Destroyer

by Craig Martelle

  “Then it’ll be a quick trip to the doc, and you’ll be back to your old self, getting in everyone’s way.”

  “I don’t get in anyone’s way. I lead from the front,” he declared.

  “Yes, you get in people’s way. They have this. Let the reconstruction and the healing begin, and Ted better figure out how that cloak works. Imagine if we had that for the Axe?”

  “We should probably check on that—”

  Char cut him off with a glance.

  “After the Pod-doc, of course,” Terry clarified.

  He held his head high and strode briskly toward Cory, then started to run.

  “Stop him!” Char shouted. Cory blocked the hatch with her body. Terry went to grab her and lift her out of the way, but Char was on his heels and rammed into him. Cory held tightly to one of his arms as he flailed to get free.

  “You’re going,” Cory muttered with her head buried in his chest, hanging on for all she was worth.

  Char had the other arm, and they frog-marched him up the stairs, not letting go.

  He relaxed. “If anyone saw us, this would be embarrassing.”

  “You’re worse than a little kid at bath time.”

  “Do I get to run naked through the corridors after it’s over?” Terry asked.

  “If you want, dear,” Char said, her fingers white from maintaining a tight grip on Terry’s arm.

  “Eww!” Cory made a face but kept her hold. “Don’t you dare.”

  When they reached the third deck, they found the corridor lined with friends, family, and warriors, who all started clapping.

  “Son of a ...” Terry grumbled. He looked sideways at Char.

  “Consider it leading from the front. If you’re willing to get your centennial physical, then they will, too.”

  “Damn. This is what I get for marrying an older woman.”

  “Shh. Don’t let those words ever escape your lips again,” Char whispered.

  “Going to get a recharge of the manly hydraulics?” someone quipped.

  “What? Who said that?”

  Snickers and shuffling answered his question.

  “It’s been nice knowing you, TH,” Joseph shouted. Dokken barked, and a furry brown creature dashed through the group to bounce off Terry’s leg, squeal in joy, and keep running as the German Shepherd bounded after her.

  “Bye!” the group cried in unison.

  Kimber jumped in his way and threw herself at him. “Don’t leave us!” Terry pushed her back to find her laughing.

  “With friends like you…” he started to say. He stopped and looked at those lining the corridor. “With friends like you, life is worth living. Let me get my nipple ring installed, then party on the mess deck! I hear there will be bistok,” he shouted.

  Cory and Char made eye contact. “Nipple ring?” Cory mouthed. Char winked in reply.

  Terry stopped at the door of the medbay, but Ted waved impatiently. “Hurry up. I have stuff to do.”

  “Ted. I thought this was routine.”

  “Yours and Char’s nanos are different from everyone else’s, so they need an expert’s touch. My alpha ordered me to do this, so I’m here. Don’t make this any more painful than it already is.”

  “Painful? I’m sorry, Ted. What I meant to say was, ‘I love you, man.’” Terry made big eyes, much to Ted’s confusion.

  Char pushed him toward the Pod-doc. Terry started dancing, slowly removing one piece of clothing at a time. Cory turned and motioned for people to go back into the corridor. “Show’s over,” she noted, closing and securing the hatch behind her.

  Char crossed her arms and waited. Terry stopped dancing. “Fine.”

  He finished undressing and climbed in. The lid closed, and Ted went to work. He brought up the holomonitors and immersed himself fully as the programming on the nanocytes within Terry’s body scrolled by. Ted tapped and worked, then sat down. The holoscreens disappeared.

  “That’s it?” Char wondered.

  “That’s it. Can I go now?”

  “What was wrong with him?” Char blocked the door so Ted couldn’t rush out.

  “Some of the nanocytes, which should last forever, were worn out. Terry Henry Walton has worn out what shouldn’t be capable of being worn out, but I chalk that up to the derivative nanos you two created. You are the only ones with this variety, although Cory’s is a subset, different still from yours as well as everyone else’s.”

  “Is he better?”

  “His body is replicating replacements right now. That was all he needed. Oh, and as he gets older, if he wants to keep his mind sharp, he should take up crossword puzzles.”

  “Crossword puzzles?”

  “Yes. I hear it’s all the rage on Yollin to stave off dementia.”

  “I’ll tell him, for what that’ll be worth.”

  “He’ll be done in two minutes. Can I go now?”

  “Of course, Ted. And thank you.”

  She stepped aside so he could leave. Cory was waiting outside, arms crossed like a bodyguard.

  “It’ll be a while,” Char shouted. “We’ll meet you on the mess deck for a party. He’s all right!”

  The group cheered and stampeded for the stairwell. Cory made to enter medical, but Char stopped her, smiled, and closed the hatch.

  “I know what you’re doing in there!” Cory said to the closed door.

  Char stripped, and when the lid on the Pod-doc opened, she climbed in and closed it behind her.

  “Attention to orders!” Christina shouted. The Bad Company was already at attention, so no one moved. “Persons to be awarded, front and center.”

  Bundin and Bon Tap marched to the front of the formation, where Terry Henry Walton waited.

