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

by Walt Robillard

  “I was only able to get a glimpse of the darkness you are chasing, Orin. I know you think you're trying to right some wrongs, but you're making things worse.”

  A roar sounded overhead, shaking the foundations of the fort. Dust fell from the ceiling, the sounds of powerful engines echoed through the halls.

  “Your associate outside isn't helping. We need to resolve this before things get worse. Show me.” Hylaeus said.

  Lasher closed his eyes and the world spun around him. For a brief second, he saw through the commander's eyes, then back into his own. During each spin, he saw a glimpse of what the commander had seen in the last three days. In return, Lasher showed glimpses of his trials. The connection lasted for more than a few breaths before both men's sights were their own again.

  “No.” A small word. Coming from the commander, it held the weight of a jackhammer.

  “I'm going.” Lasher stood to his full height. His words were punctuated by a second flyover of the assault shuttle.

  “I won't stop you,” Hylaeus said softly. “I can't promise they won't try.”

  “So they no longer follow your orders?” Lasher said sarcastically.

  “They may not, since your associate murdered two of their own outside.”

  “Risk I'll have to take. Do you mind?” Lasher gestured to the cat, growling and ready to strike at a word.

  The commander let a chuckle slip. “I couldn't even figure how to turn the damn thing on. It was a gift from the princess we helped on Maldinon. In order to get it back, things would have to go bad for you.”

  “Good luck with that, sir.” Lasher regarded the lancers. “Follow me and my friend will rip him in half.”

  Lasher stowed a half-meter-long handle into his belt. The other object he held came to life with a faint hum. He brought it near his ear and took a deep breath. It resembled a covered sword handle. Symbols danced across the surface of the knuckle cover beside the red shine of a power indicator.

  “Lashra!” Commander Hylaeus called down the hall. “I'm sorry we failed you.”

  Lasher's eyes focused on the wall in front of him. The world around him slowed, barely crawling along in the flow of the Crucible. Power roared into his tired body, invigorating his muscles, shoring up his injuries. There was a loud snap followed by a whoosh, as a tendril-like whip flowed from the handle. The thing was swallowed up in a dark red glow in the shadowy hallway, roaring from the handle in segmented sheaves of light. Reminiscent of a ribbon-strung kite tail, it loosed a banshee like scream as it sped toward the wall.

  Lasher whipped the weapon in a diagonal arc and allowed its momentum to bring it back the other way, tracing a large X into the surface. The writhing, glowing tendril pulled back toward the handle, flattening as it went. The ribbon pieces locked together, forming a glowing blade, set into the covered handle.

  The sound of rushing air flowed through the hall, accompanied by an unseen tempest that knocked the lancers around. The force of the Crucible knocked into the X, blasting out the marked section of wall. Open air and sunlight streamed into the passage. Lasher thrust the weapon at the intersection where wall and ceiling met. The energy blade broke back into connected segments as the tip struck through the seam, embedding itself into the rock. Lasher used it like a rope and swung out of sight. A half second later, a whistle, like one might use to call a pet, filled the emptiness.

  The Doom Cat growled in the marshal’s face. The scene had the appearance of a mouse caught under a cat's paw, waiting to be bitten in half. Hearing the whistle, the thing oriented toward the hole. Like a real animal rushing to meet its master, the bot shot out of the hole, into the expanse.

  Lancers of First Squad rushed forward to help their downed superior. From behind the commander, the lancers of Second Squad rushed to the hole. Looking up, they could see the fugitive and his demon kitty scaling toward the roof. One of the lancers leaned out of the hole to take a shot.

  “No.” Commander Hylaeus' order was quiet but firm. He looked like a man who had seen far too much in one day, added to his decades of seeing more than enough. “Have Third and Fourth squads deal with him.”

  Lasher had learned to climb in the pits. Gladiatorial combat could sometimes become stale, even with the best of attractions. To spice things up, the masters would have the opponents track each other through obstacle courses, deserted cities, or dense jungles. Obstacle courses were Lasher's favorite, as it allowed him to put some distance between him and his adversary while still keeping an eye out for danger.

