Relic Hunted (Crax War Chronicles #2)

by Terry W. Ervin II

  Engineer McAllister named me a murderer. No doubt harbored in her mind. I was guilty of many things, but murder wasn’t among the list. After Gudkov’s death, we managed to work together despite an undercurrent of unresolved hostile emotions.

  For being brilliant, McAllister allowed her emotions to rule. Something I thought she’d gotten a handle on. Condescending and arrogant, those would always be with her, just like her brilliance.

  Everyone stared at me, waiting for me to speak. Even the carved trio’s faces were angled up as if gazing expectantly. I leaned back and crossed my arms. I wasn’t in the wrong. They’d be waiting until Loki’s Lady reached the single space dock in HD 97658’s system.

  One minute passed, then two. My unconcerned gaze moved between the pilot’s and McAllister’s. Neither was happy with me. Annoyed detestation showed in Pilot Detter’s expression. Seething hatred in McAllister’s. She might crack a few molars if she clenched her jaw any harder.

  Like on the Kalavar, I was the outsider. I should’ve been on the Nuclear Pitchfork, seeking Deputy Director Simms, and maybe Janice Tahgs. Not on Loki’s Lady, dealing with my past and Senior Engineer Nova McAllister.

  No matter how much people think they’ve grown, how quickly they revert to previous ways, long established patterns. Not just McAllister, but me as well.

  After another few breaths, Pilot Detter glanced at McAllister, and then addressed me. “Engineer McAllister would like to know why you felt it necessary to select those particular subjects for that carving that floats before us.”

  My eyes remained fixed on McAllister’s unblinking gaze boring in on me. “If it’s Engineer McAllister who truly wants to know, it should be her doing the asking.”

  “Specialist,” the pilot said sharply, “I am asking in her place to keep this conversation from escalating to violence.”

  Warp screw that notion. “It’s answers that she doesn’t want to hear that’ll result in her getting thumped.”

  Pilot Detter pointed at me. Her eyes narrowed. “Understand this, Specialist. Orphaned, I took you in to be a part of my crew—at considerable risk. Risk to everyone on board, our mission, and the vessel itself. Our mission being one vital to the war effort.”

  She leaned closer, her pointed finger becoming part of a fist pressed against the tabletop.

  My glare weakened. Gesturing to the carved bust trio, I said, “McAllister knew I carved wood. She fabricated tools for me while I was in cold sleep. I thought to return the favor—”

  “You bastard!” McAllister interjected. “You murdered Steffon. You have no right—”

  I cut her off. “Warp screw you. Lie to yourself. Lie to them. Don’t bother lying to me. I was there.” I leaned toward her with a sneer. “I did kill your Steffon.”

  Her face reddened ever more, more than I thought possible. Her freckles disappeared.

  “He pulled a sonic blade on me,” I said. “His fault for not using it fast enough.” I jabbed a finger at her. “If you’d’ve picked it up, I’d’ve bayonetted you, too.”

  I leaned back. “I don’t know why you were there and don’t care. I was there to draw the mob’s ire. We—me and the other security volunteers were supposed to die.”

  I didn’t add that we were too young and ignorant to know it.

  “Most of us did. Died by the dozens.”

  Recalling the moment, it was him, Steffon, or me. I chose me. Deep down I was sorry that he died in McAllister’s arms. I was sorry for him and the other thirteen I killed that day. For the others I wounded. For security specialists that died around me. Most only half trained. Sacrificed for a cause, or a reason they never knew.

  I snatched the bust trio and turned it to face McAllister, her eyes burning with murderous rage. What kept her from acting on that building rage? It was out of character.

  “There’s fourteen faces seared into my memory. That ten second encounter with your fiancé and his sonic blade…it was enough to carve this.”

  I slammed it on the table, everyone but McAllister staring at me, listening. Her narrow-eyed glare, even if she was hearing me, she wasn’t listening. She’d once named me an efficient killer. Thing is, the fourteen deaths at my hands, each one blackened a portion of my soul. All those that followed. For right or wrong, it’s dealing death.

