Escape from Olympus: The Falken Chronicles, #2

By Piers Platt

After his escape from the prison colony Oz, Sirio Falken has found a new life as a safari guide on the planet Olympus. There, he helps tourists navigate the planet's exotic ecosystem, which is dominated by a single apex predator: a long-lived and sightless avian species called dragons. With exceptional hearing, the dragons are feared for hunting down anything that moves, including Falken and his guests, if they’re not careful. But unknown to Falken, criminal elements have plans to use him to plunder the planet's resources, whether he's willing to help them or not. He'll have to keep the lethal dragons at bay long enough to unravel a growing conspiracy … and escape from Olympus.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piers Platt
• Release date: Sep 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386165552

Book preview

Chapter 1

Last one alive, Falken thought. Again.

Quietly, carefully, he crawled forward, and then peered out from under the mushroom’s broad cap.

In the foggy haze ahead, the aerie loomed over him. The mountain’s massive bulk rose, gray and foreboding, until the sheer sides disappeared into the mist above. On a clearer day, Falken knew, the summit might be visible, its black rim jagged against the sky.

Not today. Too many clouds. A good day for hunting.

As if on cue, a winged shape appeared out of the mountain fog. The great wings beat once, noiselessly, slowing the creature’s descent along the mountainside. Falken froze. A single drop of moisture ran down his forehead, stinging his right eye, but he remained stock still as the beast flew toward him.

Coming in fast, Falken thought, his heart racing. Probably a female.

Then the creature turned, changing course.

She didn’t hear me. Falken breathed a silent sigh of relief.

The beast dipped a wing, flying in a wide loop as it gradually lost altitude.

She’s staying closer to the mountain. Circling in for a kill …? Falken frowned. Then maybe I’m not the only one left.

Falken decided to risk a little movement. Slowly, he lifted his right arm and held up a small wrist-mounted display unit. On the device’s screen, a terrain map appeared, with a blinking blue dot at the center. Falken touched the screen, and the display zoomed out, showing a larger portion of the area. On the edge of the screen, a vehicle icon appeared, with the text 0.9 miles hovering over it.

A mile to the truck. Definitely not going to make it.

He touched the wristpad again, and this time half a dozen other blue icons appeared, scattered around the map. Abruptly, five of the icons switched to a red skull symbol, but the sixth remained a simple circle. A name appeared over the blue icon: Murrisen.

The kid – birthday boy. Didn’t think he’d make it this long.

As Falken watched, the blue dot moved suddenly.

Shit. Stop running, Murrisen!

But the icon continued moving. Falken lined the map up with his view of the mountain. Sure enough, the circle icon on the map was dead ahead of him, and directly under the circling creature. Falken cursed silently, stood up, and then broke into a jog.

He skirted the edge of one of the planet’s ubiquitous round stone outcroppings, pushing aside the lacy fronds of a brown fungus, before splashing through a bubbling stream. His noise cancellation staff was still slung across his chest, the thin cylinder bumping rhythmically against him as he ran. The device muted the sounds of his progress, but not completely. Falken kept his footfalls light, doing his best to minimize the noise even further, but to his practiced ears, the sounds were deafening.

She’ll have heard me by now.

He risked a quick glance up at the sky, but the flying hunter had disappeared back into the fog.

Probably getting ready to make her dive. But who’s she gonna target?

Falken scrambled up the side of another stone shelf, crossed its flat top, and then paused at the far edge of the round formation, peering forward. The ground sloped down and away from his perch, creating a small bowl-like depression, before rising up into another pancake-shaped rock formation on the far side, less than a hundred meters away. Pointy gray and green mushrooms dotted the depression, each over six feet tall. Then Falken saw one of the mushrooms move. Murrisen appeared under it a second later, and caught sight of Falken.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Falken raised his finger to his lips, shaking his head. Falken pointed up into the sky. Murrisen, eyes wide, glanced upward, but the sky remained ominously empty. The boy looked back at Falken, who held both hands up, palms outward.

Stay there. He mouthed. Stay still.

Murrisen nodded slowly. Then Falken saw a flicker of movement over Murrisen’s shoulder.

Oh, fuck.

The dragon hit Murrisen at frightening speed, hurtling in from behind the boy with wings outstretched, plowing through the mushrooms to strike him square in the back with its hind legs. The sheer kinetic energy of the attack lifted Murrisen bodily and hurled him across the bowl. He smacked into the base of Falken’s boulder with a sickening crunch.

Falken winced, but stayed rooted to his spot, his body held still. Below him, Murrisen rolled over onto his stomach, groaning. His right leg was mangled and his back was bleeding from the deep claw gouges, but he managed to push himself up off the ground, balancing on his left leg.

