War's Edge- Dead Heroes

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-09-830731-8 - Ebook

  Cover Illustration Copyright © 2019 Ryan Aslesen

  Cover design by Marc Lee www.marcwashere.com

  Cover layout by Shawn T. King www.stkkreations.com

  Editing by Tyler Mathis and Leigh Hogan

  © 2020 Ryan Aslesen. All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  www.ryanaslesen.com

  The galaxy is a dark and violent place.

  In the 35th Century, mankind has colonized vast reaches of space; yet war remains ever constant as galactic governments and interstellar corporations fight for control of resource rich planets and lucrative interstellar trade routes. And centuries of war has taught man one thing: planets are valuable and lives are cheap.

  Mark Rizer escapes his current life by dropping out of a prestigious university and enlisting in the elite Marines of the United Systems Alliance defense forces. A decision that will take him across the galaxy, first to endure a sadistic boot camp designed to transform him into a ruthless killing machine, and then to join the ranks of the hardened Marines of Murder Company.

  Deployed to Verdant, a remote jungle moon at the edge of Alliance space, Mark finds himself fighting against a ghostly enemy, in an unending conflict where victories are measured in body counts and death is the only ticket home. The daily grind of combat patrols transforms good men into cold-blooded killers and weak ones into bitter memories. At the bleeding edge of space, Mark learns the true cost of war, fighting for his life, his platoon mates, and his humanity.

  In the 35th Century, war has evolved.

  Man hasn’t.

  For the Corps, and all those who have served and sacrificed.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book is the culmination of hundreds of hours of work; however, I couldn’t have done it alone. I am grateful for a number of people who supported me and assisted me in this project. This book would truly not be possible if it wasn’t for their collective efforts.

  First, I would like to thank my developmental editor, Tyler Mathis, a fellow Marine and brother-in-arms, for all his help and collaboration in producing this story. My stories wouldn’t be what they are without your invaluable input and guidance. I consider you both a colleague and a friend.

  I would also like to show my gratitude to Leigh Hogan in editing my manuscript. You help my writing be the best it can be, and frankly it needs a lot of help at times. You were especially flexible with this project, and your time and effort is greatly appreciated. Any mistakes or shortcomings that remain in this book are mine and mine alone.

  A special thanks to Marc Lee for the amazing cover art. I also wish to thank Shawn King with STK Kreations for the final cover layout.

  A heartfelt thanks also goes out to my readers. I appreciate you purchasing my books and taking the time to experience my stories. And a very special thanks to all of you who have extended kind words of positive support or left reviews and recommendations. It truly means a lot to me and my family. I continue to enjoy this amazing journey, and I’ll keep writing these books as long as you keep buying them or pay me to stop.

  Last, and most importantly, I want to thank my family for all their continued love and support.

  “War is a racket. It always has been.” ~ Smedley Butler

  “They died hard, those savage men—like wounded wolves at bay. They were filthy, and they were lousy, and they stunk. And I loved them.” ~ Douglas MacArthur

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  About the Author

  Crucible Series

  CHAPTER 1

  What the hell did I get myself into?

  Mark Rizer fidgeted in his seat on the hover bus and wondered when the trip would end. Do I really want it to end? This bus made only one stop—hell, or so he’d heard. Eight days on Forge and he still wasn’t sure what his immediate future held. Rumors about the training abounded, mostly espoused by his fellow recruits vying to earn the title of United Systems Alliance Marine; in other words, the people least qualified to know.

  “Move the fuck over,” growled someone in the seat behind him.

  Good luck with that. Eighty-six men and women were packed into the hover bus—asshole-to-elbow in Corps slang—each with a green cruise bag full of gear, uniforms, and toiletries between their legs. The stench of sweat and sour morning breath permeated the humid, stagnant air.

  Rizer figured they’d been traveling for about an hour, though he couldn’t say for sure; recruits had surrendered all their electronic devices—visors, handhelds, wristbands—as well as most bionic enhancements upon arrival on Forge. The windows were electronically dimmed to total blackness, obscuring the passage of time and exacerbating the recruits’ sense of foreboding as they rode toward an unknown and ominous destiny.

  “I bet you’ll be the first to drop out, you fat piece of shit.” Abek. Only one of several crude wisecrackers Rizer had met in Platoon 2084.

  “Fuck you, beach boy,” muttered Bazz, Abek’ target.

  “Ooh, don’t hate me ’cause I’m from paradise,” Abek responded. He hailed from Solaris, a tropical world dotted with the some of the most exclusive luxury beach resorts in the galaxy. In Receiving he had bragged about all the vacationing hotties he’d banged. “We’ll see who gets action after lights out.”

  “Only action you’ll get is from bitch eyes over there,” Vanhoven said, nodding toward Deezeman, a male recruit with a boyish face. The insult sounded endearing. For some reason Rizer’s fellow recruits gravitated to Vanhoven, with his prematurely gray hair.

  “Eat shit, old man.”

  “And fuck off while you’re at it,” said Deezeman with a laugh.

