breathed as they walked down the ramp formed by the door onto the turf-covered ground. The shuttle was a complete write-off, and lay embedded in the soil looking like something old and beat-up. Clearly they weren't going back that way again. They'd crashed on the rise of a hill, in a clearing – with a view many people would probably kill for. The surface was covered in ferns and mosses, and the bits that weren't, appeared to have trees growing out of them. The trees surrounding them – and on the surrounding plains – were enormous by Earth standards; many thousands of years old, towering high above, their tips lost above the canopies of younger shorter trees that grew between

landing eh, but lucky you're all in one piece."

With lightning quickness, Blachart tightened his grip on Johnson's hand tight, pulling him close and turning the man's mass between himself and the man at the tree line.

"Blachart the Bloody. Pleasure to meet you." He growled in a low tone, looking Johnson in the eye, appreciating the look of realization in them. It said he knew there was a reward – and he wasn't going to collect it. 'Phut. Phut.' Blachart's Luger spat, the suppressor stuck in the man's ribs. Little plumes of red mist sprang from Johnson's back into the air! Before the body could fall, Blachart grabbed him close, firing twice left-handed at the other over Johnson's shoulder, using him as a shield. About 30 meters away, the man by the trees fell silently without firing a shot, still holding his weapon. Not bad, for a pistol, not even for him, he considered. Holstering the Luger, he retrieved the 440 from the corpse at his feet, glancing round to check for other Corsairs. He didn't see any. Brenton seemed to have completely forgotten that he had a side-arm hanging on his belt as well, and was staring at him with shock and awe.

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