Relic Hunted (Crax War Chronicles #2)

by Terry W. Ervin II

  The Chicher were directing some tan-clad maintenance techs as they moved and loaded hexagonal crates into some of the pods. They appeared to be constructed from layers of authentic wooden slats, but with unusual swirling woodgrain patterns.

  That the Chicher were available to participate in the military action on such short notice said something about how humanity and the pack-structured aliens had integrated aspects of their forces. But assaulting the Crax, especially the Primus Crax? Except for the Umbelgarri, the Primus were arguably the most technologically advanced species known to humanity.

  The Chicher were R-Tech, still using vacuum tubes in many of their computer systems. But what did that matter? I was shouldering a shotgun, technology that predated humanity’s use of vacuum tubes.

  How the Chicher managed to become a space-faring race continued to be debated. My theory was they stole, reverse engineered, and modified equipment for their purposes. The Felgans were the first to encounter the Chicher, about two centuries ago, and tried to conquer them. At the time the Chicher were just beginning to explore their home solar system. Somehow they repelled the Felgan incursion, probably owing at least in part to their tenacity.

  Ahead of me the Umbelgarri thrall’s eyestalks swiveled about as it clicked across the hold’s steel plate floor.

  Overhead floodlights came on, supplementing the marginal fluorescent illumination. It created subtle shadows but immediately increased the speed at which the maintenance techs worked. They still used their flashlights and illumination beams attached to headbands and portable halogen lamps.

  McAllister snapped closed her clip and called over her shoulder at me. “I imagine you’ll be saying, ‘It’s a small universe,’ Bleys. I’ll attribute it to the fact that even highly improbable events can occur.”

  She wanted me to request clarification, so I replied, “If you say so, Senior Engineer.”

  Her pair of braids bounced as she laughed. Her hint of mirth was drowned out by the hollers, shouted orders, and muttered conversations audible above the mechanical din.

  A droning voice over the intercom announced: “Two hours until boarding and button up.”

  O’Vorley leaned close to me. “In two of the other cargo holds, they’re emplacing ion cannons.”

  The Chicher employed ion cannons on their battlewagons, and the Troh-gots had more advanced ones. Humans had them too, usually as a secondary ship-mounted weapon. More often they supplemented ground-based batteries. Not as powerful as the Troh-gots’ but more accurate than the Chicher’s.

  O’Vorley caught my expression as we sidestepped a squad of Marines followed by a dolly bot loaded down with weapons and ammo. “There’s no time for that,” I said. “Even if there was, they’d stick out on a freighter’s hull like a pair of Gar Crax on a llama farm.”

  “No, you’re right,” O’Vorley said. “They would. They’re emplacing them inside the cargo holds on tracks so they can slide forward. They’re precutting portholes and emplacing shaped explosives to blow out the opening. They’ll have a limited field of fire.”

  “Correct,” I said, thinking of the cannons on tracks, poking out like iron muzzles on ancient sail-driven war galleys. O’Vorley must’ve gotten his information from McAllister, or maybe Pilot Detter. “Even a glancing strike will disable a Behemoth transport. Gives the breaching pods a better chance to close. For us to board.”

  “Disable the Crax too.”

  Shaking my head, I said, “Maybe,” knowing it wasn’t likely. “Disrupt some systems, temporarily. Not disable.”

  We approached our assigned breaching pod, one of the smaller variants. BP-J-132 was painted in bold black paint across the non-reflective reinforced steel hull. Infused with crystalline and ceramic components, the pods were supposed to be resistant to lasers and energy beams. I’d seen the emerald green weapons of the Primus Crax lance through the armored hulls of capital ships. That said what chances our pod had against the Crax weapons.

  Also painted to the right of the pod’s number was something reminiscent of nose art on attack shuttles and fighters. A hand-crank can opener with a stylize engine—like an old-style motorcycle’s spitting exhaust smoke—attached to the cranking gear. Scrawled in angular script was the pod’s apparent name, Turbo Crank.

  Out of the corner of his eye O’Vorley caught my smile and shook his head.

  I said, “Guess you were correct, Engineer McAllister.”

  McAllister didn’t turn her head. “It’s even better than paintings of general issue Relic equipment, Bleys.”

