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

by Walt Robillard

  Those assembled in the room, as well as the two troopers linked into the holo-screen, all turned to the door to see the disproving stare of Marshal Brand.“Is he dead?”

  “No. He is suffering a bout of stupidity-induced unconsciousness.”

  “Well, that's something.” Brand offered. “I would have thought you were coming back for your weapons, but you came back for the bot?”

  “Some things are worth the risk.”

  The rebreather's speakers did nothing to trim the condescension from Brand's voice. “Is that so? What is worth the risk in this case?”

  Lasher reached into the Crucible. The Way flooded his muscles, clearing away pain, anxiety, and fear. A subdued sound of rushing water filled the room. Small particles of dirt began to rise around his feet. The kidney pan projectile began to rattle on the floor. Lasher looked into the eyes of his adversary. “Honor.”

  A vague sense of consciousness fell over the bot. She had several of these since the explosion. She had assured the mongrel and the criminal that she could withstand the blast. She hadn't expected having this much trouble in restarting her core systems.

  Proximity sensors came back online. She was upright again. The height and angle of her body suggested that she was being carried by someone big. Her sensors had come online briefly when the creepy meat-bag was tinkering with her cerebral case. He was trying to shut down crucial defense systems so he could probe her. During the time the Tom had begun to plug her full of wires, she had almost given up hope. She almost triggered the self-destruct. One word made her stop. “Honor.”

  Her visual sensors came back online in time to see the mongrel slam into a large human. He was face to face with the man with his elbow swinging into the protective cover the human had over his mouth. She saw the cover crack and a hiss of gas flow from it. The force of the blow turned the man's head and knocked him back a few steps.

  Behind him was a squad of armored soldiers. They appeared as the ones from before. They must have found a way to get their armor back online. Pity. They would have been easier to dispose of if they lacked it. She knew of the lancers and their augmented armors. In the old days, she would have done away with them easily. That was before the betrayal. Tythian was ever a place built on it.

  The mongrel spun behind the man and grabbed him from behind. Gripping him around the waist, he went hip to hip with the armored human then dropped his waist while spreading his feet to lift. The marshal was launched in the air and over the body of the apprentice. He came crashing down on his head, neck, and shoulders into the opposite wall.

  As the marshal crumbled to his knees, her sensors detected the men releasing the safeties from their weapons. The way their heads were moving, she could tell they were yelling something. Her auditory sensors had been failing on and off since the burst. It was most likely some flavor of “Get down” or “On your knees.” Soldier types were so boring.

  Marshal Brand got to his knees just in time to see one of Lasher's arms traveling at a high rate of speed toward his face. He rolled across his hands and back to the opposing wall, into a sitting position. Raspy, labored breaths came from the mask in electronic wheezes.

  The mask had been damaged from an elbow strike. The apprentice definitely had an advantage in the combat arts department. Brand knew he was a former gladiatorial slave as well as Ferrand's apprentice. He never expected this level of ferocity. He struggled to take a breath through the damaged mask, hoping to survive long enough to see the man back in chains.

  Summoning the Way, Marshal Brand pushed with an ethereal force, blowing dust up from the floor and knocking Lasher back into the infirmary. He flew into the closest table, crushing it against the wall. If the mongrel felt pain, he never showed it.

  The marshal ducked a flurry of scalpels flying from a table to shatter against the wall where his head had been. Pushing against the floor, he scurried backward, out of line from the door. It had been a while since he had faced a Way-adept opponent. Anything in the environment could become a weapon.

  Several pops could be heard from down the hall as canisters rebounded off of the wall and into the room. “Gag out!” came a voice from the same direction. The cans exploded into an ear-piercing scream before dumping choke-inducing gas into the room.

  Lasher looked back to see the people in the sickbay dizzily putting their helmets on. Doc had dumped some water onto a rag and was using it to cover Lieutenant Surran's face. LaGarron had pulled Tai back to the wall to a sitting position and was covering him with his own body. His rifle was up, but he wasn't aiming it. None here, sir. Lasher thought that these were men he would have liked to have served with. Noble men. Honorable men. Maybe in the next life.

