Relic Hunted (Crax War Chronicles #2)

by Terry W. Ervin II

  “Unlike terran veiled chameleons, the Primus Crax are quick moving with lightning reflexes.”

  Lt. Burian switched off the projectors and pocketed his remote. “Needless to say, the Primus are smart and equipped with technology that surpasses ours, equal to the Umbelgarri.” He held up one of the harnesses with the faceted devices. “While our ally the Chicher might be able to climb and maneuver with only minor difficulty, we humans would be in trouble. This vest will offer anti-gravity maneuverability during the assault.”

  We humans did have anti-gravity devices, sometimes mounted on bots or even battle tanks, but they were heavy and batteries wouldn’t cut it. They required a constant energy supply, a miniature metallic hydrogen generator would be best. A backpack would work, but it’d reduce agility, maneuverability and, unless the power generator was armored, it’d be vulnerable to damage. They’d never proven reliable in combat.

  If I was fighting the Primus Crax, and Stegmar Mantis reportedly found on their advanced ships, and my anti-grav generator cut out? The result would be like trying to run a marathon wearing scuba gear: Mask, air tank, diving weights, fins and all.

  Lt. Burian glanced over at my stowed shotgun. “Specialist Bleys, you’ll need to get yours specially attuned so that recoil doesn’t send you slamming into bulkheads. Or worse.”

  “I’ll see to it,” McAllister said.

  That earned a raised eyebrow from the lieutenant.

  “She’s the resident techno-genius, Lieutenant, sir,” I said. So that McAllister’s ego didn’t inflate too much, I pointed a thumb to the Bahklack and added, “If Senior Engineer McAllister can’t figure it out, her associate should be up to the task.”

  That drew a snort from Smith.

  “Sergeant?” the lieutenant asked.

  “Nothing, sir,” he replied in an all-business tone.

  I raised my hand to get the officer’s attention and distract from Smith’s faux pas. When he acknowledged me with a nod, I asked, “The poles, will we be issued a lubricant? Something to make them impassible?”

  “No,” the lieutenant said. “It’s in the mission notes being sent to your inbox, but I’ll explain it here as long as we’re waiting for Pallish, Umpernilli, and now Villet.” His eyes shot to Smith before finishing. “The travel poles are designed with a honeycomb structure. Although smooth in appearance, their feel is said to resemble tight-woven burlap. Don’t ask me why. Nevertheless, they tend to absorb deposited liquids and gels, or shed them.”

  “Can’t the absorption system be overwhelmed by a thick spread of something like axle grease?”

  “Micro lubricants don’t work and unless you want to tote a ten liter bucket of grease, Bleys…”

  “Understood, Lieutenant. I’ll review the mission brief at the first opportunity.”

  The lieutenant glanced over at the pilot who was watching and listening from his situated area above us. “Arnold, record my oral briefing for Pallish, Umpernilli, Villet.” He paused, “Sergeant?”

  Smith stood. “Villet’s been unable to locate them. Communications non-responsive. I’ll track them down, sir.”

  Lieutenant Burian looked like he wanted to expel an exasperated breath. Instead he simply said, “See to it while I finish up here.”

  Hack Team 4 was temporarily attached, with file work identifying us as civilian conscripts, to the 3rd Squad of the 2nd Platoon of the 1st Company of the 2nd Battalion, a part of the 22nd Light Assault Division. The mission brief assigned the 3rd Squad to escort and support the insertion of biological pests of an alien arthropod nature. The objective being to disrupt a coordinated resistance against our attempt to board and capture a Primus Crax vessel.

  That Hack Team 4’s mission to infiltrate the alien computer systems in support of the boarding was secondary chaffed at McAllister as evidenced by her grumbling to O’Vorley, “How long can it take to release a barrel of Chicher-bred hornets?”

  She ignored O’Vorley’s reminder: “Maximum effectiveness requires that they be released at one of nine anticipated critical junctures. Reaching any of those might take a while.”

  While en route to the orbital dock, Lt. Burian’s company had practiced their part in the assault using virtual reality simulations. All of the Colonial Marines and Fleet pilots had.