In the middle of the bowl, the dragon landed neatly on its hind legs, then leaped up off the ground. It covered the distance to Murrisen with a single, sharp beat of its wings, pouncing and landing on top of the boy, slamming him into the ground. The claws on its powerful hind legs sunk deep into Murrisen’s chest, pinning him to the stone with all of its weight. The creature gave a shriek of triumph, lifting its long snout into the air to make a loud, ululating sound.

Murrisen screamed in terror, but the dragon snapped at him, a quick, surgical bite on the hapless boy’s face which quickly silenced him. Then it bit again, opening its jaws wider this time, and with a flick of its neck, it tore Murrisen’s head off his shoulders.

Well, now I’m definitely the last one alive, Falken thought.

Below him, the dragon remained bent over the boy’s carcass, its leathery head bobbing as it tore into its meal. Falken risked a single step backward. When the dragon didn’t react, he took another. On his third step, the edge of his pants brushed, ever so lightly, against a small fungus growing near the ground. The dragon’s head snapped up immediately, its large ears held high. Falken froze.

Bloody jaws hanging open, the creature extended its long neck out over the rocky shelf, toward Falken. The dragon’s eyeless head swept back and forth, ears swiveling, searching. Falken could see the animal’s gill-like sensory organs opening and closing along the length of its neck. Its face was mere inches from his own now.

Hide in the silence, Falken thought, willing himself to remain still.

The seconds stretched. Then, at last, the dragon retracted its head. With a shake of its neck, it turned back to Murrisen’s body, and continued eating. Falken counted to ten in his head, and then took another step backward, being careful to step around the mushroom this time. Three more steps, and he felt his heel reach the edge of the outcropping behind him. Falken pivoted slowly, forcing himself to turn his back on the predator.

He found himself face to face with another dragon. It stood twenty feet tall, nearly twice as large as the first. The new dragon spread its wings wide, towering over Falken as it roared its triumph.

You sneaky fuck, Falken thought.

He leaped off the rock, diving toward the dragon’s undercarriage, rolling as he hit the hard rock. He felt a breath of wind on the back of his neck – the dragon had struck, but missed him by inches. The beast flapped its wings, rising back up into the air to get a better angle on Falken, but he was already up and running, dodging past a thick, muscled leg. He juked to his left suddenly as he ran, sensing another imminent strike, then dodged right. A split second later, the dragon landed heavily to his left, its knife-like claws tearing white scars in the rock. It snorted in frustration, snapping at him with its jaws. Falken felt teeth sink deep into the flesh of his left shoulder, but the skin tore, and he was free a moment later, still running.

Another bellow from behind him, and a rush of air as the huge wings flapped. Falken turned suddenly, hoping to dodge the next inevitable strike, but he lost his footing on the lichen-covered rocks. He slid down a steep embankment, hitting the bottom with a bone-jarring crash. Falken grunted and pulled himself to his feet again. He couldn’t hear the dragon behind him anymore.

Don’t look back. You look back, you die.

Ahead, he caught a glimpse of clear water coursing through a rocky ravine.

The river!

Falken sprinted toward it; when he reached the rocky bank, he leaped into the air, sucking in a deep breath, steeling himself for the ice-cold water.

But the water never came. Instead, he felt a set of iron talons sink into his torso from behind, and abruptly, he was being hauled upward, higher and higher into the hazy sky. One of the talons had penetrated his back fully, and was poking through his chest, as well. Falken twisted his neck to look over his shoulder. The big dragon hung over him, its shoulder muscles rippling as it lifted them both higher into the air with each thrust of its wings.

Is it taking me to the aerie?

Then the dragon stopped, and Falken felt the claws in his back twist, the creature’s grip on him loosening. Suddenly, he was free, and falling rapidly toward the ground far below.

Ah, shit.

Chapter 2

Falken pushed off his headset and opened his eyes. The sensory displacement unit’s interior was dim, lit only by a faint blue glow that emanated from somewhere underneath him. He lay still for a moment, floating in the thick, warm gel, relaxing and enjoying the comforting sensation of weightlessness.

Always liked these things. Like being in a warm bath. A cocoon.

After a moment, he reached up and touched a gloved hand to the lid above him, inside a square panel marked Exit. The unit’s lid split in half, and Falken felt the gel draining away into the floor. At the same time, the pod tilted him gently into an upright position. Seven other pods stood in a circle around the outside of the room, which was only marginally brighter than the inside of the pod. The sounds of a piano sonata reached him from a speaker in the ceiling, its soothing harmony just loud enough to hear. Across the room, the ship’s captain, Greban, bent over the open lid of one of the pods, talking quietly to its occupant. Falken waited while the last of the gel drained from his pod, then hung his helmet-like headset over a hook on the unit’s lid, and stepped out onto the floor.

