Relic Hunted (Crax War Chronicles #2)

by Terry W. Ervin II

  I’d seen one Umbelgarri from a distance. They had small hand-like manipulative limbs that extended from under their jaw, just like their thralls had extending from the front of their exoskeleton. The Umbelgarri used very low frequency sounds as part of their communication, like pachyderms. I was trying to recall if Dr. Goldsen had spoken to the Bahklack I’d seen. I remembered exchanging signals with it using the universal sign language I’d learned while training to be a security specialist.

  “Dr. Goldsen,” I said, “can you cut the power out there? Put’em in the dark?”

  She looked away from her computer screen. “That is something I should have already done.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Maybe it’ll give me some element of surprise.”

  “You sure that’s a nuke?” Gorgio asked.

  “Odds are it is. But I can’t be one hundred percent sure.”

  She came up next to me. “Want some help?”

  “It’s a suicide mission,” I said.

  “Maybe,” she replied.

  “With your numbed shoulder and my gimpy hip, it’ll be interesting.” I handed her my MP pistol. “The plan is for us to make it to Dr. Goldsen’s office.” I patted my holstered revolver. “And for me to put as many AP rounds into it as I can.”

  “Better to die trying,” Gorgio said, “than to just stand here.”

  Dr. Goldsen came up next to us, holding her laser carbine. “I have set the computer to accept our voice commands.” She blinked before adjusting her glasses. “There is no reason I shouldn’t accompany you.”

  “Okay,” I said with a reassuring nod. She might prove little more than a target. Maybe improve the odds all the way to a micro-fraction above absolute zero. “Let’s lower the lights in here and let our eyes adjust a few seconds. Earlier Stegmars had shoulder lights. Those in there now are sure to have some, but if not, I have a penlight in my breast pocket for taking final aim. If I go down, my revolver’s the only thing that’ll penetrate. Thumb back the hammer and pull the trigger.”

  Gorgio nodded. Dr. Goldsen removed her eyeglasses and slid them into her lab coat’s breast pocket. Both were wide-eyed, breathing quickly.

  “I’ll l-lead,” Gorgio said. “Be the pin cushion, so stay right behind me.”

  I nodded. They were being far braver—more resolute than expected. Maybe it was a sense of fatalism, something I understood. “Good plan. Doctor, you’re in charge of the voice commands. Have the door drop behind us. My sound dampener will be off. Hopefully the gun blasts will cause some confusion.”

  Dr. Goldsen looked at me and our eyes met. “It is as if I’m one of the individuals that played a part in your Documentary, Specialist Keesay.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, trying to think of something else to say. “Not very fun, is it.”

  She shrugged, her grip tightening on her laser carbine pointed at the floor. “A depressing aspect is that it appears unlikely I shall have the opportunity to share the experience with my colleagues.” She frowned. “None stationed on Io, at least.”

  I made eye contact with Tech Gorgio and then back to Dr. Goldsen. “This is what it’s like to fight on the losing side.” I stood up straight. “Nemo me impune lacessit.”

  Dr. Goldsen took a deep breath and ordered the lights off in our area.

  I took a quick glance through my ocular before shutting it down. A Gar Crax and the Selgum appeared to be conferring next to the portable nuke. I gripped my shotgun and made sure the safety was off. All 00 buckshot shells. There wouldn’t be time to aim anyway. My hip was even feeling a bit less numb. Right.

  “What’s that?” Gorgio asked.

  From behind came clicking on the stone floor. I spun, my shotgun leveled and ready. Rectangular patches of colors like splotchy rainbows on computers screen approached.

  Umbelgarri thralls. “Bahklacks,” I said.

  “That they are,” Dr. Goldsen agreed.

  Umbelgarri communicated through shifting colors, something like chromatophores used by squid native to Earth’s oceans. I always figured their thralls’ major claw bore the color shifting region due to genetic manipulation.

  I translated what the lead Bahklack’s claw stated for Dr. Goldsen and Tech Gorgio. “Cut energy to scaled and chitin-skinned enemy intruders. Eight and five tenth Earth seconds. Open door we installed for the masters. Six and four tenths seconds. Close door. We do not succeed, you three humans of three different worker classes succeed. Understood, sub-warrior class Keesay?”