  He was almost to the top when an armored hand reached over and grabbed his shoulder strap.

  “Need a hand, killer?” The hand yanked him past the lip of the roof, brought him into a high arc, culminating in a slam against the stone roof. Lasher tumbled as he fell, tearing off his pack and traveling companion, slinging them to the side. The armor he wore took most of the impact, cracking a portion of the stone where he hit. His left ankle struck the roof hard, leaving a stinging pain that radiated up the length of his shin.

  He looked up to see an armored behemoth similar in type to the lancers below, but much bigger. This had to be a mech pilot from the heavy weapons squad. A rifle barrel could be seen protruding over the right shoulder, and a missile pod was clearly over the left. Lasher recognized the model, recalling that they were capable of flight. He also recognized he might be in a bit of trouble.

  “Private Juvari.” The voice came out over external speakers. Whoever this lancer was, he wanted Lasher to know what he was planning. Otherwise, he would have called the private over the Battle-net. “Make sure to get that ion blaster ready; we know that RIMmer is up here somewhere.”

  There was no response.

  “Yao, Juvari. Respond”

  The roof was silent except for the heavy breathing of the fugitive trying to clear the slam from his head. The lancer rotated in quarter turns while his heavy blaster carbine swiveled by a gyroscopic arm into his waiting right hand.

  “Costa, this is...” The mech trooper was about to contact his counterpart on the ground. A slender tendril snaked its way from a raised portion of the roof. The section was an entryway that led to stairs descending to the topmost level of the fort. There were several of these on the top of the fort, including the one that Yao and Juvari were hiding behind. It was then that the trooper noticed a pair of boots sticking just beyond one of the stairwells.

  The tendril grabbed the armored shin of the mech trooper. It yanked him from his feet, causing his head and legs to almost switch position. Lasher rolled to his right, vacating the space for the armored trooper to slam where he had just been. The weight of the armor and munitions, combined with the trooper himself, ruptured the roof, causing a collapse.

  The Doom Cat rode the momentum of the heavy armor. His target falling through the roof to the floor below yanked the predator from his hiding spot. It held on with its tendril like an ancient sea creature grasping a fleeing vessel. The cat let the weight pull him across the roof and into the rift it had caused in the structure.

  As Lasher sat up, he heard a vrmmm sound followed by the rending of metal and the screams of a dying man. Several shots rang out, one blasting through the roof right near Lasher's shoulder. He rolled frantically to the corner of the roof to avoid any other misfortunes.

  A half second after the screaming stopped, the cat bounded back through the hole to stand on the roof. It growled, deep and throaty, like some predator from the ancient home of man.

  Lasher looked to the beast. “Yes. I know more are coming. I also know that my ankle is going to need another minute.”

  Another bot jumped onto the roof. It was larger than human-sized, roughly the size of the power armor. Its torso was vaguely triangular, with thin legs and arms. A CR-331 Prowler. Known for its fast reflexes and array of combat routines, the Prowler was a standard for lancer units sent out after super-natural targets.

  The cat circled the new opponent while Lasher struggled to stand. The second tendril came from it
s back, making it appear like an octopus riding an armored jaguar. Lasher drew on the Crucible through the Way while the Prowler sought to find its optimal attack routine against the cat.

  Immediately, the Prowler adjusted his preference in targets to him, drawing an automatic blaster-pistol. The burst it loosed threw off Lasher's concentration, causing him to dive for cover behind one of the stairwells.

  He winced as he rolled across his sore ankle, burning side, and bleeding face. He looked over to the robot passenger he had just carried through all of the previous violence. “Are you still with us?”

  The digital corpse tied to his back croaked out a static-filled, “Still here.”

  Lasher peered around his cover to see the Prowler and Doom Cat circling each other. If the Prowler had somehow been programmed to target Way-adept opponents, he was going to have a hard time working against its auto blaster-pistols.

