The Flying Bullet #1
Lieutenant Curt Masters was once a pilot of the famed Tuskegee Airmen, flying red-tailed Mustangs through a war-torn sky. Now, far from Earth, he was a Galactic Protector—a title he wore with quiet pride and reluctant burden. His uniform, once tailored in military khaki, was now reinforced synth-fiber armor, and the cockpit he commanded was no longer a P-51 but the sleek and responsive Opportunity 3, captained by his enigmatic ally, Aliena.
The world of T’Khari loomed large beneath them—its orange skies writhing with magnetic stormfronts and its jagged terrain riddled with glowing fungal growths. Curt didn’t like it. The air was heavy with static, and worse, something was wrong.
They had come to retrieve a strange artifact: a pulsing shard of crystalline material buried in the lair of a creature known as the Varnok—a lumbering beast normally docile and symbiotic with the planet’s ecosystem. But today, it was rampaging. Villages evacuated. Mountains shaken. A dozen Protectorate probes lost.
“This thing is twisting the creature’s mind,” Curt muttered as he secured his gear. The Blastarr was holstered at his side—an elegant weapon with four fire modes. Aliena stood beside him, her skin catching the violet light of the loading bay. Her gaze was unreadable.
“You are not to engage the creature unless provoked. Retrieve the object, and we let Science Division handle the rest,” she said coolly.
Curt gave a nod. “Understood, Captain.”
But deep inside, he didn’t trust easy missions—especially ones with calm monsters turning mad.
They descended into the cavern with echoing silence. The lair was enormous, the ceiling lost in shadows. The walls pulsed faintly as if the stone itself breathed. And at the center, nestled in a bed of bone and obsidian, was the object—a jagged, humming shard that thrummed with dark energy.
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The Varnok stood between them and the shard—its massive frame trembling, foam dripping from its tusked maw. Its eyes—normally serene green—flared crimson.
“Easy now,” Curt whispered, hand hovering near the Blastarr.
Then the Varnok charged.
Curt rolled, fired the paralyzer beam—a streak of blue light froze the beast mid-stride, but only for seconds. It roared, slamming its tail and sending shards of stone flying. He switched to the freeze beam, icing its legs to the ground just long enough to reach the shard.
He touched it—and pain lanced through his skull. A flood of visions, of alien wars and dying stars, rushed through him. The shard wasn’t just a tool. It was a fragment of something alive. It wanted madness. It fed on chaos.
“No,” Curt grunted. “I’ve seen enough war.”
He turned to Aliena, who had descended behind him. “We can’t let them study this. It’s not science—it’s corruption.”
“Curt, don’t—!” she shouted.
The Varnok broke free, a claw the size of a fighter jet swinging for Curt. The Blastarr’s safety catch disengaged automatically. Mortal danger confirmed.
Curt fired the Death Ray.
A pulse of black and red light erupted from the barrel, striking both the shard and the beast. The crystal cracked—then shattered with a shriek. The Varnok collapsed instantly, unconscious… peaceful.
Silence returned to the cavern.
Curt stood amid the ashes of the object, his breathing heavy, the Blastarr sizzling with residual energy.
Aliena approached, her face like stone.
“You were ordered to retrieve it.”
“It was killing that creature. It was a weapon waiting for a war.”
“You’re not the one who gets to decide that.”
Curt turned to her. “No, but I’m the one who lived through a war where men were told they didn’t matter. I know what happens when you let monsters grow.”
She stared at him for a long moment. Then, without another word, she walked away.
Back aboard the Opportunity 3, the debrief was cold and formal. Curt’s actions were logged as insubordination, but no charges were brought. The Varnok was calm again, and the shard was gone.
Curt sat alone in the observatory, watching the stars pass by. His hand rested on the Blastarr, silent now.
He was a protector—not of orders, not of artifacts—but of peace.
And peace often comes with a price.
Copyright 2025 Chris Love
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