  That Lt. Burian had been preparing to lead an understrength squad to accomplish the mission, that the breaching pod would’ve participated in the assault carrying less than a full complement of boarders, until our arrival, said something. And it wasn’t good. A mission this important, even on short notice, didn’t have enough Colonial Marines—trained bodies—available to participate…

  The Chicher Thuckich Handler approached me a moment after I shut down my ocular. There were so many things that could go wrong. Heck, the Crax could open airlocks, exposing us to the vacuum of space. That was just one reason I actually agreed with McAllister. Hacking into the Primus computer systems and disrupting counter boarding measures seemed higher priority than releasing a Thuckich hive. The Marines needed to hit hard, and drive deep into the Primus vessel. Speed meant survival, or a chance at it. Warp screwing the enemy’s computer systems would go a long way toward extending that chance. The Colonial Marines had three teams coordinating on that. Even against three teams that prepped for this mission, my credits would remain on McAllister.

  Everyone else but the pilot and the Bahklack was outside the pod. Arnold was up checking his systems and reviewing radio encrypting protocol with Assault Command. The Bahklack stood motionless with its eyes closed, asleep. I was meeting assigned duty by watching over her.

  Thuckich Handler, as the rat-like alien ally had been introduced to us, stood on his hind legs before bowing quickly and shifting his tail to the left. “Clawed Slave’s Security Man, are you prepared to infest the Long Thinking Scaled Enemy?” The translation followed the Chicher’s squeaks and squirrel-like chattering after a delay of several seconds.

  I’d seen such a greeting only once. When a Chicher Diplomat first met a Catholic priest, naming him a ‘spirit man,’ the Chicher bowed but shifted his prehensile tail to the right.

  “I’ve been in the company of a Chicher once before,” I said after bowing my head several inches. “Never did I merit such a greeting.” After giving the disc-shaped translator clipped to the Chicher’s equipment harness a few seconds to translate, I continued. “To what do I owe this honor, Thuckich Handler?”

  The three-foot-tall alien sniffed the air and leaned close. “You are a Pollinated Pack Member.” His head tilted in question.

  I felt at the scars along my neck.

  “Pollinated. Marked member traveling outer circle of the Rifted Land Pack. Other circle than mine.” Thuckich Handler rapidly nodded his head. “I recognize. All Chicher that sniffs air shared recognize.”

  “Greater than a surrogate pack member?” I asked.

  A moment of silence hung between us long after the translation should’ve been made by the Chicher’s translator. It operated with outdated technology by modern human standards but met Chicher needs. At least I knew more about the Chicher Diplomat, my lost friend, who’d apparently thought of me as more than a friend, much more.

  Not that I didn’t take friendship lightly. I had few true friends. So maybe there hadn’t been much difference between us.

  “Pollinated is higher,” the Chicher Handler said, spreading the claw-tipped fingers of his rodent paws. That snapped me back to the moment. The handler tipped his head sideways, back and forth. “High, as twig of a tree, does not fall away,” he said through his robotic translator. “Surrogate is lower, as leaf is part of a tree that falls away when orb moves lower across sky. When season changes, when surrogate and pack member separate.”

  That made sense. The Chicher Diplomat was the only one of his kind on the Kalavar. With him, I’d been a surrogate pack member. We’d been close. Defeated an elite Gar Crax together, made it to a quarantined planet, survived an arctic trek. Maybe it was my being a fellow Relic t
hat had formed the initial tenuous bond. He’d helped me come out on top when McAllister had tried to frame me. He’d seen me at my best and at my worst. I did what I thought was right by him, but didn’t deserve elevated status in their culture’s structure.

  The bite must’ve changed my body chemistry. Something in the Chicher’s saliva. Maybe I gave off a pheromone now, one that Chicher olfactory senses could detect. I wondered if Dr. Goldsen knew. If she could detect it.

  The Chicher Thuckich Handler stood, paws now limp, watching me. I never recalled the Chicher Diplomat demonstrating such nonverbal cues. Even the phrasing between the diplomat and the handler differed. It reminded me that just like humanity, aliens had their own diversity of cultures. Heck, the handler was from a different pack, and I wasn’t sure what that entailed.

  I glanced over at the secured wooden container. “Tell me about your hive.” The mission brief provided details, but it seemed like the right thing to ask while we had a few moments. And I might learn something more than what the military knew, or was interested in sharing.

