Metal Boxes - Trapped Outside Read online

  Metal Boxes - Trapped Outside

  Alan Black

  Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The Publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Metal Boxes-Trapped Outside

  Published by arrangement with the author

  Printing History

  © 2015 Copyright by Alan Black

  Cover Art: Willard (Bill) Wright at

  www.flickr.com/photos/billwrigt1

  Cover Layout: The Cover Collection at

  www.thecovercollection.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed, electronic or digital form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  ISBN 10 - 1514337517

  ISBN 13 - 978-1514337516

  LOC - 1-2465340791

  Acknowledgments:

  I would also like to thank my usual beta reader team: Steve B., Bennett B, A.J. Questerly (author of Pangaea), and Melissa M. This story would not be the as good as it is without their input. Oodles of thanks go to Melissa Manes (www.scriptionis.com) and Duann B. for their editorial expertise.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Legalese

  Acknowledgments

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Other Books

  About the Author

  Praise for other books

  ONE

  Being in a romantic relationship with a trained killer isn’t as easy as one would think. Stone felt more frustration than dismay and confusion at her refusal to attend dinner to meet his family. The fact that she was taller, stronger, older, more educated, and higher-ranking, made the relationship painfully awkward. Seventeen-year-old Navy Midshipman Blackmon Perry Stone wouldn’t have it any other way. He looked up at his girlfriend, Marine First Lieutenant Allison (Allie) Vedrian. He had to look up—she was six inches taller—even though he was going through growth spurt.

  “Come on, Allie. We’ve been at Lazzaroni for weeks and you keep dodging them.”

  Allie looked contrite and stubborn at the same time. “I’m not dodging them. Well, not this time—”

  Stone interrupted, “How can you be nervous about meeting my parents and grandparents? They aren’t ogres, trolls, or Hyrocanians; they’re just simple business people.”

  “Come on, Stone. Your family isn’t simple by anyone’s definition, except your own. The Stones hold the Empire’s largest privately held fortune and control a massive multi-function business enterprise. That isn’t simple.”

  “Okay, but meeting Dad and Mom can’t be more nerve-wracking than going into combat, and you’ve done that more times than you’ll admit. What’s the problem this time? We can talk to Major Numos and get your duty changed, if that’s the problem.”

  “It’s not base duty this time, Stone. I have orders to ship out. Numos, Heller, and I are taking our platoons out of the Lazzaroni System.”

  Stone was stunned. He knew their separate services would eventually send them in different directions and they had already discussed plans for a long distance relationship. He hadn’t expected it to happen this soon. He managed to stammer, “Where?”

  Allie shook her head. “You know better than to ask. I’ll write and let you know as soon as I can—if I can. Really, I’d have gone to meet your parents this time, but I can’t. Marine Command doesn’t leave a company of grunts sitting around doing nothing and we’ve been here far too long already.”

  “It’s not—” He almost complained it wasn’t fair, but this was military life. Transfers and goodbyes were just a part of life in the empire’s military. “Crap! Who’s going to protect me from every gold-digging, cradle-robbing cougar in this part of the galactic arm? I mean, it’s no secret I’m one of the Stones. Everyone knows about the size of my family’s bank balance.”

  Allie grinned, “I know you’re all of seventeen, single, and a legally consenting adult, just don’t let your head swell up too far. You’re still a shrimp and not muscled worth a damn. You aren’t the best catch out there, you know.”

  Stone flexed his muscles. They were taut and hard. No matter how hard he worked out, he couldn’t seem to bulk up. He wanted to blame it on the old navy nanites that used to inhabit his system, they should’ve helped, not hindered. Still, those nanites weren’t as robust as his new marine combat nanites. “I’m trying to get stronger. It seems the more I eat, the skinnier I get.”

  “Eating more ice cream is not going to build muscles.” She poked him in the chest with a long tapered finger. “Besides, if you get too desperate for protection, Lieutenant Hammermill hasn’t received orders. You can go to him to help you keep the lady beasties away. He is distracting in a handsome, well-muscled kind of way.”

  “Major Numos is leaving Hammer behind? Why—?”

  “Again, you doofus, that isn’t something you should ask. I don’t know and neither does Numos or Hammer. It’s just the way it is.”

  “When will we see each other again?”

  Allie grabbed him, despite all regulations against public displays of affection while in uniform; she wrapped her massive muscled arms around him, pulling him in tight. “We’ll work it out. I promise. Somehow—maybe we can take leave together…” Her voice faded away, both of them knew such things don’t happen.

  Stone felt like crying. Was this the last time he’d ever see his girlfriend?

  TWO

  Stone peeked around the corner. The long corridor had only a few twists and turns. Should the need arise, there wasn’t any place to hide. He didn’t want to hide, but Petty Officer Third Class Tammie Ryte, a communications technician, was aggressively trying to become his next girlfriend. Allie left the system six months ago and he missed her, but not enough to get trapped in a corner by Ryte. He glanced behind him, the coast was clear.