  I hand-signaled, “Understood,” even as I said it, not knowing if the ambient light from their claws allowed the aliens to observe my gestures. By my count there were eight Bahklacks. We stepped aside as their claws’ light faded. With a whisper and a gentle nudge, I made sure three humans wouldn’t be in the line of the enemy’s fire.

  I set my ocular on standby. After a few more seconds Dr. Goldsen said, “Cut all power to main laboratory.” After a breath she ordered, “Door to main laboratory, open. Shut after six point four seconds.”

  The Umbelgarri thralls were already clicking forward. Confused chittering clicks and hissing Crax commands commenced in the main lab area, followed by grunting squawks, and hissing cries of pain. Then silence after the door dropped.

  I turned on my ocular as Dr. Goldsen and Gorgio made their way to the computer wall screen. The doctor had called for it to turn on but kept the lights off.

  The fight was over in less than thirty seconds. With their fully encompassing shields and hand—claw—held beam weapons, the enemy didn’t stand a chance.

  All of the Stegmar warriors and Crax were down, severed and seared. The walls and equipment showed biting slashes and scars of the Bahkack’s energy beams. The Umbelgarri thralls ignored one of their number that didn’t survive. Its corpse, toppled against our former barricade, had several fist-sized holes still frothing from where the Crax caustic pellets had eaten through both energy shield and exoskeleton.

  While the two of the Bahklacks were busy disassembling the Crax nuke and the other five formed up in a line blocking the entrance to Dr. Goldsen’s office, a squad of Colonial Marines reached the lab. Blood and scattered contusions attested to how hard they’d fought to reach us. Their military grade MP rifles with 20mm grenade launchers, and heavy duty lasers held ready. There wasn’t an enemy left standing, at least not in or around the research lab.

  Gorgio said, “We sure could’ve used that kind of firepower…” Her voice held no emotion as it trailed off, but her eyes held buckets of tears. She turned to Dr. Goldsen and they embraced.

  My com-set came to life, filled with chatter. It settled on a frequency. “Special Agent Keesay.” It was Caylar.

  “Here, Agent Guymin,” I said.

  “You made it then.”

  “Correct,” I said. “That’s affirmative.”

  “Excellent,” he replied. “Agent Vingee did too.” He paused. “A lot of people didn’t. Report.”

  Chapter 11

  The aging military ground assault shuttle ascended from the Io Colony’s heavily damaged landing bay. Its nose was smooth and polished while the boxy body displayed multiple battle scars and patching. Just like I remembered the Evanescent Thunder’s assault shuttle when she transported me down to Io on my way to being hooked up to the Cranaltar, but she’d gained a few more gouges and patchwork since.

  Guymin, Vingee and I sat, buckled down on a padded bench, with laser carbines and armored vests secured to the walls behind and across from us. It was nice to travel aboard her sitting upright.

  Someone higher up in Intel must have influenced the patrol gunboat’s orders, possibly changing them. She was to take us to the new rendezvous point with the Nuclear Pitchfork, our long range shuttle. Intelligence no longer wanted us to be seen, and possibly reported, departing in the Nuclear Pitchfork. The chances of that, I thought, were pretty slim. Eighty-five percent of the colony’s personnel, including the Colonial Marines stationed there, died resisting the assault. Another five percent were inj
ured. Rumor had it the Umbelgarri and their more numerous thralls had taken the brunt of the assault, but managed to resist far better than we did.

  Cleaning up, eight portable nukes had been found among the destroyed Crax ground assault ships scattered across Io’s surface. Destroyed by our nuclear-tipped rockets. We’d gotten lucky.

  Eight collaborators had been identified. Two were still alive, including the one who’d taken down the colony’s communication system. I hoped they’d get what they deserved. If anybody would’ve asked me, my recommendation would include Dr. Goldsen hooking them up to the Cranaltar IV to sift their minds for information. Amazingly, her lab wasn’t nearly one of the most damaged areas, at least with respect to the human part of the colony.

  Guymin, next to me, was reading something on his clamshell computer clip. Vingee, to Guymin’s right, leaned back with her eyes closed, maybe trying to catch twenty minutes’ sleep.