  Lasher focused the Way, peering into the swirling patterns of the Crucible. The Prowler instantly sprinted sideways, attempting to strafe the cover Lasher was hiding beside. The Doom Cat struck out with its tendrils, striving to trip up the lanky bot. It hopped and ducked under the snaking attacks, leveling its vertical sensor eye as it sought its prey.

  Lasher rolled across the roof, out from his cover. A snap preceded the banshee wail of his weapon coming to life. The energized whip argued with normal physics, Lasher guiding it through the Way. It coiled around the thing's neck. Yanking it forward, Lasher reached behind to pull the half-meter-long handle from his belt. A metallic pop, like an ancient blowtorch being lit, followed by a growling hum brought forth a translucent glowing blade, similar to an ax-head.

  The Prowler fired on full auto from both of its pistols. Blaster bolts flashed at Lasher, deflected by the Way to seek other paths of travel. As the bot sought to empty the energy mags straight at its target, the panther mech jumped at it. It had all of its claws poised to lock into the lanky target. In midair, the tendrils energized, wrapping the upper torso.

  The roar of the blasters continued, despite the weapons of the cat and mongrel constricting it. Lasher continued to hold the Plasmaxe forward, directing the Way to act like a shield against the energy onslaught. The Prowler advanced on its target, Lasher locked in his sights, dragging the panther-mech in his wake.

  The cat dropped back to the stone, using its tendrils to hold the Prowler, its feet sliding on the sandy roof. It stopped within a few feet of Lasher. The pistols had run dry. It dropped them, ejecting blades from between its middle knuckles. The Prowler made a whirring noise before the light in its vertical sensor eye dimmed to black. It stood still, as though it was a statue placed on the roof.

  Lasher roared. The tendril of his whip-sword came free. The cat jumped back, loosing its own tentacles along the way. Lasher jumped at the thing to clear the intervening distance and brought the Plasmaxe down, in line with the sensor eye.

  The Prowler came apart like a jigsaw puzzle dumped from its box. The tendrils of the whip-sword and the cat had been energized to cut through its chassis, which was built for stealth and speed, not resisting brute force. The axe had been the finishing touch to rip the thing apart.

  Lasher dropped to his knees and crumbled onto his side. He stared blankly at the damaged bot he had carried through the gauntlet of adversaries. He had kept his promise. He hadn't left her behind. He looked to the back of the roof to see lancers pouring onto it. The Doom Cat went into full assault mode with its tendrils, pop-up auto blasters, and the mobility of a machine designed to take on augmented squads of soldiers. He could smell burnt flesh and composite. Some of the blaster shots from the Prowler had gotten through.

  Drifting into unconsciousness, he heard a powerful roar above him. He managed to open his eyes. She was with him. Lioness. Mother. Teacher. Seladriel in all her glory. She looked to him as she reached down.

  “I'm so sorry,” he said.

  She smiled. “Breathe.”

  Eleven

  A sharp inhale preceded Marshal Brand sitting straight up. His breathing was clear and no longer labored. He could feel the cool wash of fresh oxygen flowing into his throat, allowing him the first non-tortured breaths since his fight with the apprentice.

  “Easy, sir. I'm going to need you to put yourself against the pillow and rest easy. I know that word comes difficult to you marshals. Now if I have to go take Space Voodoo classes to learn the right magic to put you against this bed, you are going to do what I tell you.” Doc winked at the commander. He knew that deep down under the mask and armor, Brand knew how to take a joke. He also knew the man understood you don't fight the one trying to help you.

  “Sorry, doc.” The words were barely audible. It sounded like a boot sliding on gravel. They were a sentiment more than words.

  “I know, sir. No talking either. Use your sign. I have my reader cued up.” Doc said.

  Brand sighed. It had been a while since he had to use sign language. On a mission to Fedoran City, they had run afoul of a vicious crime-tribe. The gang had been dealing in black market weaponry, funneling illegal arms into the Core Worlds. During a firefight at a warehouse, one of the tribe had thrown a chemical grenade at the lancers. Brand had used the Way to shield them from the smoke, as they were dressed in street clothes.