  That dark space inside me welled up and I couldn’t look away from it. Couldn’t deny it. Something I’d never speak of, never share. Praying for forgiveness was futile. I didn’t deserve it.

  What drove me now was payback. Hawks, Heartwell, Capital Galactic, the Crax. My purpose. Nemo me impune lacessit…

  Suppressing my anger, my despair, I grabbed the busts, gripped them tight and snapped them apart, separating Steffon from McAllister and Gudkov.

  “Keesay,” McAllister seethed, but her fuming remarks certain to follow remained unsaid.

  O’Vorley shouted over the intercom, “Detter, McAllister, get up here! You need to see this.”

  Chapter 26

  With optical scans, Pilot Detter said we couldn’t be sure. I was sure, and so was McAllister.

  O’Vorley sat with me at the conference room table, which also served as the dining table. “Kra, You sure those are jettisoned bodies?”

  I finished chewing my walnut and raisin flavored energy bar and washed it down with a drink of vitamin fortified juice, green and tasting faintly of sour apples. It was one of Kent’s favorites. Not mine. I didn’t care for straws, but they were necessary in zero gravity.

  Nodding to his question, I added, “You’re going to doubt both me and McAllister?”

  “To what end?”

  McAllister estimated at least ninety bodies, but no more than one-hundred and ten. Ejected from the cylinder shaped dock capped by octagonal disks, opposite the planet with enough momentum to resist the pull of gravity. The CGIG bastards wanted them to remain in orbit, at least for a while. Long enough for their Crax masters to witness their continued treachery.

  “You know what I think,” I said.

  Through his straw, O’Vorley took long swallows of his apple flavored drink. “Maybe the Crax are already there.”

  “No Crax ships. The dock still has its def-sats and satellite. Freight shuttles still coming up and going back down to the mines. Only CGIG loyalists are there.”

  “Could be the other way around.”

  I rested my forearms on the table’s edge. “You really believe that, Kent? It’s loyalists that were jettisoned from the dock?”

  He looked away, not saying anything. His first direct taste of betrayal. Humans turning on their own kind in our fight for survival. He’d been close to it on Tallavaster, but no bodies. He’d been tracking, but it was more theory, more cat and mouse. Not space-frozen corpses. Men and women killed to prove a point. To prove commitment and loyalty.

  In theory, I could’ve been wrong, but knew I wasn’t. Despite our rift, McAllister and I agreed. “Pilot Detter said we’d know for sure in six hours.”

  The pilot sent the optical data for retransmission shortly after O’Vorley discovered it. Like O’Vorley, she didn’t want to believe what was in front of her eyes.

  Kent shrugged.

  I unbuckled and pushed away from the table. “Six hours. I plan to get some sleep until then.”

  Fleet’s surprise assault on the orbital dock was both fast and decisive. Every message rocket launched was destroyed before achieving condensed space travel. Rebellion against the dock’s Crax sympathizers aided the Colonial Marine landing squads, including hacking of the com-systems, disabling all radio communications. With no radio distress signals sent and no message rockets escaping, the approaching Behemoth class transport should arrive unaware of what happened.

  I watched the assault on the wall-mounted screen in Med Tech Devatha’s room, accompanied by the Bahklack. Her eyestalks remaining motionless, taking in the scene.

  Apparently the dock had retained its official name, the Bizmith Orbital Dock, as determined through narrow beam communicati
ons directed toward Loki’s Lady, still eight hours from reaching the dock.

  The captain of the Star Splitter, a refurbished battleship still showing hasty patchwork from recent combat, ordered the jettisoned bodies to remain undisturbed. The Star Splitter and her three escorting destroyers, and the assault troop transport, departed four hours before we arrived. She left behind a heavy freighter docked to the Bizmith Orbital Dock and presumably a battalion of Colonial Marines along with attack shuttles and breaching pods. They’d also deployed two new def-sats to replace those destroyed in the assault.