  The Chicher Handler snapped back into motion and scampered on all fours, returning to a bi-pedal stance next to the hexagonal wooden crate. “Thuckich hive. No mountain peak mother. Given scent of Long Thinking Scaled Enemy, fable killing mountain peak mother. Will swarm. Sting and share venom, sever air consumption.”

  The military’s diagrams showed a Thuckich warrior caste as a hornet, colored like a blue bottle fly and the size of my thumb. It had eight legs, pinchers like a stag beetle, and a lancing proboscis that injected a neurotoxin, broad spectrum in its effect on various species. Only the Shiggs and Troh-gots are immune, as reported by the Chicher. Immune to the venom, not the pinchers, which were described as painful. Worse than a horse fly’s bite.

  “So they will ignore us.” I pointed to the handler. “Chicher.” Pointed to myself and the pilot above. “Humans.” Pointed a thumb to the Bahklack, and used the Chicher’s naming. “Clawed Slave.”

  The Chicher Handler nodded his head once. “Fly past,” he said, his eyes flicking to me and the pilot and the sleeping Bahklack. “Fable set before forced night slumber.” He pulled an aerosol can from a belt loop. “Morning rays, forced rising.”

  “I can hear them,” I said of the humming.

  The Chicher Handler shook his head once and pointed to his translator. “Radio communication of labor hive mates there. Electronic fable eases night slumber.”

  I nodded my understanding. “Good. The Thuckich will help,” I said and then chuckled a few seconds. “We’re going to need an awful lot of luck too.”

  Pilot Arnold called down. “You three the only ones down there?”

  “Correct,” I said. “You want me to fetch someone?”

  “Not really,” the pilot said, leaning down through his hatch and signaling me closer. After I complied, he asked, “You’re really that Relic, Keesay, aren’t you. The man who toppled CGIG?”

  I shook my head and pointed to my patch. “You must be mistaken.”

  He grinned. “Sergeant Smith told a few tales about you on the way over. Heard him call you Keesay.”

  The pilot seemed like a decent guy so I replied with a shade of the truth. “What would be the odds of Sergeant Smith and this Security Specialist Keesay randomly crossing paths out in space?”

  Pilot Arnold stifled a laugh. “About the same as Smith confusing a shotgun and bayone- toting Relic Security Specialist with someone he’d shared air with. Sounded like they were friends.”

  “I think Smith would be a good man to count as a friend.”

  “I get your meaning, Specialist Bleys.” The pilot smiled, then frowned. “Considering Sergeant Smith’s tales depicting his friend’s daring and thick-headedness…” He paused and locked gazes with me. “Knowing what’s coming…what it’s going to take to survive, I think we’re going to need a healthy dose of Keesay’s daring, and luck. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Sergeant Smith’s curses just outside the breaching pod’s entry hatch interrupted our quiet discussion.

  Pilot Arnold dipped his head further down, checking the chronometer. “A dress down is on the way. The least Pallish and Umpernilli deserve.” With that said, he pulled himself back up into the pilot’s seat.

  McAllister strode in rolling her eyes but saying nothing, followed by O’Vorley and the other Marines: Villet, Brooker, Nollie and Xiont. O’Vorley tossed me a pair of energy bars and a juice pouch. He tossed the same to the Chicher.

  I tilted my head toward the stirring Bahklack. McAllister caught my movement and held up a plastic sack and walked around to the Umbelgarri Thrall. When its eyes focused on her, she said, “Nourishment.”

  “Necessary for efficient service toward the Masters’ objectives assigned to me.”

  “As to be expected,” McAllister said, placing the bag on the grated floor and stretching it open.

  The crab-like alien squatted down and began eating what looked and smelled like shredded fish. The Chicher wasn’t the only one to notice the smell. A couple of the Marines commented as they went through the gear near their assigned seats. They also watched the Bahklack eat. It was more entertaining for me to watch them watch the alien quickly devour the fish, being less messy than might be expected of an oversized crustacean. It’d finished long before I finished my meal, one bar simulating graham crackers and honey, and the other peanuts and honey. The packaging of the cherry fruit drink and of the bars was edible too, offering extra fiber but no real taste.