  “Do you need to breathe?” Lasher asked.

  The bot over his shoulder spoke with its failing speaker tone. Filled with auditory pops and static, Lasher thought he could make out the words. “Do what you must.”

  Lasher thought, Like always. Taking a large inhale of the last of the room's clean air, a quick thought flashed through his mind. Why can't I just do what I like? Why not do what I think is fair? Why is it always do what I must?

  He threw one of the metal medical tables into the hallway. A wave of blaster fire shot through it, turning it to slag. He reached over for an oxygen bottle. It wasn't hooked to any breathing masks, hopefully indicating a full tank. Supply runs on Tythian were sparse. The only other bottle in the room was being jerry-rigged by Doc to allow the lieutenant to breathe.

  Lasher reached into his pack and pulled out an entrenching tool. He sat in the corner of the doorway, listening to some of the lancers in the hall shuffling into stacks to better cover the space.

  “Deputy Marshal Lashra, this is Lance Sergeant D'Marco.”

  Lasher dropped the bottle to the floor. He stepped on it, aiming it toward the slagged table.

  D'Marco continued through his helmet's amplifiers. “We know our brothers in the room are safe and able to breathe. We know things must be getting tough in there. If you let them go or come out unarmed, we can end this peacefully. Continue this aggression and we will put you down.”

  Lasher's face twisted into a dark grin. He was struggling to hold his breath. His skin was on fire from the irritants in the smoke. It would be worth it. He reached into the pack, producing a roll of Triple-5 tape and a grenade. While he was more at home with his own weapons, he loved lancer-tech.

  “Last warning, Deputy Marshal. We won't ask again!” D'Marco called out.

  Lasher hit the nozzle of the oxygen bottle with the shovel. The nozzle broke, shooting compressed air. Blasting off like a rocket, the canister smashed into the slagged table. It got caught in part of the twisted metal, careening it toward the lancers at the end of the hall.

  Marshal Brand had been dragged to the back of the group. Even in his concussed state, he sensed a shift in the Crucible. He reached into the Way and stopped the table from reaching his men.

  The grenade taped to the bottle exploded. The oxygen tank ripped open before embedding itself into a wall. A small fireball vented from the tear, filling the space. The metal table turned into fine shards of slag as it became a tornado of shrapnel. The lancers were thrown from their feet. A thunderous boom shook the hall, cracking several of the walls.

  The concussion and flame dragged a heap of the chemical smoke from the room. It was still uncomfortable to breathe but not so much that Lasher couldn't work his way into the hall. “Thank you for not shooting me, Corporal. May the stars light your way.” With a nod, Lasher dove into the hall.

  Nine

  Power flooded the cockpit of the Assault Shuttle. A slow staccato tone expressed itself through the startup process. As power keyed up the central control console, the plastic slab that had been given to Kel lit up as well. As a swath of numbers ran across the screen, power cut out once again.

  “Aw, come on. It was supposed to break in, not break it completely.” Kel whined.

  The power ran through again. Crucial systems cam
e online once again before an androgynous face appeared just ahead of Kel's. “Welcome to system initialization for the Storm Saber-131 Assault Transport. Please select language.”

  The system did this several times for various choices, which Kel personalized to his taste. If and when the commander got his shuttle back, he was going to be mad that someone changed his preferences.

  After a bit, something caught Kel's eye outside of the cockpit. Light flared from the cargo ramp at the back of the drop ship that sat across from the shuttle on the other landing pad. As the ramp lowered, two small coaxial turrets dropped from the interior, sweeping in an arc around the ship. A single lancer walked down the ramp, followed by four small hovering drones.

  “Oh, this can't be good. Ship?”

  A sultry woman's voice filled the cockpit. “Are you unsatisfied with your preferences? Did you still want to refer to me as Baby Doll?”

  “Yes, Doll. Of course. How long until we can raise the ramp?” Kel asked.