  “There is much to be said for tradition, and one thing we don’t do enough of is reward our people for superior performance in the face of danger. What we accept as commonplace, our everyday job, is anything but. We stand between life and death every single day. And sometimes, to complete the mission, we wrap death’s shroud around us and claim the victory for all, knowing that we won’t be there to celebrate in the end.

  “Bundin did just that, demanding that we shoot the enemy beneath his feet since that was the only time we knew where it was. And Bon Tap, who defied orders to do the right thing by his squad leader. Together, they made it possible to destroy the enemy ship, and together, they made it out alive. It reinforces that we are better together than apart.

  “For Bundin, a Silver Star. It’s an Earth award, but nothing could be more appropriate for battles conducted in space. For risking his life to save the Gate, the station, and all of us. For Bon Tap, a Bronze Star for risking his life to save his squad leader. We have but one life to give, so let it be for something that matters—the defense of our fellows and the liberty we enjoy.”

  The War Axe hovered like a protective mother near her toddler. Keeg Station was setting a record on how quickly it could be rebuilt. Terry was trapped on the War Axe. His and Char’s quarters had been destroyed, which didn’t bother him at all, but the All Guns Blazing franchise had been gutted.

  There was no beer, and they couldn’t make any to replace what they’d lost because the tanks needed to be repaired. They also needed a new stock of hops and barley. It chapped his ass that the alien had cost him his escape from the rigors of running the Bad Company’s Direct Action Branch.

  He wanted to call Nathan and rag on him about something, but nothing came to mind. He settled for asking Christina to tell her dad that TH was mad at him.

  For no reason whatsoever.

  “We were supposed to be a private conflict-resolution organization.” Terry rubbed his chin in thought. His and Char’s quarters on board the War Axe were nice, almost a suite, and luxurious for a warship. But it was their home away from home.

  “You know what?” Char purred. Terry stopped his meandering thoughts and gave her his full attention.

  “There’s a stock of beer in the galley’s cooler.”

 
Terry’s face dropped. “You mean we’ve been sitting on beer all these weeks, and you’ve been holding out on me? You little vixen!”

  “Had to wait until you were super-droopy. And for the record, you’ve been walking on it, not sitting.” Char climbed into Terry’s lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. “What about a vacation?”

  “Not like that fifty years we did on Jamaica?”

  “I had a great tan,” Char countered. “But no. Just a week or two.”

  “It sounds like you already have something in mind.” Terry put his arms around his favorite werewolf’s waist and held her tightly.

  “Pleasure moon around Cygnus VI.”

  Terry searched his memory. “A small planet on the frontier. Not a Federation member, but in good standing. Supposed to have hot springs with healing minerals. Sounds like bromide-induced daze.”

  “Yes. It’s perfect. We’ll catch a ride on Ramses’ Chariot.”

  “Ted is going to be on a pleasure moon with us?” Terry’s sour expression made clear what he thought about that idea.

  “No, but he and Felicity are taking a short trip to see their kids.”

  Terry relaxed. “There was a time not that long ago where a short trip wasn’t ten thousand light years across the galaxy.”

  Terry coaxed Char from his lap and stood. “I heard there was a cold beer with my name on it.”

  “You can owe me...”

  Terry turned back to his computer. “Holy shit!”

  Char leaned toward him, wondering where her husband’s mind had gone this time.

  “I completely forgot about an RFP. I remember my last words when I looked at it were ‘holy shit!’”

  “Those are your words for just about everything.” Char smirked. “Let me see it.”

  Terry moved aside.

  “Holy shit!” Char exclaimed. She turned to TH and smiled. “Too bad you’re going to put Christina in charge of it. We’re going on vacation.”

  The End

  If you like this book, please leave a review. Reviews buoy my spirits and stoke the fires of creativity.

  Don’t stop now! Keep turning the pages as Craig & Michael talk about their thoughts on this book and the overall project called the Age of Expansion (and if you haven’t read the eleven-book prequel, the Terry Henry Walton Chronicles, now is a great time to take a look).

  Terry, Char, and the rest of the Bad Company’s Direct Action Branch will return.

  Welcome to the Age of Expansion

  You Have Been Judged

  If you liked this book, you might also enjoy You Have Been Judged, by Craig Martelle and Michael Anderle.

  Available Now at Amazon

  Author Notes - Craig Martelle

  Written March 26th, 2019

  I can’t thank you enough for continuing to read this series. Terry Henry Walton and the fine characters who surround him have become a part of my world. I hope they’ve become a part of yours as well. Honor. Courage. Commitment. Things we can all live for and be proud of.

  It has been eleven months since the last Bad Company. It was a business decision to move to a different series, and then a bunch of series, and then more stuff. But after nearly a year, it was time to return to TH, Char, and the good people who make the Bad Company what it is. Like old friends returning, once I started writing, it flowed like the old days. Maybe the break was good for me. I think this story is a unique take on the classics like Run Silent, Run Deep or even Das Boot—exceptional stories of leaders put into near-impossible situations, striving to best their opponent.

