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

by Walt Robillard

  Tom's lips tightened from the frustration. It was bad enough that he had to admit defeat to his superior, it was worse that the young private was heckling him. “That is quite enough, Mr. Tai.” Tom added under his breath, “It was a kidney pan.”

  Marshal Brand signed to the wounded lieutenant while looking at the butterfly stitches on his scalp.

  “He won't be a private in the lancers for much longer if he continues to heckle a superior officer, especially when Mr. Tai didn't do anything to stop the fugitive.” Tom self-consciously reached for the wound. He was a slight man with a slightly receding hairline. His scalp was fighting hard to hold on to the hair that it had. A new scar, fresh above his left eye, wouldn't be helping him win that fight.

  “That's enough, Tai.” Sergeant Corvin entered the medical bay, nodding across the room. “If you're done milking that arm for sympathy, how's about you get yourself out into the hall and make yourself useful?”

  “Sorry about that, Sarge.” Tai had his head down while he put on his helmet.

  “Head up, tail up, and no scurrying. You're six meters tall. You suck at scurrying. And don't call me sarge.”

  “Tail up?” Tai mouthed, taking stock of his backside.

  “Out!” Corvin pointed toward the hall. Shaking his head, he returned his gaze to the marshal. “Lance Sergeant D'Marco is outside coordinating and reorganizing Third and Fourth squads together, sir. We should be up in a few minutes. You riding along or are you going to milk this too?”

  Brand reached over from the hospital bed and punched Corvin in the arm. Tom noted the hit. It would have broken him in half. For an intelligence officer for the Force Majeure, life was a series of reports on pirates or what warlord was causing the Force trouble this week or that. Being OPCONed to the lancers was a chance to get out of the humdrum existence his life had become. He knew he was not ready for it.

  The lancers were a brotherhood that existed to serve the Marshals Templar. Most of those selected to test the Forge, the marshals' final exam, failed it. In the rare cases a marshal was selected for service, they sometimes required a combat support force that was their equal in ferocity, fairness, and esprit-de-corp. The lancers were that and more.

  Tom had none of these, except for the occasional bout of bravery, which he had paid for every time. Seeing the heavy-handed hit between the two warriors had him wishing he could take such a knock, as well as having a comrade that would share such an exchange.

  Sergeant Corvin shrugged off the slug. “Ow! You hit me right where I used to have my feelings. Good thing the regiment took those out or I might have bruised a smidge.”

  Brand smiled through the breathing mask. Miniature robotic spiders continued to work their nano-technological magic on his face, throat, and lungs. Getting this monster-fighter back into the deadly game was more important than ever.

  The marshal put his thumb up and swung it behind him, indicating he wanted Corvin to get back to work.

  “Alright, alright. Stop yelling.” Corvin winked and tapped the large patient on the shoulder. “See you out there, boss.”

  Brand nodded and looked to Tom.

  “Why do you let them talk to you that way?” the Lieutenant asked.

  Brand knew the signs for this conversation better than most. “We are a family. Families poke each other as a way to show they care without saying it. They all know I respect them and I expect the same respect in return. If either side of this wasn't true, you wouldn't hear the jokes. You also wouldn't hear the battle cries as we fight to save each other. I could order those men into the gates of hells and their only question would be what are we drinking on the other side. Which is why I understand what Lasher is doing, even though I don't agree with his method. Hurt my brothers, and I would turn myself into the devil to make you pay.”

  The last of Brand's words scrolled across the monocle display. Tom felt his stomach tighten in fear. If these men were all this severe, how much blood would have to be spilled before this was over? It wouldn't be long before local governments turned to mercenaries from the Core Worlds Alliance to handle this. Even worse, the government could petition the Trans-Galactic Activities Corps, the CORAL's largest mercenary service, to dispatch a Combined Arms Group. Such complicated happenings would attract the attention of the Alliance, possibly expanding their reach beyond the Outer Boundary, into the Frontier.

  Tom half-smiled. “Pretty severe stuff. I have that trace-data you were looking for. The commander's ship did have a transponder, but it was disabled.”