  Once Sergeant Justice Smith’s one-sided shouting and cursing ended, Lt. Burian issued a less audible set of orders, or so I figured.

  Corporal Pallish and Private Umpernilli, both apparently cowed, moved to their seats and immediately began reviewing the mission brief. From what I’d overheard earlier, it was much the same as they’d practiced, with only minor bits of new information incorporated. Observing them, I thought of the old-time comedians Abbot and Costello, Pallish being taller and more angular and Umpernilli being shorter and a little stocky. Even so, he was still taller than me by an inch or two.

  Thinking of Abbot and Costello reminded me of their comedy routine, Who’s on First, and Janice Tahgs, who’d showed the old black and white vid to me. My mind drifted to her, and to Deputy Director Simms, and then to Agent Vingee and Guymin aboard the Pitchfork seeking them.

  I examined my supply pack and its gear, including a first aid kit, portable breathing apparatus, thirty meters of dura-polymer rope, spare batteries for the anti-gravity harness, a CNS Suppressor Modulator, and more. Through my security training I was familiar with everything in the pack, except the CNS modulator. That, I learned how to attach and detach aboard the Kalavar. We could’ve used them to nullify the Stegmar Mantis sounding on Io.

  I attached the white, foot-long strip to the base of O’Vorley’s neck and partway down his spine. He could activate it by pressing with two fingers along the tip. He could detach it by pinching the same area for several seconds. Attaching was painless. The same couldn’t be said about detaching.

  After O’Vorley affixed mine, he, McAllister, and I got a brief fifteen minute trial run with our gravity harnesses. We did it inside the breaching pod as air had been pumped out of the cargo bay and our pod, like all the others, was attached to a power and life support umbilical.

  As we didn’t have time to actually train and allow the anti-grav system’s computer to become accustomed to our individual movement habits, we operated under the default setting. It was like being in zero gravity, but the system sensed, by our reaching or leg movements, which direction we wanted to go and made adjustments. It offered some resistance, allowing us to scamper up walls, if we desired. It was fortunate I’d recently spent a lot of time in zero gravity as the breaching pod’s interior didn’t offer room to practice.

  When Lt. Burian caught O’Vorley smiling at our efforts, colliding in such a confined space, the officer called to my friend, “That equipment is both rare and extremely valuable. You’ll be
returning that upon completion of your mission. No forgetting, no excuses.”

  Smith chimed in, saying, “In other words, even if you’re wounded, drag your dying ass back to the pod so we don’t have to recover it, oh, and your dead ass too.”

  Private Xiont added, “Right, and try not to bleed on it, too.”

  That drew a round of laughs from everyone, except the Bahklack thrall. Even McAllister and the Chicher Handler let loose, though the Chicher did a little late because of his translator’s delay.

  Private Villet had even managed to secure a helmet for McAllister, and a customized one that fit the Chicher. Both had sturdy straps and a digitized camouflage pattern made up mainly of blacks, blues, and grays. The Chicher’s accommodated his mic and wired earpiece. I’d never seen a Chicher wearing a helmet. It reminded me of a laboratory rat wearing an old-style bicycle helmet.

  Ninety minutes passed slowly. I spent most of it chatting with Private Xiont who sat to my left. The thrall on my right was a horrible conversationalist, 100% focused on its actions serving Umbelgarri goals. Most of the Colonial Marines just squinted or shook their heads the few times that the alien interjected a thought into the conversation between McAllister and Lt. Burian. Her effort to increase the priority of her task to help foil the Primus computer systems was anything but subtle.

  Xiont had turned nineteen the day before and his swarthy-skinned face rippled with smile after smile as we exchanged stories. We discussed my shotgun, and the usefulness of shotguns on penal colonies and in combat. I showed him my bayonet and he showed me his old-style switchblade that he kept in a narrow thigh pocket. It wasn’t balanced for throwing or great for hand-to-hand combat, but he’d won it at a church raffle and considered it lucky.

  We both laughed while speculating how the church ended up with a switchblade and what led up to it being included in their fundraiser. The topic had come up before with Xiont, and he figured every credit raised was a credit the church could use in service of the Lord. Plus, the switchblade at the time was going to a future Colonial Marine, and God works in mysterious ways.