  Guymin commented, “Dr. Goldsen’s after action debriefing has some interesting content.”

  “If you recall, Special Agent, I was there.”

  He mirrored my smile. “Did you know that everyone but Dr. Chahal and Analyst Frist were recommended for the Cranaltar project by Dr. Maximar Drizdon Senior?”

  Dr. Drizdon was the famed military strategist credited with every major success in the campaign against the Silicates. His wife and daughter had taken identities as R-Tech colonists aboard the Kalavar. I’d helped them escape the civil transport during a Crax assault and boarding. I’d gotten Maximar Jr. to Tallavaster, where he and his mother escaped before the Crax established a blockade, followed by an all-out assault.

  Some believed Dr. Drizdon had precognitive abilities. I didn’t put much stock in such things, although I’d seen some odd coincidences during the time his son had been in my company.

  “They all stood and fought,” I said. “Fought hard. Every one of them went down facing the enemy.”

  “Maybe ultimately that was why Dr. Drizdon recommended that they be part of Dr. Goldsen’s team.”

  “Did he recommend Tech Marshner?”

  Guymin shook his head.

  I looked up from our compartment to the pilot. From my angle I couldn’t see through the forward windshield. I was sure it wasn’t called that, but being an R-Tech, I’d never learned what the official name of the pilot’s window in a space-faring shuttle was. Maybe it was pilot’s window. Or view port?

  Instead of asking Guymin what it was called, I asked, “Did Dr. Drizdon plan the counterattack?”

  He shrugged. “He’s chairman of the Strategic Tactics and Planning Committee. That’s common knowledge. Whether he predicted a Crax attack into the solar system, specifically here and now? That wouldn’t be knowledge shared.”

  I thought about the taskforce that showed up. The heavy carrier Hornet Nest, supported by the battleships Soul Scorcher and Star Splitter, and battle cruiser Spine Crusher, eight light cruisers, nine destroyers, and eleven destroyer escorts. Yellow Nine Green Three, the Umbelgarri battle cruiser returned to the fight, as did Thor’s Thunder. A significant taskforce to be organized on emergency notice considering the war ravaged condition of the fleet.

  All of the Crax ships had been destroyed, with two self-destructing to avoid capture. The cost of the victory? Spine Crusher was a pitted hulk, and only two of the light cruisers, the Red Bison and Red Rhino, survived. Over half the destroyers and smaller escort ships appeared to be miniature versions of Spine Crusher. Not one capital or escort ship escaped some amount of damage. How many fighters and attack shuttles survived to launch again from Hornet Nest? I’d have wagered fewer than a dozen.

  That’s what happens when I-Techs go up against A-Techs. That’s why humanity was losing the war.

  What happens when humans turn on their own kind? Nearly ninety percent casualties among the Io Colony defenders in less than an hour. Such treachery precipitated the rate at which humanity was losing the war.

  But the taskforce did arrive with a troop transport capable of combat dropping a light regiment of Colonial Marines. They’re the ones who exterminated every surviving Stegmar and Crax in the human sector of Io—except for those few that had fought their way down to and wrested the main research area to the lab from me and Dr. Goldsen’s staff. And except for the handful captured for interrogation.

  Maybe the best news was that the Umbelgarri battle cruiser chased down the three Primus medium cruisers when they tried to disengage and escape. It was clear from several videos Guymin had shared that Yellow Nine Green Three got shot up pretty good in the process.

  Being an Intelligence agent had some benefits, and I was sure that Guymin shared only a fraction of what he knew. That didn’t bother me. It was more than I’d learn as a 4th Class Security Specialist.

  Guymin also implied that those on Io caught collaborating were to be threatened with a session attached to the Cranaltar IV if they didn’t cooperate. Something I wholeheartedly supported.

  Dr. Goldsen always seemed more academic in the way she viewed the universe, isolated from harsh realities, including violence. A determined bitterness crept into her demeanor after losing most of her research team. Whether it’d last, I wasn’t sure. What I was sure of was that her bitterness would affect how aggressively she employed the Cranaltar in probing the traitors’ minds for secrets. To hell with how it might cause suffering while it scrambled their brains, resulting in near certain death.

