Relic Hunted (Crax War Chronicles #2)

by Terry W. Ervin II

  The surviving Stegmars appeared confused. Closing a few more strides, I flicked off my shield and exchanged fire with the unwounded Stegmar. It dropped with a slug buried in its thorax. I finished off the last two. One fell to a tight pattern of buckshot. The last leapt at me, thinking its pistol was useless. It wasn’t quick enough to evade my bayonet.

  Stomping down on the impaled Stegmar, I said, “For you, Kent,” and finished off the insectoid alien while extricating my bayonet. Pounding boots approached from behind.

  I managed to free my bayonet just as the Primus turned its head my direction, both eyes ratcheting to focus on me. That struck me as more dangerous than two dozen Stegmar Mantis warriors. With slow but deliberate force I drove my bayonet through the energy shield and into its neck. Twisting the blade, dull red blood gushed as I sidestepped trying to keep out of the dying alien’s extended line of sight.

  Closer inspection showed the alien’s body was covered in welts. Scattered along the floor were two dozen blue-green Thuckich hornets. All were crushed to varying degrees, with about half still moving their legs and a few erratically flapping their wings.

  Killing the enemy didn’t begin to fill the void left by Kent’s death. Revenge was like a canteen with a hole in it. Nevertheless, for that moment it felt good and would tide me over until I could mourn, not only for him but for Xiont and everyone else. If I survived.

  “Good work, Specialist,” Sergeant Smith said, coming up next to me. Brooker and the Chicher moved past us, watching down the hall for the enemy. The Chicher wore two bandages hastily applied to his arm and shoulder. He or someone had removed wooden splinters driven into him when the plasma bolt destroyed the hive’s crate.

  Until that moment I hadn’t examined my surroundings, being so focused on the enemy. While this corridor had the two pairs of rails in the standard order of pink, turquoise, faded emerald, and lilac, it also had a series of small platforms with a pole set into the wall next to them, like a railing circling up and around to the other side, reaching the floor where a matching square platform sat. Along the curved railing were evenly spaced square sections, roughly three feet to a side. Sliding doorways? Artistic discolorations adorned the center of each door’s metal, like swirling script. The corridor’s ambient light didn’t seem to have a direct source, and maybe that caused the effect. It might’ve been skewed away from the normal light spectrum…normal for humans.

  Smith said, “McAllister, Villet, see if that Crax has anything of value on it.” Then, following my gaze he commented, “Like the Stegmar, they probably see in a broader spectrum than we do.”

  Without warning, a dizzy spell struck me. Not bad, but it left me with a headache.

  McAllister, who’d shoved the Primus’s headset and harness with all of its accoutrements into her backpack swayed a little as well. Pointing to the scattered Thuckich, she said, “They all just stopped moving. Died all at once.”

  “Saw that,” Villet said. He yanked an environmental sensor from a pouch on his belt. Adjusting its settings, he removed the probe, waving it around like a miniature wand. The collected data ran down the wire onto the rectangular device’s screen.

  After ten seconds, Villet warned, “Dangerous carbon monoxide levels, and rising.”

  Everyone reached back into their pack for their portable breathing apparatus. I was a little slower, and opted for the nostril plugs instead of the mask. It took me a second to string the tube under my com-set’s wiring, but I was ready fifteen seconds after everyone else.

  Within a few breaths the dizziness and headache began to abate.

  Smith was already sending a warning about the elevated CO levels to Arnold to relay to the other pod pilots and to their teams. With the damping within the frigate, the small relay chips he’d been dropping ensured our ability to at least reach our pod. The chips might be like a trail of bread crumbs leading to us, but so were the dead bodies.

  Pointing at the doors and their lettering, Smith asked McAllister and Villet, “Can you read any of these?”

  Holding up a clamshell computer, Villet said, “Limited resources on their written language, Sarge. These aren’t numbers or labels, like Medical or Storage.”

  “These are personal berths,” McAllister said. “Names. That’s what your private is attempting to read.”

  “You’re sure,” Smith asked. It really wasn’t a question.

  McAllister’s answer was a hard stare.