He stretched inside his skin-tight body suit, working a kink out of his neck, then crossed the room and stood beside Greban. The older man smiled at him through a neatly-trimmed goatee.

Almost thirty minutes until they got you, Greban noted. Personal best?

Falken shook his head. No, I don’t think so. Close, though. He looked down into the pod.

Murrisen smiled up at him from the gel bath, his headset pushed up onto his forehead.

How’re you feeling? Falken asked.

Still shaking, Murrisen said, smiling weakly. He held a trembling hand up out of the gel. But I’ll be okay.

It’s just the adrenaline, Greban told him. It’ll wear off. Just take your time, and relax.

The young boy shook his head, eyes wide. Falken, I swear: I about shit my pants when that one jumped on top of me.

You did good to last that long, Falken said, patting the young man on the shoulder. I didn’t make it much longer myself.

Did the same one get you? Murrisen asked.

Nope, a bigger one. Snuck up on me while I was watching you get eaten.

A bigger one? Murrisen asked. He gave a low whistle.

Yeah, and he used a new one on me, too, Falken said. You ever watch a seagull eat a clam?

Murrisen shook his head.

Well, clams are a kind of shellfish back on Earth. They close up their shell as soon as they sense a predator. So the seagulls just pick them up, fly up high, and drop them on something hard, to crack the shell open. Falken gestured with his hands, pretending to pick something up and drop it. He chuckled. I never really considered what it would be like to be the clam. Now I know.

Murrisen smiled. I guess it gives you a different perspective on stuff, doesn’t it?

That it does, Greban agreed. Ready? He touched a button on the pod’s control panel, and the gel began to drain out. Greban and Falken each took hold of one of Murrisen’s arms, steadying him as he stepped out of the pod.

I’m all right, Murrisen protested.

Just making sure, Falken said.

Remember, we just did our best to convince your body that it died a traumatic death, Greban said. Your nervous system is still a little shocked.

"It feels really weird to … die … like that, Murrisen said. Are you used to it by now?"

Falken shrugged. Somewhat. But no matter how many times I go down there, or try to tell myself it’s not really me being hunted, it never really stops being scary. There’s something primal about those dragons that cuts through logic and reason – you see one, and suddenly all of your ancient fight-or-flight instincts go into overdrive no matter what.

Well, scary as it was … it was freaking awesome, too, Murrisen grinned. I’m going to start bugging my Dad about coming back for another safari as soon as we get home.

Greban laughed. Sounds good. Maybe for your twenty-first birthday this time.

I don’t want to wait that long! Murrisen protested.

I’ll be sure to drop him a hint about our repeat guest discount at dinner, Falken said.

Speaking of dinner … Greban said. Murrisen, I’ll walk with you to your cabin, and then I have to get to the galley to do a little bit more prep for tonight’s meal.

What’s for dinner? Murrisen asked.

Surf and turf, Greban said, guiding him toward the room’s hatch. Ever had lobster raised in zero-g?

I got this, Falken said, gesturing to the pods around the room.

Greban nodded, then escorted Murrisen out of the pod room – they crossed the ship’s main corridor, and a hatch slid open, revealing a sprawling stateroom beyond, with plush carpeting, and a pair of white linen beds. Greban bid Murrisen goodbye, and then the hatch to the pod room closed, cutting off Falken’s view of them.

Falken worked his way around the room, checking each pod in turn, resetting it in preparation for the following day’s tour. He cleaned each headset carefully, setting them on their hooks, hosed out the inside of each unit, and ran a quick diagnostics check. Pod seven reported a loose screw in one of its lid hinges – Falken tightened it carefully, and then re-ran the diagnostics check to be sure.

Finally, he hosed down the floor, washing the remnants of the pod gel down through the floor grate, where it could be recycled again for future use. He took a final look around the room, then, satisfied, headed toward the hatch.

Lights off, music off, he ordered.

The ship’s computer chirped at him in response, and then the hatch opened for him. Falken made his way to his cabin, back by the ship’s power core and engine bank. His room was small – a bunk built into the ship’s outer hull, a narrow couch facing a vidscreen, a wardrobe for clothes, and a small desk and chair. Compared to the guests’ staterooms, it seemed cramped and utilitarian. But Falken smiled.

Home sweet home.

He crossed the room and went straight to his bathroom, where he stepped into the shower. Falken stripped off the bodysuit in the shower, rinsing it and wringing it out briefly before slipping it onto a hanger to dry. Then he toweled off, and changed into a pair of slacks and a button down shirt, with a dragon logo stenciled over the word Ecolympus on the pocket.