  Brand signed.

  “An Icer? Yes, we think the fugitive had one from one of the packs he took. We think he used it to reboot the ship. Once they did that, it was easy for them to drop the transponder. There might still be some tricks to get a fix on the ship, but those are beyond my level of training.”

  A single sign floated from his fingers.

  Tom brought up a data slate. He scrolled through tracking data from several sources, displaying the holograms for Brand to see. “Looks like they were headed to the upper atmosphere, but Orbital ATC didn't log any ships breaking space. There's really nowhere for them to go. Do you want me to order a deeper scan?”

  Brand shook his head. The signs were coming faster to him now. Muscle memory and urgency fueled his ability to translate the unspoken to the signed word. “Signal D'Marco to get the platoon ready to move. Call the local lancer commander and set up a meeting. You might have to be there to translate. We aren't pulling any more punches.”

  Tom stood straight and saluted the marshal. “Yes, sir. On it.”

  Lancer Private Adona walked around the APC. He moved with a sort of deadly grace as he rounded the hovering weapons platform. The repulsors on the ship had gone from an active lift to just providing anti-gravity to keep it off of the ground. A slight hum masked the sound of his approach to the small collection of troops on the other side. “Captain Gerard? I have a call from a command line on the net. Sig-ID says it's a Templar field commander.”

  The captain bent down slightly, placing his hands on his knees. “Damn it, Adona. Call out before you do that thing you do where you sneak up to everyone. I just about had a heart attack.”

  “Sorry about that, sir.” Adona adjusted the small pack on his back. A rigid long-range antenna stuck out from the bag. “It's not my fault that humans are easy pickings. You have nothing to worry about, though. We think you taste terrible.”

  The collected group of troopers all took a second from breaking down their camp to laugh. Captain Gerard straightened himself and put his hands on his hips. “Voice or holo, Sergeant Sneaky?”

  “It's holo, sir.” The private sheepishly took the captain's hint. He worked his wrist-com, the holographic controls visible to him only through his helmet. He cued up both visual and auditory feeds for the stream, in case the officer had asked for either.

  “Stream holo right there so we can all see the message.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The group of lancers moved a bit tighter, taking a brief respite from breaking down tents and packing them onto one of the eight APCs. Some took the opportunity to take sips of water through the drinking straws in their helmets. Others took off their helmets, allowing the heat of the early morning sun to warm them while they took actual swigs of water from bottles or grabbed quick cups of coffee. Those that went without their “skid-lids” put on pairs of glasses, allowing them to view the broadcast.

  “Go for Gerard.” The captain removed his helmet and placed on his glasses.

  The image of Commander Hylaeus filled the space. Gerard hated this type of communication. When he saw a vid-cast, he had the associated background in the camera's field of view to put things into context. Holo-casts like this only showed the individual you were talking to. It often rendered shadows and accents that were inconsistent with the space where the image was appearing. It was jarring at times.

  “Captain Gerard, I'm Force Commaner Tyberian Hylaeus. I am not sure you remember me, but we both ser
ved on Anaskion together as part of a security detail.”

  Gerard nodded. That was a fun deployment. The marshal had been tasked to protect an Elysian businessman while they worked on site with a CORAL construction company. Anaskion had access to several cities along the construction zone of the Maglev they were building. It made for difficult field operations but comfortable off-duty times. He remembered the marshal had been younger back then. They all were.

  “I remember you, sir. That was a good deployment. 10-10 and 2 at one hundred percent. What I wouldn't give for more of the same.” The captain said, cheerfully.

  Hylaeus agreed. “You could say that again. Captain, I noticed that a few days ago you received orders for a mass security position in Sevis Tathin. We can find no record of the operations order on our side of things.”

  The captain's face went from confident to confused. “We got an emergency deployment order from CENTCOM that an Elysian dignitary was moving from Talco City to meet and greet several tribes along the Sevis Tathin basin. We were to provide route reconnaissance and security. No one showed. I Hyper-commed a message back to CENTCOM and we were told several times to hold in place. We just got confirmation this morning that the handshake was off and we could return to the fort, sir.”