  Two maintenance techs were sealing the armored plate that protected the housing for the pod’s auxiliary metallic hydrogen fuel canisters. Next to them stood a Colonial Marine Sergeant. What caught my attention first was his scarred scalp with patches of dark hair cropped short. Thinking of a globe of the Earth, if the scars were oceans, the eighth inch hair resembled continents. Caustic burns from Crax rounds. The Marine must’ve taken a pellet or two to the head. They splattered and he managed to get his helmet off before it was completely burned through. And he survived the associated toxins that must’ve reached his blood stream, from even a light exposure. That marked him as tough, even among Colonial Marines.

  Something about his build, a little on the thin side, and his stance stirred a memory.

  The sergeant dismissed the maintenance techs and ducked into the pod’s hatch.

  From inside a Chicher’s chattering was translated into a mechanical voice after several seconds of delay. “Scarred Warrior Leader, the orb is lowering toward the time when we swarm.”

  If the chittering language hadn’t announced the presence of a Chicher, the hollow translation, along with its odd word selection and syntax, would have. At least for me.

  A tightness in my throat arose as I recalled the Chicher diplomat that died rescuing me. Died from a Crax round dissolving his innards. I swallowed hard, rubbing my throat’s scar from the diplomat’s bite. The last act of his brief death ritual.

  McAllister knew I got along well with the Chicher. She probably thought it was because they were R-Techs like me. Maybe there was something to that, but more, I knew what it was like to stand alone, like a crayfish in a pond filled with frogs. And the Chicher were a pack species, most comfortable when in a group of their own. Unfortunately, their assignments often left them isolated, not only from their pack, but all members of their species. Something far harder for them to deal with than it was for me.

  Why didn’t they pair them up? Did they assign the individuals based on a psychological profile that would enable them to endure isolation from their own kind, or at least bond with humans they named surrogate pack members?

  I looked ahead. A Bahklack thrall, single-mindedly driven to serve their masters, and not very empathetic, wouldn’t make good surrogate pack members. I doubted the Umbelgarri would. The Chicher didn’t trust Felgans, so that left humans. Their only ally that might do so.

  Those questions and conclusion raced through my mind as we stopped outside the pod’s entry hatch. McAllister whispered back to me, “Quite the homecoming for such an expansive galaxy.”

  O’Vorley looked a little puzzled, but still grinned. He knew some about my history with the Chicher.

  McAllister looked over her shoulder and winked at me, then called into the breaching pod. “Sergeant Justice Smith, Hack Team Four reporting.”

  I kept a straight face at the shouted name. The stance and build. Corporal Smith, the last time I saw him, he was engaged in a losing battle in the Kalavar’s shuttle bay. During my pretrial, what seemed decades ago, I’d been led to believe Corporal Smith died helping Veronica Drizdon escape, while I escorted her son, Maximar Drizdon Jr., to an exploration shuttle. Both hunted by the enemy. Their survival and freedom a priority even as the Crax and Stegmar boarding parties overwhelmed the Kalavar’s crew, passengers and squad of Colonial Marines.

  The scarred Marine emerged, flanked by a corporal and a private. His eyes, those of Corporal Justice Smith—now a
sergeant—fixed on McAllister and narrowed in recognition. “Engineer McAllister.”

  Smith’s two fellow Marines appeared more interested in the Bahklack’s presence until their sergeant glanced my way.

  His eyes widened as he stepped past McAllister, between her and the Umbelgarri thrall to shake my hand. Patting me on the shoulder, his voice boomed, “Security Specialist Keesay!”

  Despite the din, nearby eyes turned our way.

  I signaled with my eyes down to my name patch, and he checked out my duty coveralls. “Bleys? You steal some unsuspecting sec-spec’s uniform?”

  “Nope,” I said. “I am who it reads.”

  Smith’s left eyebrow rose for a few seconds until he came to a conclusion. “Right, Specialist Bleys. Sorry.” He looked over at Kent. “Specialist O’Vorley, we’ve met, right?”

  “In that you are correct,” Kent said. “Briefly on the Mavinrom Dock.”

  Smith offered his hand to Kent and they shook.

