Free Wings of Retribution by David King, Sara King Page A

releasing the security-lock.  “Butcha helped me earn six million credits, so I owe ya somethin.
    Dallas’s jaw fell open as she suddenly realized what she had done.  “You’re here for the shifters.”
    “Yer a bright one,” Smallfoot snorted.  “Bring yer light.  We’re going ta engineering.”
    “Go yourself,” Dallas retorted.
    Smallfoot waved the gun in front of him.  “See this?  This says yer comin.  If ya don’t, I’m shootin off a foot.  Maybe a hand, too, ta keep ya busy.  I’m sure as hell not leavin’ you ‘lone at the controls.”
    Dallas scowled and opened her mouth to tell him to take her foot.  Then, at his raised eyebrow, she closed her mouth, snatched the proffered flashlight with a glare, and followed him.
    Dune was crumpled on the floor immediately outside the entry.  They had to step over him to enter the hall.  It didn’t appear to Dallas that he was breathing.
    “He gonna be okay?” she asked, pausing over the mechanic.
    “He’s fine,” Smallfoot told her, glancing down as he passed.  “For now.”
    Dallas bit her lip, but a sound from the air-lock caught her attention.  Blue-uniformed Utopian agents were pouring onto the ship, tasers in hand.  They stopped and ordered Smallfoot to drop his weapon, but he laughed at them and pointed down the hall at the sleeping chambers with the muzzle of his pistol.  “They’re in there,” he said, and motioned for Dallas to follow him down the stairs toward the mechanic’s haven.
    Despite its super-efficient drive system, the engine-room was warmer than the rest of the ship.  Most people thought it was cozy, but Dallas always had that nagging feeling that maybe the extra heat was actually radiation that was wreaking havoc on her body’s cells as she sat there enjoying the warmth. 
    Because of this, she hated going to visit Dune.  She only did so now because she was pretty sure Smallfoot wouldn’t hesitate to blow off that foot, to keep her occupied.
    Dune had set up a new buggy in the center of the room, surrounded by tables filled with odds and ends that looked like junk to Dallas.  Dune’s chair sat empty in one corner, the cushion worn and mashed flat with repeated applications of a grease-stained butt.  An instruction manual of some sort was laying open on the seat, no doubt on some fancy new engine part.
    “In here,” Smallfoot said, walking past Dune’s personal alcove and into the main engine area.  It was even warmer in here, with huge black pistons and rotors churning in the center of the room, powering everything from life-support to the kitchen oven.  A bone-deep hum made her ear-drums hurt.
    “Turn on your light,” Smallfoot instructed as he pulled on a lead-reinforced glove.  He stepped up to the engine block and pried up a lever from the looming mass of metal.  He gripped the lever with his gloved fist and pulled.
    The lights went out.
    Dallas flipped on her flashlight in a panic.
    Dangling from Smallfoot’s gloved fist was a glowing blue ceramic cylinder.  “Got it,” he said.  He hefted his prize cheerfully and headed back toward the stairs. 
    Dallas followed at a subdued distance, her mind reeling.  Without a power supply, Beetle was crippled.  There was no going back.  She had pulled off the main travel-route in her attempt to thwart their attackers.  They would drift for years, maybe even centuries, before someone came and discovered them all frozen like Halloween popsicles.
    Back on the upper level, Smallfoot handed the ceramic cylinder to one of the Utopian agents who was waiting for it at the air-lock.  The man hefted it, grinned at Smallfoot, and disappeared into the other ship.
    “Last chance,” Smallfoot said, pausing in the air-lock to look back at her.
    Dallas swung her light into the Beetle’s deserted hallway.  Little specks of dust drifted in front of her flashlight’s beam.  The place reminded her of a tomb.
    “I’m staying,” she said with more resolve than