The Mongrel: A Military Sci-Fi Series (Hunter's Moon Book 1)

by Walt Robillard

  THE MONGREL

  ©2021 WALT ROBILLARD

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  ALSO IN THE HUNTER’S MOON SERIES

  THE MONGREL

  THE REVENANT

  THE SENTINEL

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Thank you for reading The Mongrel

  ALSO IN THE HUNTER’S MOON SERIES

  More In Sci-Fi

  In a galaxy of brutality and blasters...

  Balance the scales under a Hunter's Moon.

  Prologue

  THE PLANET KOBAN SUL: SOME TIME AGO

  Breathe. Concentrate. Push! The giant, obese alien rolled onto the ground like a wet bag of laundry.

  It was a large thing, pasty and white. Its ashy appearance signaled to anyone in the know that it was most likely sick. The Xoban had evolved from an intelligent form of insect. They were often larger than man-sized, with a thin carapace-like skin. They had four arms that gave their torsos an elongated appearance. Slender heads exhibited a set of eyes placed where most mammalian species had them, except they extended almost to the center of the skull on each side. Closer inspection saw that these eye-strips were actually made up of hundreds of sensor clusters, giving the Xoban tremendous vision and extra-visual perception.

  Except this one was dead. Promised the cure for his sickness in return for fighting some half-Vosi kid, the alien jumped at the chance. The Xoban were natural predators, and by all accounts, the kid was no more than fifteen cycles old. While the Vosi were extremely long-lived, this pup was half human, meaning that he was most likely in his adolescence. Easy pickings for a member of a warrior race.

  No one had told the Xoban that he had to face Lasher, a winner of scores of gladiatorial contest in four systems. Although still young, this pup had found his howl and his teeth, leading to the death of hundreds across the breadth of his winnings. He had grown into a fine possession for the masters that ran the death sport he called home.

  Lasher regarded his latest win. The eyes of his victim, normally a brilliant blue or green, were grey in death. Its mouth, which looked like any other mouth, had the interesting trick of folding outward at the lower jaw, exposing mandibles that could hold on to their prey. An evolutionary mainstay of the species. They were half extended, probably a reflex in death.

  As he glared up at the sky, he took in the sights of the massive arena. Normally after a win, there would be a holographic monument flying high in the sky. Lasher's face would be emblazoned amid the clouds for the crowds to cheer or jeer. Patrons would look to the triumphant ghost to cheer their winnings or hiss at their losses.

  To Lasher, it was a happy moment to see the clouds were empty. This sometimes happened if a piece of equipment failed or an operator got drunk. It was rare, but not out of the ordinary. To him, it was a small win to deny the masters this little bit of their victory, a reminder they were less than the perfect beings they claimed. The lack of the image directed Lasher to take closer note to the sound of the crowd.

  Gone were the normal reaction sounds following a match. There was still screaming, but the exultation that normally filled the sound was replaced with something else. Fear. The screams of the escaping patrons made a peculiar sound against the structure of the stadium.

  The arena on Koban Sul was a massive structure. The floor had trap doors and staging that could raise and lower obstacles, walls, and traps. This was often done to lengthen the time of a match to keep the crowd entertained. The longer the patrons sat, the more they bought in terms of food, drink, and memorabilia. The masters learned long ago that the true worth of a fighting slave was in the merchandise.

  The clouds broke, spitting forth gunships like angry hornets out of a hive. The craft were sleek, armored carriers that had angled wings that cut downward at forty-five degrees from the fuselage. Panel doors on either side swung backward to display troops waiting on the inside. A blaster machine gun on a gyroscopic mount swung outward to protect the ship during descent.

  Ventral-mounted coaxial guns opened up a swarm of blaster fire into the stadium. The door gunners followed suit, digging into the stadium seats like a Besterix ripping up a log for grubs. Gunners targeted arena security and patrons alike, shooting anything that paid the carriers more than a glance.

  Three ships landed while the fourth swung wide, making a turn to land toward where Lasher stood. He couldn't help but wonder, was this part of the show? Was this a big crowd pleaser to awe the patrons and give them a spectacle to keep them from growing bored? Lasher watched the other ships disgorge their complement of troops, unsure of what to do. Cartel fighters were shooting from all over the arena at the newcomers. Combat cyborgs, illegal in civilized territories, came from beneath the pits to engage the new soldiers.