  What part, if any, we aboard the Loki’s Lady were to play wasn’t clear. Updated information estimated we’d arrive four hours before the Behemoth class transport. We might be ordered to depart. But with McAllister and the Bahklack, and the opportunity to catch some Primus Crax ships unprepared, hopefully board them…I hoped if they went, I’d be included. McAllister could vouch for me, as a personal guard. Capital Galactic’s ruthless treachery had pushed McAllister’s hatred of me aside. If I didn’t ward her, then the Bahklack whose language I comprehended would be a reason for me to participate. On that second point I prepared to argue my case. Electronic warfare could disrupt computers and their translation programs. There was the Official Galactic Sign Language, but it has limitations.

  Taking on the traitors, and the Crax. It’s what I wanted to do more than anything else. I shrugged to myself. Some decisions were beyond my control. At least Pilot Detter ordered McAllister to energize our shuttle’s gravity plate. It made cleaning and oiling my shotgun, duty revolver and bayonet far easier.

  Chapter 27

  O’Vorley and I followed McAllister and the Bahklack down one of the aging freighter’s narrow corridors. Since it was occupied by Colonial Marines, I carried my shotgun slung. I’d also brought along my bayonet, revolver, stun baton and four fragmentation grenades. From somewhere on Loki’s Lady, O’Vorley had found me a combat helmet. It wasn’t an exact match to his. Mine accommodated my earphone headgear and gear wired into my com-set attached to my belt. Being grayish green to match my coveralls and unmarred, I suspected he or McAllister had fashioned it for me while I was in cold sleep.

  As usual, McAllister knew more about what was going on than I did, and was able to anticipate equipment needs. I’d’ve wagered credits she was responsible for my helmet. Mentioning that, however, would reopen a nasty wound.

  Next to me, and behind McAllister, O’Vorley was checking his clamshell computer clip. He carried a slung medium duty laser carbine, MP pistol and, to my surprise, a sonic rapier.

  McAllister’s black backpack bobbed with each of her strides. It, like her satchel, was filled with electronic equipment. The Bahklack ahead of me had a number of faceted devices, mainly of opaque gray and whites, attached to its synthetic harness. McAllister had a holstered MP pistol riding on her belt. That didn’t impress me. What did impress me was the baton dangling from a clip attached to the alien thrall’s harness. I’d seen one used. Its energy beam was more lethal than O’Vorley’s, McAllister’s and my full firepower combined.

  We were supposed to be part of the second wave, and not see direct combat except in an emergency support role. McAllister and the alien were assigned to hack into the Crax systems in support of the boarding attempt. The Fleet knew of her abilities and that she was aboard Loki’s Lady, and had already integrated her and her alien associate into the plan. O’Vorley was her personal, or bodyguard. I was assigned to the Bahklack. That made sense, since I could communicate with it, at least one way, if computer assistance failed. It to me. Without computers, all I had to respond back with was the Official Galactic Sign Language. My sign language knowledge was basic, but I wouldn’t have to read signs from the thrall’s small, manipulative appendages. The genetically modified section of its main claw carried chromatophores that conveyed direct communication.

  The freighter’s metal grates clumped beneath our boots and clicked at the Bahklack’s chitinous steps. Somehow, the crab-like alien kept its six legs and feet from sticking in any of the grates’ larger rectangular gaps. They reminded me of jointed table legs

  About a fifth of the old-style fluorescent bulbs were out, and many of those still working flickered irregularly. Patches of rust showed through scraped and bubbled tan paint. The Fleet didn’t expect the old freighter to survive, or at least not depart the system. The Iron Oxen, a write-off casualty.

  Resting my hand on my holstered revolver, O’Vorley looked over at me. I winked. “Good thing we didn’t leave anything on board.”

  “What?” he asked, closing his clip and sliding it into a thigh pocket. In addition to our protective coveralls, we each had plasticized armor vests.

  Before I could answer, McAllister announced, “Another forty meters.”

  Ahead a Colonial Marine armed with an MP rifle stood watch. His eyes narrowed in suspicion as we approached the open pressure door. The Capital Galactic murderous treachery had put many on edge.

  Orders, conversations and the sounds of activity emanated from the hold.

  “Hack Team Four,” McAllister said, stopping three paces away from the Marine. “We’re assigned to a breaching pod in Cargo Hold Three.”

  “Hard Luck Hank,” the Marine challenged.