  Talking about best, I’m teaching a class this session at the University of Alaska Fairbanks. They gave me a name badge and everything. The class is called, How to Become a Successful Self-Published Author. I have a non-fiction book by that name. I think I’m having more fun than my students. I love talking about self-publishing. They gave me a computer with the internet, and it projects onto the big screen. Dangerous, I know.

  I try to keep the students engaged. I hope they’re having fun. We’ll see if I get lambasted in the course review. “Talks too much. One Star!” That’s kind of funny—they don’t do it that way there. I just won’t be invited back.

  The weather has turned uber-warm way early. We should have a full month of winter left, but spring has sprung. The snow is melting at the cyclic rate, and it’s super slushy out there. Poor Phyllis the Arctic Dog has to get a full wipe down after being outside since it’s muddy and nasty out there. At least it’s warm. She likes it at 50F. Warmer than that and she pants like a big dog, which she is.

  The warmth will also let us get into the woods behind our house that much sooner. Ten acres all to ourselves. That’s hard to look at in the winter when we’re blocked out by the snow. We couldn’t keep a path clear this year, so no woods time for us. Soon, though. Phyllis can’t wait to go in there and sniff the trees and moose tracks.

  Back to the book. Nothing happens in a vacuum. I have a great number of people supporting me as I write. My insider team, the Skipper, Micky Cocker, Dr. Jim Caplan (Capples), Kelly O’Donnell, and John Ashmore gave me some in-process feedback. I gave them the first 25K words, and they gave it a quick read for me. They don’t get the full story until after I get it back from my editor, Lynne Stiegler, and I hope they are pleased with the end result.

  B'Ichi Aharche came from Bob Walters in our Kurtherian Gambit Fans and Authors Facebook group. I asked for names, and people came through! I asked for a man, woman, male, female, alien, and butthole. One can’t have enough buttholes in one’s back pocket, or maybe one is enough. Most importantly, I love that fans of these series are able to interact and help an author out.

  Mandi Fawcett dropped some names, and Ruzfell caught my eye for the new systems specialist on board the War Axe. I thank you, Mandi for your contribution to the story. And to Heather Harris. I thought I could get away without having to name the weapons specialist, but then I couldn’t, so I used the name you suggested – Katamara.

  Sometimes one needs help in coming up with the appropriate insult, so I used the online Shakespearean Insult Generator for Joseph’s comeback to TH.

  Thou gorbellied dizzy-eyed pignut!

  I had way too much fun clicking through the various insults. Shakespeare was the true master.

  That’s it—break’s over, back to writing the next book. Peace, fellow humans.

  Please join my Newsletter (www.craigmartelle.com – please, please, please sign up!), or you can follow me on Facebook since you’ll get the same opportunity to pick up some of the books at fan pricing (only 99 cents) on that first day they are published.

  If you liked this story, you might like some of my other books. You can join my mailing list by dropping by my website www.craigmartelle.com or if you have any comments, shoot me a note at craig@craigmartelle.com. I am always happy to hear from people who’ve read my work. I try to answer every email I receive.

  If you liked the story, please write a short review for me on Amazon. I greatly appreciate any kind words; even one or two sentences go a long way. The number of reviews an ebook receives greatly improves how well it does on Amazon.

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  Thank you for joining me on this incredible journey.

  Author Notes - Michael Anderle

  April 6, 2019

  THANK YOU for not only reading this story but these Author Notes as well.

  (I think I’ve been good with always opening with “thank you.” If not, I need to edit the other Author Notes!)

  RANDOM (sometimes) THOUGHTS?

  Old friends, new characters, and a galaxy we all visit from time to time…

  There will be a special visitor in the next Terry Henry Chronicles… Some love her, som
e hate her, and some are just jealous of her shoe collection.

  Some are afraid…very, very afraid.

  There are a few Kurtherians out there focused on killing her. Here is a snippet from a future story where she is talked about…

  UNEDITED

  Uncharted Galaxy, Hidden Location

  The Bitch. The Queen. The Empress.

  Whatever she answered to, however primitive her beginnings, every remaining Kurtherian of the Seven clans knew her true name.

  Death.

  For two centuries now, Death had hunted them and harried them. With no rest or remorse, she had searched out the Seven and cut away their power, their resources, and their precious numbers. She had scattered them, driven them ever outward, and pursued them some more.

  The absence of the Phraim-‘Eh at this assembly was an affront.

  There were no living Phraim-‘Eh left to attend.

  No longer a Prime, a Secondary, or a single Pilot among them, the remainder of the Seven clans gathered in the shadows of a cavern that did not belong to them. All of them hooded to conceal their identities, every Kurtherian present seethed in silence at being reduced to this deception by Death’s ability to read minds.

  Further, Gödel had culled those whose obsession with the moral high ground overrode their good sense to keep them all out of Death’s crosshairs.

  These were the survivors, the ones whose former quests for glory had been satisfied by smaller progressions along the path to Ascension. The ones who had been adaptable enough to recognize Gödel’s greater wisdom and knew that all of their lives depended upon her leadership.