  He was only a few steps away from the overcrowded midshipmen’s barracks when Ryte appeared, glomming onto him, working diligently to trap him into a corner or back him into any handy dark corridor.

  He stopped in his tracks, unable to run or advance.

  “Hello, Mister Stone,” Ryte said.

  “Good morning, Petty Officer Ryte.” He almost cringed. He controlled his face, keeping it as passive as he could. Luckily, this corridor didn’t have any dark corners.

  No matter w
hat his feelings were toward Allie, he was seventeen and couldn’t stop himself from looking at Ryte. She was an attractive young woman, slim, and round in all those strange places women are curvy. He wondered how her supervisor let her get away with wearing a uniform a couple of sizes too small. Her face was framed neatly by a halo of hair, often appearing golden and at other times, clearly the color of perfectly made pancakes.

  Ryte pulled out her dataport and tapped open a display, turning it so he could see it. “I was, um, like wondering if I could get your opinion on something, Mister Stone.”

  Stone grimaced at the video showing a Hyrocanian soldier. The video was frozen on one frame and enlarged to show the alien’s face. Everyone knew he and his drascos had survived hand-to-hand combat with the aliens aboard a Hyrocanian ship. A feat no one else had ever accomplished and lived to tell about it. He was tired of recounting his last battle with the empire’s enemy—at least she was prettier to look at than most admirals or intelligence officers who normally asked him questions about the encounter.

  “What is your question?”

  “Well, my real question is, I’m heading for a late breakfast and wondered if you would, you know, care to join me? You see, I would like it oodles and bunches just to get your opinion on whether or not the Hyrocanian’s hear the same frequencies as we do.” She jabbed a finger at the picture of the Hyrocanian’s ears.

  If Stone hadn’t met Allie first, he would be more than willing to dally over breakfast with this young woman. True, she was a few years older than he was, but most of the women who approached him were older. Regulations about fraternization between the ranks be damned, Ryte did have one of the best derrieres on the base and could wiggle it with eye-popping style. He shook his head. Allie was still entrenched between his ears. He compared each woman through a filter of her attributes. Ryte was gorgeous; she just couldn’t measure up to his marine.

  He said, “I don’t know about their hearing. Their ears are hinged, so I imagine they detect sounds without turning their heads, like humans sometimes do. Nevertheless, Petty Officer Ryte, how good their hearing is remains a mystery to me.”

  She sidled in close to him, not touching, yet close enough the air between them began to heat up. “Well, I was just curious about their comms, you know, since I’m a communications tech, and all. Anyway, how about breakfast?”

  Stone shook his head. “I have duty in a few minutes so I need to get going.” Without waiting for her response, he turned and practically ran down the corridor, leaving Ryte behind. The woman made him more nervous than a hangar full of Hyrocanians.

  THREE

  Stone stood as far back as he could get from the hatch, pressing his back to the shuttle garage bulkhead. The huge bay was empty at this time of the day. He let the small noises surrounding him echo back. The wide expanse of the deck stretched out before him, coming to a comfortable end at the far bulkhead with a decent ceiling over his head. He looked up, getting a quick nod from Master Chief Petty Officer Thomas, who was standing nearby. With a little internal shiver and a tightening in his gut, he put aside his fear of open spaces. Using thick, heavily gloved hands, he slapped the up button on the garage hatch’s control panel. He closed his eyes and clamped his teeth shut against the impending doom.

  He wasn’t getting any better living with impending doom than yesterday or the day before, or at any time in his short seventeen years. Sure, he’d survived his last little brush with death aboard the United Empire Navy’s spaceship, UEN Periodontitis, and his brief introduction to the Hyrocanian War. His introduction to hand-to-hand combat wasn’t so much as living with doom as it’d been simple survival. He wasn’t a hero, he’d done what anyone else would’ve done. He’d done his job, nothing more and nothing less. Today’s doom was ever more present and always just around the corner. He couldn’t even fight back against the surrounding planet’s openness.

  He was an officer in the Emperor’s Navy, but his supervisor saddled him with a babysitter. Stone was a certified combat veteran, so why did he need an old master chief dogging his every step, watching for mistakes, spying on his every move? Didn’t the cameras everywhere on the base watch his every move? Weren’t those enough to make anyone paranoid? Not to mention the fact, his supervisor, the high and mighty Lieutenant Commander Thomas Butcher, hated his guts. LCDR Butcher wasn’t like his last supervisor who’d tried to murder him. Nevertheless, the man obviously took great pains to make his life miserable.

  To top it off, the Navy hadn’t seen fit to assign him to a new ship or station. He was adrift on temporary duty, assigned to Lazzaroni Base on the planet with the same name, an unhealthy place with all of its open outside. Even though he’d spent time on the Ol’ Toothless trying to desensitize himself to open spaces, he still got queasy when faced with the possibility of going anywhere there wasn’t a ceiling overhead. Planets were the worst offenders when it came to having places without roofs.