  Hylaeus looked down while rubbing the scar on the side of his cheek. Gerard remembered the scar from when they had deployed together. He also remembered that when the commander stood rubbing it, he was deep in thought. “Sir, if I may ask, what's going on?”

  Hylaeus looked up. “”Nothing good, Captain. I think you may have been purposely sent to the jungle to move your men out of the way. Do you have a contact ID for your chats with Central Command?”

  “Adona, cast that info back to the commander.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hylaeus took a deep breath and crossed his arms. “Captain, once you and yours were fully moved to Sevis Tathin, Marshal Ferrand and a platoon of your lancers were sent to secure a peace treaty between the Surando and the Hidek.”

  “Yes, sir. The meeting was to take place a few days after we left. We made sure they had support and a quick reaction force out of Kabran City.”

  “They were betrayed. The Hidek used it to ambush the delegation, wiping out almost everyone.”

  The words struck Gerard like a hammer. His legs went weak, forcing him to take a step back to lean against the APC. The vehicle rocked on its repulsors for a brief moment before settling in to take his weight. He was breathing heavily, the sounds of the dense jungle drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears.

  The collected troopers looked to each other. Whispers of “No,” and “How in the Twin Hells,” pounded in the captain's ears. Tears raced down his face, his expression turned from one of shock to defiance.

  “Survivors?” The captain asked.

  “Only one. Marshal Ferrand's apprentice.”

  Gerard nodded. “Is he okay?”

  “No. After the Hidek double-crossed the armistice, Deputy Lashra tracked down the particular family within the tribe and executed them,” the force commander spoke haltingly, his voice heavy with regret.

  “So the leaders are dead?”

  “No, Captain. Lashra executed the entire portion of the tribe. Roughly two thousand dead.”

  The assembled troopers stood stock still. Each man's posture spoke volumes about their reaction. Even under helmets, their shock was palpable. Captain Gerard was the only one who seemed to retain the ability of speech. “Orders, sir?”

  “If you have no problem with it, Captain, I am going to fold your company under my banner for this. It will have the 2-9 Strikers joining up with the SAPers from the Devil Hunters.” Hylaeus said.

  Gerard brought a trembling fist into a slow, stern salute. His men dropped whatever they were holding to follow suit. “You lock ’em, we drop ’em, sir.”

  The assembled troopers roared, “No Slack!”

  Hylaeus returned the salute, grim satisfaction crossing his face. “I am honored to have you and yours with me on this, Captain Gerard. CENTCOM is receiving the change of mission order now. I am sending lifters to bring you and your boys home.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Gerard said, making a cutting motion toward Adona.

  The hologram faded. Captain Gerard stared at the empty ground where Hylaeus had been standing. He noted the moss on the rock where the image had just been. The whole world had changed in the minutes of the conversation and the lichen was oblivious. It just had to take in sunlight, flourish, and continue to grow. The world be damned. For a brief moment, he envied such simplicity. It was a flicker of thought before his world came into sharp focus. He wasn't some simple thing. He was a lancer commander. “First Sergeant Trask!”

  “Aye, sir.” The man walked over, his skid lid resting on his forearm. Any visible skin had a scar close to another. This was a man for whom the lancers were life. He was not an ornamental weapon, but one who had seen heavy use.

  “Get this gear wrapped and folded into the APCs double time. Prep those for redeploy by air.” Gerard ordered.

  “Airborne Op, sir?”

  Gerard held up a hand, a signal to wait. “Adona, link to the commander's Battle-net and get me a time on those birds.”

  Adona was ahead of the man. Serving as his RTO for the last few weeks, the Zelezni private had learned some of the man's command habits. “They're rigging now. Two hours until we get hooked, sir.”

  The captain addressed his first sergeant. “Alright, Top. We're probably looking at an Air Assault Hot-Drop. Prep the vehicles and then get everyone canned. We got two hours to make it happen and then, depending on flight time, however long it takes us to make the horizon before we get nasty.”

