Relic Hunted (Crax War Chronicles #2)

by Terry W. Ervin II

  Tahgs asked, “How do you know they’re friendly, Kra?”

  “They’re fighting Capital Galactic.”

  “I’m strong but can’t fight too well,” Gerard said. “Drape that unconscious lady over my shoulders. That’ll leave you free with your shotgun.”

  “Good idea,” I said, stopping. “No shells, just a bayonet. Simms has a stun baton.” Once we laid the waterlogged woman over Gerard’s shoulders, I said to Simms, “Give me that uniform. Tahgs the computer clip,” and told Tahgs, “Don’t touch the screen, if you can avoid it.”

  The computer reminded me of Heartwell and his remote, and the central nervous system interrupter the V’Gun inserted in my neck. Very few would know or have ready access to activate it, or so I told myself. Slamming against the floor left my face tender, probably bruised. I shrugged it off. I’d been in far worse shape. Plus, there was nothing I could do about it, other than move forward and escape.

  I turned to the large-nosed woman while slipping into the guard’s uniform. It had a blood stain on the white stripe. “I’m Keesay. What can we call you?”

  “Marguerite,” she said. I expected a nasal voice. Instead it was a nervous contralto. Her eyes were no longer tearing up from irritation. Instead they were wide with fear. The uniform was a little big so I cuffed the sleeves and ankles. The daisy gown underneath helped keep it filled out in my thin and weakened condition. Simms must’ve put on the socks with the boots. That was okay. The socks would’ve been slick on the metallic and tiled floor surfaces.

  “Okay, Marguerite,” I said, gently gripping her shoulder. She was in a flowered gown too. “Simms and I will lead since we’re armed. Gerard, you and your load next. Tahgs and Marguerite, watch behind us and bring up the rear.”

  Chapter 43

  Not far down the corridor we came to an elevator. Even if it was the most efficient method of movement—if it worked—it wasn’t a great option. Next to the elevator was an information console common to space docks and civil transports. Simms stepped up next to me. With a few taps he gained access to guest information. The screen immediately flashed to an emergency default setting telling visitors to report to their assigned accommodations, Class A and B personnel report to duty stations, all others report to and remain in their assigned quarters for the duration of the emergency.

  I turned to ask Gerard if he could handle carrying the woman down a ladder, but took a second to observe the woman draped over his shoulders. Her body was bloated, like it’d been pumped full of fluid to the point of bursting. Welts between one and five inches in diameter covered her skin. They were waxy and bright green, appeared more rigid than her taught skin, and covered almost half her body. Where the welts showed across the woman’s scalp, her tangled auburn hair had fallen out, emphasizing her diseased appearance, like an alien mold or fungus afflicted her. But looking at Gerard and Tahgs and the large-nosed Marguerite, disease wasn’t what afflicted the unconscious woman.

  The floor shifted beneath our feet as a dull thunk reverberated through what had to be the hull. That drew my attention away from the woman and back to our situation.

  “That didn’t feel like a weapon strike,” I said. “More like something bumping into this ship—or dock—in the side. Like a breaching pod,” I said, recalling my experience aboard the Kalavar. “But larger.”

  Tahgs and Simms nodded in agreement.

  “Gerard, can you descend access ladders with her?”

  “Her skin feels pretty fragile. Whatever the warden did to her, she’s barely alive.”

  Marguerite said, “Any chance at survival she has depends on escape.”

  “Elevators may not work,” I said. “If they do, we could end up in the middle of something we won’t survive.”

  “We don’t even know how many decks there are,” Marguerite said. “And which way is down.”

  “There will be information posted along the access routes maintenance techs use.”

  Tahgs said, “We could always look inside an elevator, even if we don’t use it.”

  “Are you a soldier?” Gerard asked me.

  “I’ve been a conscript, but I’m a trained Security Specialist.”

  “Who’s killed more Crax and Stegmar than you can count,” Tahgs said. “Some in hand-to-hand with his shotgun and bayonet.”

  Gerard’s eyebrows pinched downward in suspicion. “How’d you get that shotgun, Specialist?”

  “Heartwell, the warden, hung it in our cell,” I said, nodding to Simms. “To taunt me.”

  “Keep moving,” Simms said, hardly above a ragged whisper.

  “Right,” I said. “Follow me. If there’s gunfire, drop to the floor and crawl the opposite direction. I’d suggest a rally point if we get separated, but the only place I know is the cell block.”

  “No interest in going back there,” Gerard said, slowly shaking his head. “Not for no reason, ever.”

  I hefted my shotgun and signaled with my head for everyone to follow. “No argument there.”

  The corridor we traversed was well lit. Conduits ran along the ceiling and intermittent grating along the floor, which was scuffed and not recently cleaned. I hadn’t been on many civil transports, but it seemed like we were on one, passing doors with computer entry pads mounted next to them.

  Somehow my pace had fallen into cadence with the claxon. I spotted two surveillance cameras. While that was a concern, if there was an armed incursion below, the focus wouldn’t be on us, I hoped. Destroying them with my bayonet might draw attention. The deck was barren. No robots, no crew or anyone. If it was a civil transport, the cell block would be away from crew quartering. And the crew would be small in comparison to the number of passengers the interstellar vessel could carry.

  Ship decks were listed ‘1’ at the top or along the dorsal part of the hull all the way down to the largest number at the bottom or ventral hull.

  Midway down the corridor I spotted a recessed ladder. Looking next to the ladder a stamped plate showed that we were on Deck 4. And the access wasn’t sealed off anywhere above or below. It should’ve been, but maybe this one was open for the same reason that enabled us to escape our cells.