  The garage sirens blared in warning. The broad hatches at the far end began their noiseless ascent, opening the extensive interior to the vast outside. The siren was now harmonized, as the outside warning synchronized with the internal system. The warning let everyone on either side of the hatch know it was opening.

  An air gust blew under the door, and would’ve blown any loose dust, paper or debris around, if there had been any trash or dirt to blow. Without any obstructions to hinder the slight wind, it wafted straight up to Stone, tugging at his utility uniform and ruffling his straight black hair. He never understood how anyone could call it fresh air. The atmosphere was an unpleasant mixture of unfiltered gasses smelling of fresh mowed grass, warm sand, pine trees, mold, decaying plant life, and week-old animal poop. He was far happier breathing the clean machine-purified air inside a ship or station.

  The unnatural brightness of the outside sunlight outshined the manmade overhead lights as the hatches creeped upward, opening the whole western wall. The hatch was taller and wider than the usual requirements because this bay stored ground shuttles for everyone at Lazzaroni Base. Instructors, administrators, and senior officers could check out vehicles for any use if the shuttles weren’t being used for training. When untrained cadets and unassigned midshipmen practiced their driving skills, they required large open spaces and tall doors.

  Stone didn’t need or want large openings, but it wasn’t his garage and he didn’t design it. He didn’t even want to be here when the hatch opened. However, he was assigned the duty for two reasons. First, and for some reason no one ever explained to him, base regulations required a naval officer and a senior non-commissioned officer be present during an atmospheric containment breach without the benefit of an airlock in the base’s main training building. The environment on Lazzaroni didn’t require an airlock, however, rules were rules, meaning he, as an officer, had to be here to push one little button. The second reason he needed to be here was to let Jay and Peebee back in after their outside romp. Of course, if he was here to push a button, it meant MCPO Thomas was lurking about, watching to make sure he pushed it in a proper military manner.

  He kept his eyes shut, listening to the gaggle of marines in combat armor stomping their way into the bay. Returning from their outside training grounds, they moved loudly though their massive nine-foot tall combat suits didn’t clank, squeak, or creak. No noise escaped their sealed helmets, all communications were shielded and silent. All he heard were the heavy footfalls tromping on the hardened plasticrete floor and impacts from the occasional, punch, kick, or head butt armored marines called good-natured jostling—noises that wouldn’t have happened if a quiet assault were in progress.

  A duet of wild wonking and clanging of metal-on-metal assaulted his ears, highlighting the second reason he had to be in the garage when the hatches went up. Long since discarded was the drasco’s original chromed metal armor as they outgrew it. It was replaced by stronger, more impact resistant, and lighter protective gear. Their second set of gear was noise resistant and black to match marine armor,
but both drascos had rejected it. This new set was shiny chrome with blue filigree for Jay and red flames for Peebee. They clanged and rang like a junkyard musical band. He opened his eyes and braced himself for an onslaught as Jay and Peebee danced across the floor to him, knocking any unwary marine out of the way.

  A marine at the head of the group waved. Stone had learned to pick out enough minor differences in the huge combat suits to recognize a few of the suited monsters. He waved back at Lieutenant Hammermill. Stone’s greeting to the two drascos was less friendly, or so it would seem to any casual observer.

  The two alien pets from Allie’s World had grown from their large size to dwarf even the marines. Both had grown to stand a bit over eight feet at the shoulder, not quite matching the helmet height of a combat armored marine, and they stretched twice that length from the tip of their flat-faced, dragon-like snout to the end of their bone-spiked scorpion-like tail. They were clearly half again as large as their mother.

  Stone pounded on the two with much more enthusiasm than punching the heavy bag in the gym. Swiveling his hips like his instructors taught him, and twisting on the balls of his feet, he threw a solid punch against Jay’s head. The drasco wonked happily and danced around for another. Throwing an uppercut to Peebee, the drasco slipped her head sideways and shoved him, gently pushing him to the side. Gently to a drasco meant Stone was merely knocked off his feet rather than thrown against a distant wall and broken beyond repair. Climbing to his feet, he reached under their back legs and rubbed his knuckles deep into a hidden tender spot causing Peebee’s back leg to dance with unrestrained joy and Jay’s eyelids to droop with contentment.

  The hidden spot was one of the rare places not covered by a drasco’s tough hide. Almost all spots on their bodies were layered with a thick covering of something resembling gnarly rusted pig iron wrapped in thick gritty sandpaper. Rubbing against his drascos was a sure way to lose a few layers of skin. Their thick skin was protection against their native planet’s flora and fauna. Cutting though their hides would require a combat survival knife. Stone wasn’t even sure these two could be cut. Their epidermis was much rougher than he remembered their mother having. He’d watched his companion, Doctor Danielle Wright skin their birth mother after these two imprinted on him as their surrogate mother. Her knife could barely cut through the tough drasco hide.