  “Screw the galaxy,” McAllister replied, a wry sense of humor seeping into her voice.

  “BP-J-132,” the Marine replied, his eyes no longer narrowed, but his baritone voice carried no emotion. He stepped aside. “Aft section of the hold.”

  A J-series breaching pod. The last update I’d read about was the G-series. It made sense. Being able to cut through a Crax ship’s hull, especially a Primus Crax ship, would be a challenge. Then I wondered if the upgrades were along the lines envisioned for the security bots. Rigging and shoehorning an already established model to make due. More cost effective measures coming at the cost of maximum combat capability.

  Cargo Hold 3 was one of four dorsal holds, this one was starboard aft. The Iron Oxen also had four ventral holds, two running fore to aft, starboard side, and a parallel portside pair. The holds, being large and cavernous, had breaching pods, along with a lesser number of attack shuttles and converted medical shuttles filling the bottom. Closed and sealed above were the pair of massive doors that would swing open like trap doors to release the hold’s contents. I always reminded myself of a major difference being in space, was that the freighter’s gravity plate, which bisected the ship, dictated what was ‘up’ and what was ‘down.’

  Each of the breaching pods resembled a squat cone, reminiscent of an ancient lunar exploration capsule, but on steroids with a trio of powerful thrust engines mounted on the narrow end. Strategically placed around the pod’s hull were sixteen maneuvering thrusters, each capable of swiveling nearly seventy degrees. They reminded me of exhaust pipes. I knew the pod’s base held both mechanical and magnetic clamps, and a combination of molecular saws and laser torches.

  Standing on the small observation balcony encompassed by a single waist-high steel tube, I counted sixteen breaching pods in two rows of eight. Scattered among them were six older-model attack craft. They looked like oversized torpedo fighter bombers from World War II, but the size of heavy bombers of that era, without the propeller and with stubby wings that were nothing more than weapon mounts. There were also four emergency medical shuttles, two converted from ground assault shuttles, and two from obsolete long range shuttles. The presence of converted medical shuttles equipped to stabilize and evacuate wounded both comforted and worried me. Even though they bore the recognizable red cross several places on their hull, the red and white emblems were less than a foot in diameter. Our enemies didn’t distinguish between combat and medical ships. That each medical shuttle’s single beam laser turret hadn’t been removed emphasized the fact.

  Why our team hadn’t entered at the ground level, I didn’t know. We’d have to climb down the aluminum ladder to the hold’s floor fifty feet below, after lowering the Bahklack using the hoist bolted t
o the wall next to the balcony. I figured the alien’s synthetic harness was stronger than it looked. Probably strong as the two-centimeter-thick winch cable, plus the thrall had an anti-gravity generator attached to its harness as backup. It’d only use a fraction of its stored energy to arrest the fifty foot drop, should the cable or harness fail. Or if it decided to clamber over the steel railing and leap.

  I signaled O’Vorley over to show him how to use the hoist’s manual controls.

  McAllister managed not to roll her eyes—almost. “Bide, Bleys,” she said, before calling over her shoulder, “Private Raynes, are the stairs in operable order?”

  “Affirmative, Engineer,” the Marine replied. “A moment.” He then muttered a request into his collar mic.

  Less than a minute later slats built into the wall hinged down, forming a set of stairs to the hold’s floor. Several slats hadn’t deployed, leaving gaps, and a few rested several degrees beyond perpendicular to the wall. With the steps extending only a meter out, I wasn’t sure if the fiddler crab-like thrall could manage them.

  There was always his anti-grav device.

  With apparent confidence, it followed us, descending sideways with its backside against the wall. Its eyestalks bent and swiveled, keeping track of the gaps, each rapid step like an ice pick tapping a steel can.

  We wove our way through the breaching pods and attack shuttles. The Bahklack drew fewer glances and stares from the Colonial Marines and maintenance crews than I expected. Maybe because of the half dozen Chicher scurrying about.

  The three-foot aliens looked like brown-furred rats that had maybe an eighth of their bloodline descending from equally large squirrels. While they could walk and maneuver on hind feet, they mainly scampered around on all fours. Their harnesses and equipment belts took this into account, along with their prehensile tails.