  The fourth ship hovered as an armored warrior dropped the last ten meters to the ground. It was clearly a woman. She was sleek and tall, with a face mask protecting her head and an array of braided hair coming from the back of her helmet. The mask resembled the face of a lion. She dropped into a roll, coming to her feet while her cloak billowed behind her. The snap whoosh of a plasma sword ignited in front of her.

  Lasher stood his ground with a sword in his hand. He adjusted
his stance and prepared to use his shorter stature against her. He was also faster and more mobile, being without armor. And then he felt it.

  The pull of an outside force. First a light caress at the back of his thoughts. The caress became a tug, and then an undertow of power that threatened to overwhelm his senses. The masters had seen how he reacted to those who had the Second Sight. They had given him training. He was ready for an opponent like this. And then the pull ceased.

  He could feel the benevolence. He could feel the warmth. This wasn't an enemy. He reached out into the Second Sight to see who she was. She didn't stop him. He saw that she was here to protect. She was here to liberate. And for a brief second, she was here to die.

  Lasher threw his sword. It flew within inches of her head. She dodged the blade, catching a glimpse of something in the Second Sight. A massive shape was just behind her left shoulder. As the sword struck what would have been the thing's face, it sent out a small flash of sparks packaged with the sound of metal striking metal.

  They both could see it in the Sight. A small spark of life wrapped in cold dead metal and synthetics. In the physical world, it was a see-through silhouette, barely able to be made out in the sun and dust of the arena. It let its ghost-tech drop, revealing a massive chassis, towering over them both. It had augmented armor and a sealed helmet that made it look like a demon. A combat cyborg. A partial human integrated into a death-dealing machine body.

  It activated an energy shield on its left arm and pulled a Plasmaxe from behind it. The pop and flash of the blade igniting was a precursor to the swing leveled at Lasher's head. The cyborg was denied the head of his quarry by this little brat. He would take the pup's head instead.

  A snap-flash and the grating hum of a plasma blade roared across Lasher's vision. The woman had stepped into the path of the weapon, deflecting it. Knocking the axe blade out of the way, she had saved the boy's skull in the process. The cyborg spun on its heel, soaking the momentum given him by his opponent. He executed a backhanded swing with the energy shield, intent on battering the swordswoman.

  The shield smacked into her armor with a crackling zap. The energy field had taken the force of the blow and directed it outward, knocking the swordswoman from her feet. She rolled away, losing her own weapon in the process.

  The cyborg continued to turn, facing the boy again. “Bosses say you are worth your weight in gold. But if you're more trouble than your worth, I have the green light to smoke you.”

  Blaster fire made twanging noises as it struck and ricocheted off of the cyborg's armor. The troopers that had ridden with the swordswoman had landed and disembarked from the ship. A man with a light machine-blaster was raining directed fire down on the mechanized foe while two others were flanking in an attempt to take it from multiple angles.

  Several valves popped open on the back of the cyborg's armor. Multiple canisters shot to the ground before spewing concealing smoke. The monster moved backwards into the haze, disappearing from sight.

  Lasher heard the screams and desperate cries of the men, as they fought the cyborg through the smoke. It was picking them off one at a time. He didn't understand their language but could guess their meaning. They were in trouble. The masters would see them all dead for interrupting the games. Their pet 'borgs would see to it.

  He reached out into the Second Sight. He could see the swordswoman looking to regain her feet. The troopers continued to fight the monster though the fog. He concentrated, forcing his perceptions deeper. The chaos of the cloud fell away, revealing the tiny spark that marked the nightmare they all faced. It was cloaked again, using its invisibility to strike from the smoke then fade away. It had put away the Plasmaxe in favor of the shield and pistol.

  Lasher burst forward, the power of the Second Sight like a storm in his eyes. He focused, trying to make the power look and sound like the swordswoman had when she appeared. He wanted to do what she could do. He wanted his power to stand for something. He didn't choose this life. He didn't choose all of the killing. He didn't want it either. He wanted the power she had projected. He wanted hope.

  The monster's invisibility fell away in the Second Sight. Lasher lunged through the smoke with the swordswoman's plasma sword ignited in his hand. He jumped to reach his adversary, landing on the monster's back. He drove the blade into the armored plates, a sound like a roar of consuming flame combined with screeching metal marked the brand tearing through the other side of its torso. Its ghost-tech failed, revealing the thing arching its back, trying to reach for the embedded weapon. An electronically amplified yell accompanied its frustration as it pawed for the handle.