  “I can do it for you now, if you like.” The ship purred like a cat that was looking to nuzzle.

  “I like. Please do it now and do it quick.”

  “Of course, Kel.”

  The sound of servos and motors coming to life as the ramp raised were loud enough that Kel could hear it in the cockpit. He looked out the window to the lancer working a holo-interface while two of the drones went into the wadi. The remaining two started to head toward the ship.

  Kel frantically searched the control board for options. “Not good.”

  The drone operator looked up the ramp to greet two gigantic lancers. The troopers looked to be wearing powered armor that had them towering over the operator.

  “So not good.”

  “The ramp is closed, Kel. Is there anything else you'd like me to do?” The ship spoke in Trade-2, with an accent reminiscent of someone who grew up speaking Trade-1. The customization sequence had asked what he liked. This was what he liked. It reminded him of the high class assassins he met while in the CORAL. They posed as concubines to the bosses he met. He learned all too quickly that in the shady business of “family life,” appearances were just that.

  “I would absolutely love for you to prime all weapons and get ready to repel anyone who tries to gain entry.” Kel croaked.

  “Will do. Since we are repelling people, would it make sense to prime the engines as well? Quick take-offs can make counter-attacks difficult for the intruders.”

  Kel thought about it. The twenty minutes he was supposed to wait had not yet passed. They hadn't set up a way to communicate yet that wouldn't be picked up by the marshals. His mind began to race along all of the paths a quick take-off could take him.

  He knew he had to wait for Lasher as long as possible. Kel wouldn't leave the man who risked his neck to save him. The truly scary part was the thought that should he leave and Lasher survive, there would be a reckoning at some point. It seemed to Kel that vengeance was built into the man's DNA.

  Corporal Duschene walked down the ramp of the drop ship. He hated these flying mop buckets, which was what the drop-ships felt like to him. They were heavy, boxy combat soakers that dropped troops into semi-hostile territories. When things looked really rough, the Elysian Fleet sometimes donated a sleek drop-ship that looked as mean as it was tough. The APCs they rode in might be tough but they had no sense of style.

  Triggering the holographic master control system, he began to activate several of the medium-sized drones he brought with him for this mission. “All right. Two hounds into the wadi, on target. Sweep for enemy combatants and traps. Assist lancers on station.”

  Each drone resembled a sleek combat airship shrunk down to a meter long. It was vaguely trapezoidal in overall shape with a sensor ridge along its nose. Small blaster turrets folded out from the back section of the drone. Micro-missile ports could be seen in the mid-section of the machine.

  The first two sped off to target. Duschene looked to the other two that had come online, moving to him from the cargo bay. One of them barked a question in an electronic language.

  “Nah. Shouldn't be anything too dangerous,” The corporal responded. “Just go over to the other ship and make sure it's empty of bad guys. Besides, you're a bot. If anything happens, I can just download you into a new frame. All good.”

  “Can you do that to me if the mongrel eats my soul?”

  The corporal turned to see two large sets of power armor lumbering down the ramp toward him. Each step sounded with a barely audible movement of gears followed by a ka-thunk sound as the armor struck the deck plating. The armor put each man at just over three meters tall. Large turbines poked from the back of the suit, indicating that these monsters had flight packs. Battle-frames like this were rare in the Frontier. Not many colonies or company startups could afford such weaponry.

  The Athalon was able to field tech like this due to its support from Elysium and the many donations made by grateful governments. The marshals, along with their lancer regiments, had helped a slew of worlds against the evils that came with sentient beings making their way in the Frontier. Seeing battle-frames outside of CORAL mercenary units was a scary sight. The CORAL had strict guidelines on battlefield conduct for their mercs. There was no such restriction in the Frontier.

  Duschene nodded. “Costa. Solere. Nice to see giant tin cans littering the battle-space. I'm sure your soul is safe from the Black Templar. No one would want to eat something so moldy.”

  Costa laughed. “Oh sure. Just kick the guy who's afraid of the boogeyman. How can I go out there knowing that you could stuff me into a drone if the mongrel gets me?”