  “No, fuck you, bitch eyes,” Vanhoven said.

  “Your mom likes ’em.”

  “Yeah, so does my dad. Like two blue cornholes, he told me.”

  “I’m’a skull fuck you next, Deezeman, if you don’t shut up.” Rizer recognized the ignorant yet resonant voice of Melchor, a coal-black recruit from the outer rim. “And I ain’t jokin’.”

  Rizer took him at his word. Melchor claimed he had signed on in lieu of a long prison sentence for assault. Though Rizer thought h
e was lying about the exact crime, since the details often changed, the man had undoubtedly served some time. Most of the platoon steered clear of him.

  Melchor’s comment sucked the snide bonhomie from the stale air. Even Abek—a peerless street fighter to hear him tell it—shut up for a minute or so before resuming insults in a more subdued voice.

  “So where you from, Rizer?” asked Sylvis, the guy crammed in next to him.

  “Arcadia.”

  Sylvis waved a hand dismissively. “Bunch of rich, spoiled pussies there, I hear.” He grinned beneath blue eyes that glowed bluer in the light strips. All of them sported shaved heads, but Sylvis’ bared scalp made him more resemble a convict than the others.

  “Not that you would know, right?” Where the hell have you ever traveled?

  “You really think you can make it here?” He snorted a laugh.

  And this was why Rizer had kept his dealings with the other recruits brief and curt. Say hello to your new friends! Rizer’s mother crowed in her mocking, I-told-you-so tone. A bunch of crass, ill-bred, uneducated morons. Not her exact words upon hearing of his enlistment but pretty damn close.

  He knew he had lived a somewhat sheltered and privileged life, but he was starting to see what kinds of people the rest of galaxy had to offer. For him, the Corps had been the opportunity he wanted to plot his own course in life. For others, it appeared to be the only option, as most of the recruits appeared to be from poor, overpopulated planets or low-technology outer worlds.

  “Worry about yourself.” Rizer turned to stare into the black window.

  “Yeah, right! I’ve been preparing for this my whole life. I’m gonna make honor recruit, get promoted right out of the gate. The big thing is not to think about quitting. The drill instructors are definitely gonna try and fuck with our minds.”

  Rizer had heard the same advice about seven times already. He turned and smiled at the know-it-all. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll try to keep it in mind.”

  “I’ll try to keep it in mind.” The mimicry made Sylvis sound almost intelligent. “You’re so fuckin’ done, Rizer. This ain’t the university—you might as well pack it in now.”

  “Whatever you say… honor recruit.”

  “Damn fuckin’ straight. I’m gonna blow this shit away! This place ain’t never seen the likes of me.”

  “Motivator!” Vanhoven quipped.

  “Shuuut up, Sylvis,” said Stubneski, the big recruit sitting across the aisle. Another sardonic type, he spoke more quietly than the others. A slight but unidentified accent—grating, with a nasal quality—leant a subtle menace to his guttural voice. “Only shit you ever blew away was on your boyfriend’s cock.”

  “Yeah, okay, Stubs. We’ll see how far all that jail muscle gets you.”

  An agonized grunt came from Maddox, the recruit seated at the window beside Stubneski. “Shut up for fuck’s sake!” He had his hands clamped over his ears, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

  While most of the recruits had spent at least a week processing on Forge—undergoing medical screening, beginning physical training, taking classes, studying briefs, learning basic drill maneuvers, and acclimating to the 1.07 gravity—Maddox had been a late addition to the platoon, arriving only three days before. His head still ached from receiving his interface chip, implanted in the back of every recruit’s skull at the base of the brain. He seemed like a decent guy, and Rizer felt sorry for him as he remembered the two days of pain following his own chip implant. That’s no way to start bootcamp.

  “Shut up back there!” came the metered command of the bot driving the bus. Maddox had raised his voice above the low, conversational tone permitted during the journey.

  “Yeth, thir!” Vanhoven whispered, eliciting a few chuckles. Few of the recruits had much respect for the Receiving instructors, both bot and human, who had taught them the basics, utilizing the threat of extra duties to enforce discipline as opposed to the violent techniques allegedly permitted during actual bootcamp. Most of the humans weren’t even Marines but civilians employed by the Defense Administration wing of the United Systems Alliance. Rizer got the feeling they were lackadaisical on purpose, like it was an inside joke among them.

  The recruits bowed forward in a gentle wave as the hover bus slowed to half speed. Rizer breathed a little quicker, nervous bile rising in his stomach.

  “Yeah, here we go!” shouted an elated Belzer, another recruit sarcastically dubbed a motivator, a rough young woman from the planet Lynria who somehow remained striking even with her blond locks shaved off. “You boys ready to get beat?”

  “I’ll visit your rack later; you can beat me then!” Abek said as the bus slowed to a crawl.

  “In your dreams, asshole.”