  In saving his team from the smoke, he came into contact with a portion of it. It had burned his face and lungs, making it near impossible to breathe. D'Marco had pulled him out of the fight. While he struggled for every breath, his team had carried him to a nearby hospital. The doctors were familiar with this type of injury. In the Frontier, weapons of this type were common among the large crime syndicates, gangs, and pirates who could afford them. There was no one other than the marshals to make it otherwise.

  Brand had endured months in a hyperbaric mask while nanites repaired some of the damage done by the poison. During this time, he had learned the sign language associated with Trade-1. It helped him pass the time and occupied his mind. He hated having a keyboard that would spit out an electronic voice that wasn't his. They had models that could speak in his voice, but he didn't want that either.

  In the end, Brand had decided to be on mission with his men versus being in a hospital. By this time, he had returned to Elysium, giving him access to the best doctors in the Frontier. He had a cybertonic mask fitted, that would allow him to breathe and continue his treatments while he slept. Of course the treatments would only work when he remembered to do them. The Frontier was a busy place. When you were on mission, there wasn't a lot of down time to get a dedicated eight-hour rest for the complete treatment.

  He struggled to recall the symbols and gestures he needed to work his hands into. After a minute, a large mailed hand rested over his fingers.

  “If you're asking what shape we're in, things could be better.” Commander Hylaeus stepped around the doc and smiled to his comrade.

  Brand signed again. Concern was more telling than his gestures.

  Hylaeus' sigh was half growl, half regret. “We lost Duschene, Yao, Juvari, Duggan, and Rycon. Frazier was hit bad. Doc has him over on the other table. He's stable, but we're going to have to evac him to Khalizahd. We have what's left of Fourth Squad pulling Solere out of his armor. He took some heavy hits, but he should be fine after some medical care.”

  Brand took a deep breath from his respirator. The temporary mask that was breathing for him was hooked into a wall unit, the small micro machines doing their job, too small to be spotted by the naked eye. He began to sign, the intended question all too clear.

  Hylaeus lowered his head. “Any other apprentice on any other day, I would have told you it was impossible. But this is Orin Lashra, The Lasher of the gladiatorial fighting circuit on multiple worlds. He didn't come to us as an ordinary apprentice.”

  Brand nodded. He fought back tears over the young men who had given their lives today. They had died needlessly. Questions swirled in Brand's mind. Why did the apprentice let himself be captured? He could have disappeared into Kabran City or
hid among the countless Tyth tribes out in the steppe, jungles, or mountains of the planet. So why?

  Brand signed something.

  The commander had looked away. He was looking out to the hallway at young privates loading their comrades into body bags. He must have caught the sign in the reflection of one of the medical room cabinets. “Why did he do this or why did all these men have to give their lives today?”

  A quick flash of signs left a puzzled look on Brand's face.

  “Now that's an interesting question,” Hylaeus responded. “I'll answer it with one of my own. If Lasher surrendered to you in order to see something in the fort, did he find what he was looking for?”

  >>> HYPER-COM INITIATED

  >>>Waiting for handshake.

  >>>Handshake confirmed .

  >>>Checking COM-SEC

  >>>Line secure.

  > Send: Possible compromise of OPERATION FLAG

  >> Anon: Status of Target?

  > Send: Status unknown.

  >> Anon: Status of disposition?

  > Send: Unknown. Principal unresponsive.

  >>Anon: Go BLACK OUT for next cycle. Observe.

  >> Anon: Signal if target resolution.

  >> Anon: Signal if principal responds.

  > Send: Support measures?

  >> Anon: Taken. En Route.

  > Send: Roger Out.

  >>> END

  “Thomas, good to see you up and about. How are you feeling?” The signs came from Marshal Brand's hands. Tom was wearing a monocle over his right eye. As the marshal signed in the air, Tom got a quick translation transposed into his vision.

  “I'll live, Marshal. I guess there's not much to be embarrassed by if I was taken out by one of the most dangerous gladiators in the sector.”

  Across the room, someone was quick to add, “Weren't you taken out by a bed pan?”