  “Keep moving. Brooker, point. Same order.”

  Looking over at the Chicher, I saw he didn’t have a supplemental oxygen supply running to his nose. “You’re okay with the air?” I swept my hand, gesturing at the air.

  “Breath from poor burning not smothering to pack of mine like smothers pack of yours.”

  That made sense. Alien physiology. Excessive carbon monoxide probably didn’t affect Stegmars or Crax. It did humans and, looking down at the dead insects, Thuckich.

  It made me wonder what else the Primus might have in store. On the Kalavar we’d released bioweapons. But aliens didn’t always think like us, or act like us. The Kalavar had a security team aboard to safeguard against internal takeover or pirates attempting to board. This was a warship. Still, they had Mantis warriors, armed, and armored security bots, and the Primus had a shield and the goggle headset, the straws with wire conduits running back to a power pack, probably a weapon.

  Lying under a rail was a four wheeled device, like a narrow three-foot ceramic skateboard with metallic wheels and electronic motors underneath. Maybe that was how the Primus moved around their ships.

  How were the other teams doing? Better or worse? They had more Colonial Marines, or potentially did. Probably servo-armor and heavy duty lasers. I’d seen those take down a Gar-Crax screen. But they didn’t have a Bahklack like we had. Or McAllister. Would a frigate have enough security bots to send after each pod’s team? I wondered how the space battle was going. It didn’t feel like we were moving, but that didn’t mean anything. The Primus’s tech might have superior gravity controls. I didn’t think they could disguise the feeling of condensed space travel.

  The ship shuddered, as if in answer to my questions. Everyone stopped for a few seconds, looking around.

  “Fight out there isn’t over,” Smith whispered through his collar mic. “Same in here.”

  We came to a six-way intersection, up and down, plus four ways, with us coming in from the south, at least as I oriented our progress.

  When Brooker approached to within fifteen feet of the intersection, with me and Umpernilli ten yards back, a swarm of Stegmar Mantis dropped from the upper path. With fluttering wings they swooped down upon Brooker. He got one with his laser carbine and smashed a second aside with the butt of his gun.

  I got one coming for me with a slug and the second with buckshot. Umpernilli wounded one in the side with his carbine and winged another He ducked as it flew out of control past him.

  The Stegmar sounding started, but did little more than put me on edge, thanks to the CNS modulator on my spine. I sliced one out of the air with my bayonet, charging to save Brooker who was on the floor with three tearing at him. Although the Stegmars were only three feet tall, their exoskeletal structure made them three times stronger than a human.

  They were coming at us unarmed. The Chicher squealed and Smith shouted orders. Out of the corner of my eye I caught flickering laser fire flashes. Firing a slug, I wished I’d loaded all buckshot. My slug burst into a Stegmar’s abdomen, covering me in green blood as it tumbled past overhead. But that allowed two following to latch onto me, their momentum driving me back at an angle. My leg caught one of the rails and I fell backwards, clawed hands latched onto me and mandibles biting into my left shoulder and my right-side ribcage.

  My helmet absorbed most of the blow when my head hit the floor and my coveralls kept the Stegmar mandibles from biting into my flesh. It still hurt like hell, like vice grips locking onto my shoulder and ribs.

  I could bite back. I didn’t h
ave many options. An antenna flicked past my mouth and I caught it with my teeth. With my left hand I tried to grab hold of the antenna of the Stegmar on my ribs while my right hand snaked for my stun baton.

  I kept my jaw locked on the antenna even as the Stegmar let go with its mandibles. When it couldn’t get loose without tearing out its sensory appendage, it reared back a claw, intent on tearing into my face. The other Stegmar easily shoved my left hand aside and went for another bite a little further down. I didn’t have time to worry about that Stegmar or the new round of pain it inflicted.

  Just as I’d telescoped my stun baton and set it for full discharge, the claw-ready Stegmar’s head snapped to one side, then jerked a second time. I slapped a jolt into it anyway, knowing I’d get some feedback. The baton’s discharged caused the Stegmar to lose its grip and spasm, already dying from two MP rounds to the head.