  “On it, sir.” Trask turned to his men before donning his helmet. The face of it had been painted like the face of a demon. A warning to his friends and enemies alike. “You heard the man. Get this camp wrapped and folded. I want this done in twenty. Lance Sergeant Locke, I want LACE in five.”

  Somewhere off in the distance, a driven NCO roared, “Five-Two, Top!” It was an internal memo for the 2-9 Strikers. Whenever a superior asked for something, they would half the number of time or resources asked for, and move hell or high water to make it happen. While he didn't actually see Lance Sergeant Locke respond, Trask had no doubt the NCO was moving like the Devil himself was chasing him.

  “Alright, people, time to bring the hate!” the first sergeant roared from his lid.

  Twelve

  The last time Marshal Mara Truveau was on Tythian, it had been for a similar dispute. The Nakka tribe was trying to gain mining rights for a valley that was part of a grazing preserve maintained by their cousins, the Nakoda.

  They had tried to work things out amicably, but as was often the case in their society, things had descended to fighting. With neither side willing to budge on the mining issue, the Temple of Athalon was called to request a marshal be dispatched.

  Mara had fallen in love with this part of the planet. Unlike the jungles in the other hemisphere, the grasslands of the Kesthi Steppe were temperate and beautiful. The other favorable factor was that the steppe was home to mostly herd animals. The only predators were large birds and an occasional Torrek, a type of wild pig reminiscent of a boar from humanity's past.

  She drove the hover-skiff a few feet above the grass, relishing the wind whipping through her hair. The air here was clean. So many places she had traveled to were owned by CORAL companies looking to expand into the Frontier. They brought with it the stink of industrialization. Their machines refined various substances into belches of smoke. Their people excreted in all manner of inappropriate places when they were drunk or otherwise impaired. The scent of fuels, grease, and solvents were enough to ruin a sense of smell, as much as it ruined the landscape.

  More worlds should have such a natural look on life. Of course, natural also meant nature. Nature loved its violence. The Tyth were no strangers to it, seeing the concept as part of the natural order. It was one
of the preferred methods to settle things here. Unintended slights could cause a duel or blossom into war. Many Marshals Templar had died here trying to keep the peace.

  Seladriel Ferrand had also died here. Mara's friend was her sister in all things except for name and blood. Her death was a wound she was having trouble closing. She would have taken any physical pain over the stabbing ache in her soul. Something like this required more than tech and time to heal. For the moment, she would have to rely on her faith. It was the only thing she had in abundance, and it would have to be enough.

  Today should be a day for tears, but they would have to wait. Wiping them away again, she saw some Serapti herders in the distance. She angled the skiff in their direction and throttled down. The repulsors set to idle, and only emitted a soft hum as the vehicle floated through the grass. It was important for her to come to the herders without frightening the herd.

  She waved her hands like the Tyth did to get each other's attention. It was a minute or two before they looked up with enough interest to wave her over. She drifted close to them and then dropped the skiff into the grass. It landed with a soft pfft sound as the landing gear pushed into the sand. She hopped from the machine and walked over. “Seh Nakka to daifo hadda m'eh tha'ruda?”

  Both herders were Tyth males. They laughed the quaint laugh the Tyth all shared. They didn't belly laugh like humans. It was a reserved chuckle that barely escaped their stringy necks. “Seh Nakoda difo weh,” the older one responded. “We speak the Trade if that is preferred, miss.”

  Truveau smiled. “It would be, thank you. I hoped that I wouldn't scare the herd.”

  “Not scared. You were very polite, miss. Thank you,” the herder said with his Tyth accent.

  The younger one would still be considered a full adult by human standards. He adjusted the quiver at his waist. Full of arrows for the targen bow he carried, she noticed the silver nocked shafts he pushed behind his jacket. Vibron arrows. They ignored energy shields and pierced composite armor like it was tissue. They would easily shred the type she wore. The regular shafts were for a meal while ranging. The Vibron-tipped were for trouble makers with guns.