  The Nuclear Pitchfork VII was to dock on Evanescent Thunder’s starboard side while the patrol gunboat orbited Ceres. Those in charge of our itinerary believed the dwarf planet had fewer unreliable eyes than Io, if any of those unreliable eyes knew what to report.

  We stood down the corridor from the docking hatch with our gear packed in duffle bags.

  Standing with her arms crossed, Vingee asked, “Special Agent Guymin, in your experience, how often do ship captains wait in the landing bay to welcome aboard a specific member of an Intel team?”

  She was referring to our boarding the Evanescent Thunder, and Captain Hollaway greeting us, specifically me. The meeting had been brief, professional, and I enjoyed shaking hands with an accomplished captain genuinely happy to see me again.

  “If the leader of the team is who you’re referring to?” Guymin began but stopped with a grin. “Personal acquaintance. You know as well as I do that Captain Hollaway met Keesay on his journey to Io.” The plain-faced Intel man shrugged. “He had to meet with us anyway, finalize plans for them to trail us.”

  I listened without comment, knowing what she was getting at, just as Guymin certainly did.

  “You know my point, Agent Guymin,” she said. “Keesay was listed, by name.”

  “He’d have recognized our team member when we eventually met.”

  “Right,” she said. “However, the ship’s captain made a special point to greet him, because he saw and recognized the name. Who else may we come across on our mission that might give special attention after recognizing Keesay, or his name?”

  She’d gone far enough. “Agent Vingee,” I said, “our handlers, higher ups in Intel, approved—or at least didn’t stop me from…being me. Take it up with them, because I’m not changing unless specifically directed to do so.” I pointed to my coveralls’ patch, identifying me as 4th Class Security Specialist Bleys.

  This mission might be a long one. Maybe it was good that I’d spend a portion of it in cold sleep. And cold sleep was very unpleasant to wake up from. It was like suffering from the flu while getting whacked all over with a rubber nightstick.

  “Speaking of Documentary observations,” Guymin said to me, “I expected you to comment on your cover name.”

  I thought about it a second. “Right. While in confinement aboard the Kalavar I read Roger Zelazny’s Chronicles of Amber.”

  Viewers of the Documentary saw what I saw, and had access to many of my thoughts at the time. Guymin was one of those viewers. It was a minor aspect in the big scheme of the Documentary, but no reason he wouldn’t
know Bleys was one of my favorite characters.

  “You could’ve picked worse,” I said. “What’re your cover names?” I glanced up at Agent Vingee, standing next to me with her arms still crossed. “If you have them.”

  Guymin said, “None literary based. A pattern might be detected.” He pointed to himself. “Mr. Ronald Chaney.” He pointed to Vingee. “I’m her assistant. She’s Ms. Amy Long, mid-level executive for Mayfair Mining and Industrials. She’ll be wearing Mayfair’s company colors: turquoise and emerald green, with an orange scarf only forty percent covered in black. My tie will have sixty-five percent black.”

  Professionals, such as lawyers, politicians and business representatives had a visual system to identify their area, where males wore ties and females wore scarves. The more black patterned into the identifying accessory, the lower ranking the individual. Vingee’s orange scarf would show she had some authority, but wasn’t yet approaching the upper echelon of power and influence. It made sense, as someone higher up would be better known. Even so, with an assistant, Guymin, and a bodyguard, me, it’d demonstrate she had clout within Mayfair. The more I thought about it, the more I figured our posing as Mayfair reps might backfire on the company, causing repercussions I could only guess at—if word got out they authorized Intel reps to use their corporation as a cover. Of course, maybe they didn’t know, or maybe they were paid well to compensate for the risk. Maybe Vingee actually had the authority to set a preliminary deal in motion. My hope was that Mayfair’s board and executives were loyal to humanity’s struggle, and didn’t care about the consequences, financial or otherwise.

  “So,” I asked Vingee, “are you really negotiating on behalf of Mayfair?”

  She nodded once. “Agent Guymin and I have been given parameters for an acceptable deal. My father designed hydroponic components. Oxygen mixers and UV filters and intensifiers. A mechanical engineer, responsible for three patents.”