  “Quiet!” the driver bot shouted. He didn’t need to turn in his seat; the multi-faceted, built-in eye visor ringing his head provided a 360-degree field of vision. Like most bots of military design, he had a bipedal humanoid exoskeleton and a metallic face lacking a mouth or nose, incapable of expression.

  The bus stopped. The driver bot rose from his seat. “You will remain seated!” The door opened just long enough for him to step off. His duties were done, Rizer knew. Their new drill instructors would soon take charge of their discipline. The thought caused him further apprehension, which he welcomed to some extent. He had waited for this moment, and the fact it no longer loomed threateningly like a storm on the horizon, gave him a degree of relief.

  Seconds later another bot, much larger than any Rizer had seen at Receiving, climbed the steps to stand in the bus. Unlike the Receiving bots, this one wore a round greenish-brown hat with a flat brim known as a campaign cover, which identified it as a drill instructor, DI for short. Though monstrous and bulky, with an exoskeleton of nanosteel, it moved with the fluid grace of a predatory animal.

  Ward, one of the recruits sitting up front, rose and picked up his cruise bag.

  “Did I order you to stand up?” the DI bot roared, its synthesized voice carrying a steel edge. He grabbed Ward’s face and shoved him back into his seat.

  “No, sir!” Ward replied meekly.

  “Keep talking like a bitch, too! Now listen up, scumbags! At my order to fall out, you will exit this bus with your gear and stand at attention on the yellow footprints on the deck. You will not speak unless spoken to. When receiving an order, you will sound off with a loud and motivated, ‘Aye aye, sir!’ and immediately carry out said order. Is that understood?”

  The recruits responded, “Yes, sir!” some with greater intensity than others.

  “What the fuck was that?” the DI thundered, cupping a hand around his ear port.

  “Yes, sir!” the recruits shouted.

  “Get off my bus now! Move!”

  “Aye aye, sir!” Recruits leapt to their feet, crashing into one another as they shrugged into the straps on their cruise bags and filed into the aisle like cattle in a slaughterhouse chute. Rizer’s gut rumbled, unsure of whether it should shit or vomit.

  Norg, the short recruit walking in front of Rizer, puked when he reached the front of the bus, a few drops splattering the DI’s polished olive-drab feet.

  “Are you nervous, son?” the DI asked maliciously.

  “Y-ya-yes—”

  “Let me help you get the fuck off my bus!” The DI grabbed Norg by the shoulder straps on his cruise bag and flung him out the door. Norg landed atop his bag and floundered like a turtle flipped on its back; then he puked again, this time all over the front of his sensor-scattering camouflage jumpsuit.

  Shocked, Rizer didn’t realize he’d stopped to gawk at Norg flailing his arms while attempting to roll over. “Hurry the fuck up!” the DI roared into Rizer’s face, snapping him out of it. The bot jerked Rizer toward the door, causing him to skid down the steps.

  Rizer exited into semi-darkness beneath bright fluorescent streetlamps. “Get up!” he hissed at Norg, offering him a hand. Puke dribbled from the kid’s lips as he stood,
tears in his eyes. Rizer left him and quickly took a position in the front rank of yellow footprints next to the towering, monolithic figure of Recruit Stubneski. Deezeman fell in on Rizer’s left side.

  Though their eyes should have been locked forward at the position of attention, no drill instructors stood before the platoon to enforce the rule. Eyes wandered, Rizer’s included. For a hundred meters to the left a chain of hover buses unloaded other platoons of recruits.

  To the right, beneath a light pole, stood three humans and two bots, all in campaign covers. The humans wore camo jumpsuits similar to the recruits’, though theirs were well tailored and form fitting, somewhat faded as opposed to new. They wore rank insignia on each arm, with ribbons for valor and campaigns sewn on the left breast below the Alliance Marine Corps emblem.

  A female staff sergeant wearing the gleaming black duty belt of a senior drill instructor jabbed an elbow into another DI, a relatively short sergeant with the bulked mass of a rhinoceros. She nodded toward the platoon, and they both enjoyed a short laugh. They reminded Rizer of wolves scrutinizing their prey, seeking out the weakest of the herd. A third man, tall with a dark complexion, wore the chevrons and rockers of a gunnery sergeant. He paid the platoon no attention as he tapped on a tablet with a stylus. The bot DIs, wearing no rank insignia, stood a short distance away at parade rest.

  Through looking around, Rizer kept his eyes front as he sought a peaceful void in his mind—something, anything to quiet his anxiety and blunt the numbness in his limbs induced by the damp, chilly wind. Forge was cold and rainy most of the time. Rizer guessed it might be ten degrees Celsius right now, and with the wind it felt like half that. As if on cue, the first drops of a light drizzle ticked against their uniforms and covers. Though water resistant, the jumpsuits would soak through if they stood there long enough.

  The gunnery sergeant marched sharply into Rizer’s field of vision, stopped, then executed a left face and stared down the platoon impassively. The other four DIs fell in behind him: the rankless bots at either end, staff sergeant and sergeant between them. They stood rigid, mouths set in firm lines, eyes betraying no emotion of any kind.