  “You use one of these on him,” Solere said from inside his armored death dealer. He held up his heavy blaster rifle to indicate that there was truly nothing for the pair to be afraid of.

  “You say that now. Just wait till he sips your soul like spaghetti.” Costa quipped.

  Solere's disdain came easily through his external speakers. “As if anyone would want anything resembling spaghetti.” His thick accent hung on the word as though it made him nauseous.

  Sergeant Guerreiro came over the Battle-net. “Stow that talk and get on mission, you're making me hungry. Costa and Solere, make sure that airspace stays crystal. Anything gets past Third Squad heading for this boat, you make it regret its poor life choices. Duschene, what's the status of those drones?”

  The sergeant had just joined the Devil Hunters on Kalizhad. The men hadn't really adjusted to him in the short amount of time they had been together. As far as they could tell, he was a by-the-book corporal that had been promoted recently. While they were on their way, Williams from First Squad had told them he had a friend who served with Guerreiro. Williams heard that during a fight with a group of pirates, Guerreiro blew out a wall on a ship. The explosive decompression caused emergency measures in the ship to activate. The entire platoon was saved by a blast door locking into place. The pirates and Corporal Guerreiro were blown into open space.

  They found him later, locked to the top of the ship with a climbing cable. The pirates were not wearing sealed environmental armor with all manner of gadgets and toys. Guerreiro had caught a corner of the ship with his grappling hook and waited for pick-up.

  Duschene responded. “Two drones in the cut to assess and help clean up for Third Squad. Two going to the commander's ship as per orders, Sergeant.”

  “Roger out,” came the reply from Guerreiro.

  Costa came over the internal squad net. “Man, is that guy trying too hard to prove his stripes fit, or what?”

  Solere gave a small chuckle. “You do know that he is monitoring all coms on the Battle-net and can hear you, right?”

  “No. No. No. No,” Kel repeated over and over again as the drones slowly floated over to the shuttle. “Alright. That guy better wrap up what he has going on or...”

  Outside, Kel felt the faint rumble of an explosion through the hull of the ship.

  The ship was quick to point out the obvious. “Pardon me. I
t would seem your friend has given you the answer you required.”

  “Ya think?”

  Outside, the drones whirled about. They locked in place as though something other than their repulsors were keeping them aloft. In unison, Duschene, Solere, and Costa turned to face the fort.

  “Not good.” Kel knew the algorithms that gave the ship “her” new personality would try to emulate something witty to mark the event. He had neither the time nor desire to listen. “Baby Doll, spin up the deflector shields in the direction of all that heat and give me point defense weapons.”

  “It's a warm day, Kel. The heat is all around us. Would you like me to...”

  “Aim the shields at the lancers!” Frustration and determination rang in his voice. If the ship took any offense at Kel's bark, she said nothing. Whines and tones signaled the main engines coming online. Two small ka-thunks told Kel that the small ventral canons had locked into place.

  Kel flared his arm in the direction of the impending soldiers. “Knock out those drones and put those troopers on the ground!”

  The small cannons on the belly of the ship were meant to provide cover fire for those trying to board. As heavy blasters went, it turned out they did all right for offensive weapons. Thunk, thunk, thunk sounds reverberated from the belly of the ship accompanying hyper-charged blast packets surging from the automatic weapons.

  The guns traced a line from the assault shuttle into the dumbfounded troopers. The drones exploded in an aurora of parts and flame, forcing the pilot to jump behind the ramp for cover. Solere stepped into the path of the incoming bolts, shielding his wing-man. Massive blaster fire ripped into the armor, knocking him into Costa. Both men fell in a tangle of shredded armor and plumes of dirt amid the cannons that continued to trace the ground around them.

  Costa screamed defiantly toward the bolts as his defensive systems came online. He pulled Solere behind him, activating a shield built into the left arm of the suit. A translucent orange energy shield, with faintly glowing hexes, appeared in front him. Blaster shots ricocheted off of the shield into the body of the APC as Costa dragged Solere behind the ramp.