  McAllister was lining her MP pistol up on my second foe. She got it before I recovered from my stun baton’s mild secondary shock. What carried through my body to the still biting Stegmar didn’t deter its attack in the least. McAllister’s carefully aimed round to the back of its chitinous skull did.

  I kicked it off, fearing its mandibles would lock onto me in death instead of releasing.

  I sat up, wincing. “Thanks.”

  “You would’ve taken them.”

  While I shutdown my stun baton and looked around, McAllister continued. “Bet that antenna didn’t taste like asparagus.”

  I could move my right shoulder and breathe okay, but I knew there’d be massive bruising. At least they hadn’t taken a chunk out of me like they did Brooker. His cheek, just below his left eye looked like a rabid wolverine had gone at it. Umpernilli had his first aid kit out, trying to stanch the bleeding. Corporal Pallish was assisting, applying a medical patch to Brooker’s hand. The face wound was only one of Brooker’s multiple injuries. The way he was laying, it looked like they’d dislocated his left shoulder and snapped his right knee. I’d have been screaming in agony, if not screaming or unconscious. Instead he grunted through clenched teeth. Probably why I wasn’t a Colonial Marine. Hopefully the patch Pallish applied eased some of Brooker’s pain.

  Smith was communicating with Arnold, and the Chicher watched for more attacks while Villet scouted out the six way intersection.

  I got to my feet, wincing and readjusting the tube for my oxygen supply.

  McAllister handed me my shotgun. “Sixteen of them,” she said. “Fortunate for us they were unarmed.” She glanced at my belt. “How much protection remaining on that kinetic shield of yours?”

  Taking the shield generator off my belt and examining it I estimated based upon the depth of the gray, white being fully charged and black being empty. I couldn’t read any of the alien numbers or lettering. “About fifty percent left, maybe sixty.”

  “I see one of those nodes we’re looking for,” Private Villet called back in a restrained voice. He was looking down the right-hand corridor.

  McAllister lost all interest in me, turned and strode toward Villet. The frigate lurched again, this time like it’d tried to fire up its engines but they stalled out. I put a hand against the wall to catch myself from falling and wondered why the anti-grav harness didn’t prevent that. Or the Stegmars from knocking me down.

  McAllister stumbled, but didn’t fall. A few seconds later she reached the corner and looked around. “That’s what I need,” she said through her collar mic and loud enough for us to hear without receiving it electronically.

  Everyone heard Pilot Arnold warn, “They just opened about an eighth of the frigate to space. Lost what remained of two squads.”

  McAllister stepped around the corner, using the railings to assist. “Follow me, Villet.”

  Smith glanced over at me. “You too, Specialist. Once we stabilize Brooker, we’ll follow.”

  This corridor had the same rail system in the same color pattern. Its walls, however, had large sliding doors on either side about every twenty feet. There was a dome-like node in the ceiling about thirty feet down. It looked like half of a disco ball that I’d seen in old-time videos, but this one lacked any reflective surfaces.

  McAllister used her anti-grav harness to elevate and reach it. “Don’t watch me,” she said. “Watch for aliens or security bots interested in shooting me.”

  “Right, Engineer,” Private Villet said.

  “She knows what she’s doing?” he whispered to me as we watched opposite directions down the corridor.

  With only the background humming of engines and machinery and the faint noises of Smith and the others, McAllister certainly heard the private’s question.

  “Affirmative,” I said, not adding that she’d worked for the Umbelgarri, at least for a while, in one of their secret breeding areas. I still wondered where the light came from. There weren’t any shadows. Maybe the glow emanated from the walls, sort of like a glow-in-the-dark paint.

  Even though McAllister said not to, I glanced up and over my shoulder at her. She held her clamshell computer with a wire running from it to the oblong metal device she’d taken from the fallen Bahklack. Its tiny lights partially hidden in the crevices flashed on and off in seemingly random patterns. If I had to guess, I’d’ve said it was some sort of computer, supplementing the software and processing power of McAllister’s computer. Although it was physically small, there was little doubt she’d packed it with the latest crystals and microchips, and software—including that of her own design. But brilliant as she was, she was still human, and her knowledge base was derived from I-Tech sources. Although she had spent time working for the mysterious Umbelgarri.