  Lasher ran into the smoke, circling around his opponent.

  The cyborg fired blindly into the smoke, trying to take out the young mongrel. “You're going to pay for that, you little mag-rat! You know what this is going to cost to fix?”

  His auditory sensors picked up a phrase. “Up you go.” It was the kid. Was he talking to the swordswoman? The troopers had pushed back and formed a perimeter, away from the fight. What were they waiting for, he wondered.

  The smoke whirled into an oily black tornado. It whisked away, venting high above the arena. The cyborg turned his gaze back to the ground to see the boy, standing a scant few meters in front of him.

  The armored fiend thought it would be all too easy to end this half breed. The little runt was always resisting and argumentative. He caused trouble for his handlers. His bosses would reward him to get rid of the troublesome little pup. So caught up was he with the thought of reward that he suddenly realized he couldn't see the swordswoman.

  Perimeter sensors blared inside his helmet. The plasma blade reignited, searing metal to slag and coughing brackish smoke into the air. The air exploded as the blade went from inert to volcanic. It was withdrawn from his chest, coming to rest in a high guard behind the swordswoman.

  Air crackled and spit as his energy shield came to life. He reached behind to pull the Plasmaxe from the magna-lock on his back, only to find it empty. The cyber-grunt turned in time to see his weapon, in the hand of the mongrel, coming down to sever his shield arm at the shoulder.

  The cyber-soldier kicked back, breaking ribs and sending the boy flying. To his credit, he held the axe through the tumble to a skidding stop. The 'borg pulled the pistol again to finish the little mag-rat once and for all.

  The swordswoman flew from behind him, severing his head from his body.

  PLANET TYTHIAN: NOW

  The sound of repulsor engines whining in protest filled the room. They complained little, which hinted at the engines being new, or at least newer. Landing lights played their way around the cell before resting on a broken doll in one corner of the room.

  The thing must have either been a high-functioning robot or full model android at one point. It had very human-like features set into a bald head, and skin stretched over its slender frame. The doll's legs had long since been missing, with a host of wires and tubes dangling where its abdomen should be. Most of its chassis lay exposed through rotting flesh that was tearing away. Lights came on within what would have been its eyes.

  He couldn't see them come on but could hear the high-pitched ping, barely audible in the room. He’d been semi-conscious when they brought him in, but he remembered it in the corner. He figured the lancers who had taken the fort had not bothered to upgrade the building and were using the broken old bot to spy on the prisoners. Something that once cost untold amount of credits was now just in a corner being used as a cheap camera.

  His mind drifted back to the repulsors. Their sound always reminded him of that time in the arena, all those years ago. He studied the noise, trading nostalgia for insight, given his current situation. A single VIP must be coming in to decide his fate. Anything more than another high-ranking marshal and there would have been more engines at once. He decided this one must be dangerous to have flown in without escort.

  As consciousness returned fully, he took survey of his situation. There was some so
rt of hood over his head, obstructing his eyes and covering down to his nose. He could feel plastic bands woven into the tight fitting cap. His headache and the slight ringing in his ears led him to believe he was wearing an NDP. He wouldn't be able to focus enough to use his abilities to escape. He was resting on his knees with his forehead lying on some sort of pillow or cushion. He felt the restraint around his neck, chaining him to the floor to keep him from rising up. His arms were restrained behind him, probably omni-cuffed, with a metal bar keeping his arms back. His feet were also bound, forcing him to remain exactly where they put him.

  The most annoying thing was the bit in his mouth. He hated drooling. His teacher used to tease him about it when he was a child. He would drool in his sleep. She would tease him about it but offer him a silk handkerchief, a prized gift from her mother. How he loved his teacher and wished she was here to help him now.

  Almost at once, the room went eerily silent. The ship had ceased its landing cycle and was already powering down. The whine from the cheap robot camera had stopped. The wind had died down. For a few breaths, he felt alone with only the ringing in his ears to keep him company. It was then that he noticed the damp smell that seemed to be in every prison he had visited. The smell of earth, dried urine, and mold. The wind whipping through the window had done much to clear things out, but when it died down, the smell hit him hard. He turned his head toward the door and was assailed by the smell of synth-flesh rotting on the bot's frame. He prayed that he could hold his stomach from retching to keep from choking on vomit over the bit in his mouth.