As he walked down the corridor, Falken heard the murmur of voices coming from the ship’s lounge. But he stepped through a side hatch, ducking into the galley instead. Greban stood over a large gas burner range, searing half a dozen steaks in cast iron frying pans.

How we looking? Falken asked.

Running low on fresh thyme again, Greban grumbled, dropping butter into several of the pans, then swirling the steaks in the sizzling fat. Remind me to add that to the list for our next resupply. Oh, and I just plated the apps – can you take them out?

On it, Falken said, spying the salad plates on the sideboard.

I’ll join you in five, Greban said. Keep them entertained with some dragon stories.

They all end the same, Falken said, balancing several plates on his arm.

Yeah, well – nobody cares, so long as it’s the ‘dragon whisperer’ telling the story.

Falken rolled his eyes at the nickname, and then backed through the hatch to the lounge, where he found their six guests sharing drinks around a wide, stone table, carved to resemble the rock formations on the planet’s surface. The guests looked up when he appeared.

Falken! I thought you might still be down on the surface, giving the dragons a run for their money.

Naw, Falken said. They’ve had enough exercise for today. Now, who’s hungry? Falken peered at the plates, frowning in mock concentration. Greban tells me this is a bacon and Roquefort salad over endives … and I have no idea what that is, but it looks good.

* * *

I am stuffed, Murrisen’s father observed, wiping chocolate soufflé from the edge of his mouth with a napkin. As stuffed as those dragons were, I imagine.

His son rolled his eyes at the joke. The middle-aged woman next to Falken stirred her cup of coffee, then set the spoon down on the table. How long have you been here on Olympus? she asked Falken.

Falken frowned. I did eighteen months at the research center, then I worked for another tour outfit for nearly three years, before Greban asked me to help him start Ecolympus. Two years ago?

Greban nodded. We launched two years ago next month.

What’s that? Six years? Falken shrugged. Something like that.

And what did you do before coming to Olympus? she asked.

Falken and Greban shared a brief look. Uh, well – I got my degree in xenobiology, and served on a handful of planetary exploration vessels as an ecologist. Before that I was a professional fighter, actually. Back when it was still a sanctioned sport.

Ever try fighting a dragon? Murrisen asked.

Falken shook his head. Not for very long.

Well, you’ve certainly found your niche now, the woman said. Mr. Greban was very smart to poach you. This trip far exceeded my expectations thanks to your expertise and skill.

Several of the other guests nodded.

Thank you, ma’am, Falken said, blushing. He nodded toward Greban. We make a good team.

You certainly do.

Well, with that … Greban smiled and rose from the table, then gestured to the large, curved vidscreen at the front of the room. I think it’s time for the formal ceremony. First off, Falken and I would like to thank all of you for joining us here at Ecolympus. We love our jobs, and hopefully that’s evident in what you’ve all experienced over the last few days.

Hear, hear! Murrisen’s father said, slapping the table with his palm.

Thank you. Please consider joining us again, or telling your friends about our tours, Greban said. Now, we like to end every tour by watching a little highlight reel of your trip – you’ll all be receiving a copy of this video before you leave. But we also like to have a little fun by giving out ‘Tour Awards.’ Think of them like high school yearbook categories, except applied to this trip. Everyone gets an award, and the prize is … Greban crossed the room and took a small, wooden box off of a shelf under the vidscreen, … this.

Greban held the lacquered box up to show a small engraved plaque on top, and then opened the lid to reveal a black satin interior, on which sat a jagged-edged dragon tooth. The tooth was bone-white, polished to a high shine, and nearly four inches long. A hush fell over the guests.

It’s real? Murrisen asked.

The genuine article, Greban confirmed. The dragons grow new sets every few years, and the Conservation Department gave us a harvesting exemption to pick up the old, discarded ones. You won’t get into any trouble with Customs on your way out, don’t worry. Greban handed the box to Falken, who stood up and cleared his throat.

The first award is our most prestigious. We call it ‘The Last Man Standing,’ given to that guest who consistently manages to outlive the rest.

That would be you, Falken, the older woman said.

Fal-ken! Fal-ken! another guest chanted.

No, I’m not eligible, Falken said, waving them away. I’ve had too much practice. But this trip, I think the choice is clear. I nominate Murrisen.

Seconded! the boy’s father said, beaming and clapping his son across the back. Murrisen blushed.

Murr-i-sen! Murr-i-sen! the first guest chanted, and the others joined him.

Falken handed the young man the box. Murrisen shook his hand. Thanks.

Well deserved, Greban