  “I thought so,” Smith said. He stepped back and shot a glance at the thrall. It stood still as a statue, except for its stalk eyes taking in the Marines and the surrounding activity. “Engineer McAllister, the lieutenant is attending the final mission brief.” He swung his arm toward the pod’s hatch. “This here is Corporal Pallish and Private Umpernilli. Ignore them and step inside. I’ll give you the tour, short that it’ll be, and introduce your team to the rest of the squad, unimpressive as they might appear.”

  “Appear?” McAllister asked sarcastically. “Appearances can be deceiving with Colonial Marines, right?”

  “Right,” he said, shrugging. “You may not benefit from the tour, but the rest of your team might.”

  During our tour, Corporal Pallish and Private Umpernilli volunteered to get some additional gear. Smith’s eyebrows flitted up in surprise, but with terse directives he sent Pallish to gather some additional first aid supplies and Umpernilli to check on additional battery packs, ordering both not to muck around.

  A breaching pod was little more than a capsule with clamping and cutting gear on one end and a pilot nestled up between the engines on the other. A circle of seats with harnesses lined the circular wall. Equipment was stowed in gear boxes and netting beneath the seats with additional storage space in an octagonal locker bay thrust up like a shaft in the center. It reminded me of an old-style roller coaster ride with brown lockers from high school three arm lengths out of reach when seated. That meant room for a boarding squad loaded with equipment to maneuver.

  Clear white lettering on the boxes and lockers identified contents, from emergency oxygen tanks and masks to hand tools and spare ammo. The white letters reflected the internal lighting like polished mother of pearl in the otherwise steel gray walls and floor grating, and brown storage and seating.

  The pilot, a Fleet lieutenant named Arnold, and Smith showed us our assigned seats, folded them down, adjusting the harness fittings and seat height from the floor. To the right of each seat was a vertical storage bin for weapons and gear, with quick release straps. O’Vorley and I took the opportunity to strap our shouldered firearms into their slots.

  The pod was sparse and uncomfortable, but all it needed to do was transport boarding teams from the launch ship to the enemy ship—and back if a retreat was called for.

  Two Marines were removing one of the seats while two others installed auxiliary adjustable harnesses for the Bahklack. The alien stood silently along a pair of folded up seats, eye stalks focused on the Chicher as it chattered at a maintenance tech installing a pair of pallets that would hold one of the hexagonal crates lined with wooden slats. In between bursts of the power drill’s whine, a muffled buzz filled the drill’s momentary silence. It reminded me of my Uncle’s honeybee hives. The Chicher stood next to the crate, paws or hands resting on it, sounding a rapid-fire clucking.

  Pilot Arnold’s deep voice sparred with McAllister’s as she argued over some obscure computer readout. He scratched the back of his bald head and calmly explained that yes, the software is out of date, but functional, and that she wasn’t authorized to install an updated version. O’Vorley moved over to intervene as the pilot warned that if she attempted to interface with the pod’s systems he’d shoot her. A hard stare and hand on his MP pistol suggested he wasn’t joking.

  Smith commented to me, “She’s never going to change.”

  I shook my head, showing my agreement.

  Smith rested a hand on my shoulder. “You’re partner’s got patience, that’s for sure.”

  “Maybe we should name him Saint O’Vorley.”

  The Marine lieutenant’s arrival interrupted Sergeant Smith’s laughter. It took a little longer for the scowling pilot and cursing McAllister to notice.

  Chapter 28

  We sat in our assigned seats aboard BP-J-132, nicknamed Turbo Crank. Apparently ‘Can Opener’ was a popular name among breaching pods so Lieutenant Burian and everyone else referred to her as Turbo Crank. The lieutenant gave us the run down on our anti-grav equipment and overall part in the planned assault.

  Second Lieutenant Burian was a middle-aged lanky man with a cutting sense of ironic humor, referencing to just about everything in this mission. He seemed a bit old to be a lieutenant, but McAllister leaned close and showed me a screen shot of the lieutenant’s history on her clamshell clip. He was computer programmer and owner of a part-time gunsmith business, specialized in customizing high-powered MP rifles for hunting expeditions.