  She strapped the computer to her left forearm, tapping keys and icons with her right hand while adding verbal directives to her computer. Then, with her left hand, she manipulated the oblong electronic processor, pressing thumb and forefinger into a groove as needed.

  Without looking down, she said, “Com-Specialist, up here. Give me a hand.”

  I’d never seen her so frantic or stressed.

  “Take two of the wired leads from my pouch,” she told Villet. “Any two colors will do. Plug them into the thrall’s computer.”

  I was trying to look both ways when the Chicher scampered around the corner.

  “You watch that way,” I told him.

  “Agreed,” he said through his translator, standing on his hind legs and drawing both pistols.

  There was no way I was going to shoulder my shotgun and fire effectively. The recoil against the painful throbbing wouldn’t work. So I switched out slug rounds for buckshot and planned to shoot from the hip. It was either that or my revolver. The shotgun didn’t have armor piercing rounds but had more takedown power. If it came to another armored bot, neither would be effective.

  “Patch connect where?” Villet asked. He had a blue and a yellow wire with a standard plug on one end and a small octagonal patch attachment on the other.

  “Plug,” McAllister replied. “Anywhere, one at a time. It’ll work. You’ll patch where I tell you in a moment.”

  Glancing up again I observed the com-specialist touch the blue connecting wire’s metallic end to the oblong processor. The plug slid in like the alien device was molding clay. “Hmmph,” was all he replied.

  Without looking away from her screen, McAllister said, “Bleys, eyes on the hallway. You don’t want me to get shot or bitten by a flying arthropod.”

  “Correct,” I said. “If you need my input getting past their firewall, let me know.”

  She snorted. I smiled, watching my assigned corridor. The term ‘firewall’ wasn’t quite as archaic as my shotgun, but the security software structures constituted what was essentially an electronic firewall. Even I knew that.

  After Villet placed the patch connectors where McAllister directed, she went silent. Without looking I knew she was tapping at her screen and mini-keyboard. I’d seen her fingers dance across it many times before. Thinking of my mother’s museum piece typewriter displayed on a c
herry wood pedestal next to the fireplace, I estimated McAllister would’ve been a 150 words a minute typist. Right. Like McAllister would ever do something so manual, so mundane.

  After a moment, McAllister said, “Pilot Arnold, someone managed to reset their main engines. Thirteen minutes until third attempt at cold starting them.” She paused. “Damn—damn, damn!”

  That caught the Chicher’s attention. Standing sentry along the opposite wall, his head flicked up. Out of the corner of my eye I saw his nostrils flare and ears stand upright. Maybe he was smelling some of McAllister’s pheromones. That made me nervous, but there was nothing I could do. I’d have wagered my entire savings she was the person best within three dozen light years capable of infiltrating the enemy’s system. Maybe more. Everyone onboard, and half the ships in the vicinity, were counting on her, whether they knew it or not.

  My ears popped. A change in air pressure, followed by a stiff breeze blowing past, toward the intersection. Breezes don’t occur within interstellar vessels.

  I pulled the rope from my pack and tied a clove hitch, the fastest knot I knew that might work, might hold onto one of the rails. Then leapt up, counting on my anti-grav harness to assist, and drove my shotgun mounted bayonet into the curved ceiling. My injured ribs and shoulder howled, but I pushed the pain aside. The wind speed was picking up.

  “Air pressure dropping,” Arnold warned through my com-set. “The Crax are depressurizing our zone.”

  “No kidding?” I said to no one in particular. I could’ve just tied myself to the railing, or tried to break into one of the rooms, but McAllister had to be my priority. She was our best chance of survival.

  She cursed.

  I ran the rope behind my back and then threw the excess to Villet. “Tie her to me before the grav-harness is overwhelmed. As he did I braced myself upside down, leaning against my shotgun, its bayonet dug into the ceiling by less than an inch.

  It wouldn’t work, but what else was there to do? She was the only one who could override what the Primus Crax were attempting to do to us.