  Like so many others, the war came and he volunteered. Less than a month out of officer training, he was given this thrown-together squad, now on a hastily organized assault mission. Little time to mold them into a cohesive unit.

  The lieutenant sounded technologically astute with a firm grasp of an apparent infinity of details. He also leaned heavily on his veteran NCO’s experience. It suggested he and Smith made a good team.

  Maybe, just maybe, we all wouldn’t die in the next few hours.

  The lieutenant glanced up at Turbo Crank’s chronometer. “Smith, where are Corporal Pallish and Private Umpernilli?”

  Smith reiterated, “I sent Pallish and Umpernilli to get additional first aid gear and batteries after Hack Team Four arrived. I’ll check on it.” Immediately Smith put a hand to his ear and sent a harsh query just above a whisper to the missing corporal and private.

  After widening his eyes in an ‘it figures’ expression, Lt. Burian spoke over Smith. “No sense wasting time.” He held up a harness with eight faceted objects attached in a square pattern, four to the front, and four across the back. The objects looked like Umbelgarri technology, each metallic and the size of a sliced golf ball. “Shared Umbelgarri gear,” he said, nodding to the Bahklack.

  Through its electronic translator, the rote voice emanated from the Umbelgarri thrall. “I recognize and comprehend this aspect of the Masters’ innovative ingenuity. Do you require that I expound upon the bestowed boon, lowest echelon of leadership cast directing the contents of this archaic infesting craft?”

  The Bahklack rarely spoke. Even so, intuitively I recognized the thrall went out of its way to be both polite and respectful.

  Lt. Burian turned and blinked several times before answering, “Negative, but I thank you. Knowing this, my instructions will be easier. I won’t have to be concerned with phrasing that might be confusing to you.”

  “Acknowledged,” replied the thrall. “I shall redirect my planning to further the objective of the Masters.”

  That earned a raised eyebrow from the lieutenant. It did from me too, but since he chose not to pursue exactly what the objective was, I didn’t bother either. Sure, capturing a Primus Crax ship might be it, but I doubted that the Umbelgarri were single minded in any venture.

  I heard Smith order a Marine next to him, “Pallish and Umpernilli aren’t responding. See to it.”

  Private Villet must’ve been the squad’s communications specialist. With a nod the thin Marine, not even as tall as me, hurried out, making adjustments to the com
-gear clipped to his belt and strapped to his left forearm.

  Besides Pilot Arnold, Lt. Burian, Smith, me, and the rest of Hack Team 4, that left Privates Brooker, Nollie, Xiont, and the Chicher, who continued lurking near his intermittently humming crate.

  The crate was a curiosity, one that I wanted to learn more about, but the lieutenant’s explanation of the harness took priority.

  The lieutenant began with a frown. “Intel from debris recovered after battles where we’ve held the field, or space to be more accurate, and our allies, suggest that Primus Crax utilize poles and rails for movement within their space-faring vessels. Owing to their apparent arboreal-dwelling ancestry.”

  The lieutenant removed a hand remote device from his breast pocket and tapped a few icons with his thumb. Three projector lenses mounted in a section of the pod’s ceiling turned on. A second later, images from recovered wreckage appeared a little above eye-level as I sat. Each poorly defined image, roughly two feet in size, rotated and then faded, making room for the next to appear.

  Quality optics wasn’t a priority on the aging breaching pod. I leaned forward to get a closer look.

  It appeared that two pairs of parallel rails, nonmetallic and resembling two-inch-diameter PVC pipes were what Lt. Burian was referring to. I wondered if the repeated color pattern—pink, turquoise, faded emerald, lilac purple—was in some way significant. Maybe a visual label for direction of travel or identifying authorized or prioritized usage?

  “For those that may be unaware,” Lt. Burian continued, thumb tapping his remote, “Primus Crax most closely resemble terran veiled chameleons, but reaching four to five feet long. The higher caste or higher authority Primus Crax is generally green, with lower castes being tan. Those in the middle having mixed coloration. When stressed or frightened, their colors tend to darken. Aggression, the opposite.”

  He took a moment while images of the few Primus captives rotated through the holographic display. “They are reported to have a military or warrior caste that are black but shift to gray when in a fighting mood. None of those have ever been taken captive.