  We’d have to climb down, and pass through the gravity plate to reach the lower decks. Then, with the gravity plate right at our feet, we’d have to start climbing away from the plate, toward the ventral sections of the ship, or dock.

  “I’ll go first, with my uniform. It’ll be an advantage,” I said, “until we near the attacking forces.” Looking down, this access didn’t appear to extend through the gravity plate. On ships, most access ladders didn’t. “We might have to risk an elevator. If it’ll open for us.”

  Simms’s face remained blank. Marguerite and Gerard looked skeptical. Tahgs nodded in agreement.

  “At least for a level to get through the gravity plate,” I said, “Or seek a maintenance access. Unless someone knows a better option.”

  Nobody offered one.

  I went first, after removing my bayonet and putting it between my teeth like pirates did in old flat-screen videos. Having it affixed to my slung shotgun in the crowded access seemed like a bad idea. And I didn’t have a belt or scabbard to hold it, and a pocket wouldn’t do. At least when spotted, they’d see a black uniform with a white diagonal stripe along the back. Good if it was someone from CGIG seeing me first. Bad if the attackers, the friendly forces, spotted me first.

  Of course, being barefoot might cause those from either camp to wonder.

  I stopped at every level to lean out and check for potential enemies. The corridors, looking like civil transport quartering levels, were clear. That was even more eerie than if there were patrols, or maintenance techs hurrying to repair something or shut off some section. There might not be that many people aboard. Or those who were, few or many, were fighting below. Or stationed at critical areas.

  We reached Level 12, the end of the ladder access. We needed to find one that passed through the gravity plate, or risk an elevator. If
they had sufficient forces to guard strategic locations, both would be defended, or at least closely monitored by surveillance.

  Simms watched as I helped Gerard out of the access with the unconscious woman.

  “You doing okay with her?”

  He was breathing heavy. “Strong,” he said, “but no endurance.” Before I said anything else, he added with a grin, “I’m nowhere spent yet, fella.”

  The chance for freedom. It drove me. Tahgs and Simms had been prisoners longer than me. My guess was the same with Gerard and Marguerite. I nodded, grinned back at them, and then made eye contact with Tahgs.

  She met my gaze. “I’d hate to be the warden when you find him.”

  “See the blood on my bayonet?” I nodded over toward Simms. “He took Heartwell in the back. Bastard was running away. Crax acid, like what happened with the traitors on the Kalavar finished him off.”

  “Thank you, man,” Gerard said to Simms.

  Marguerite wiped a tear from her eye after a sharp intake of breath. “What Gerard said.”

  I walked past them, picking a direction. Left. “We’ll celebrate later.”

  After a short trek down a narrow corridor with wall panels that appeared newer than anything previously seen, we came to a T intersection. Peeking around, I spotted a maintenance tech standing guard about fifty feet away. He fidgeted with an MP pistol while trying to watch four ways. His manner showed lack of training. But, he was armed.

  I gave my bayonet to Tahgs. She handed the computer clip to Marguerite.

  “Give me the boots,” I whispered to Simms, loud enough that everyone in our group could hear. “There’s an untrained maintenance tech guarding an intersection. I’ll have to bluff my way up to him.”

  The boots were at least five sizes too big and clomped as I trotted up to the maintenance tech. He immediately turned toward me, half pointing the pistol my way, then at the floor when he spotted my black and white prison guard uniform. The fact that I had my shotgun slung allowed me to get close before he challenged me.

  “What are you doing down here?” He was an older man, with gray frizzy hair and a matching mustache.

  Reading his name tag, I said, “Tech Debattes,” and pointed at the ceiling above him. “What’s that?”

  “Hunh, what?”

  I slowed and shied away and pointed again with urgency, “That! Above you.”

  When the man ducked and glanced up I closed the gap and drove my fist into his throat. His eyes bulged and he instinctively reached for his throat as he stumbled back. I grabbed the pistol before the old maintenance tech fell against the wall. He slid to the floor, gasping for air. I’d crushed his trachea.

  I ignored what he was trying to say and drove my fist into his face, slamming the back of his head against the wall. Blood erupted from his nose as he slumped to the floor. Although his injuries would do him in, I stomped on his neck to make sure. Kent probably wouldn’t have approved. But he wasn’t there, and that was the point.

  Feeling no remorse at killing the man didn’t bother me at the time, adrenaline and anger flowing. He was a Capital Galactic loyalist. He made his choice to align with the Crax. Humanity’s mortal enemy.

  Three directions down the narrow cross hallways were deserted. I signaled and Simms led the others up to me. Pointing, I said, “Elevator that way, about ten yards down.”

  Marguerite’s eyes were wide, staring down at the man I’d killed.

  The corridor lights dimmed for a second as the floor shifted under our feet.

  “Feels like something just hit her,” Tahgs said.

  It wasn’t a laser strike. Those didn’t move ships unless they caused something like a fuel cell to explode. Or breached a large section, causing a catastrophic loss of internal atmosphere. Maybe a near miss by a missile, or a direct hit with a small warhead. If any of those were happening, with the accesses between decks not sealed, the whole ship—or dock—could be lost, and us with it.

  I handed Simms the MP pistol.

  He offered the stun baton to Tahgs. “Can you use?” his voice rasped, trying to conserve words. “Risk the elevator,” he told me. “Haste important.”

  Tahgs nodded and gave me back my bayonet. “Watch the hallway,” I said. “This dead guy’s boots look more my size. Simms, you get to play Maintenance Tech.”

  After Simms and I were dressed, I said, “The elevator may be locked down. It may open up to a set of guards, or worse.” Everyone met my gaze, except for Simms. He watched up and down the hallway and listened down the cross hall. “Move fast. Just follow and keep low. Simms and I will be most at risk when we break through to the good guys. It’s our only chance to get off this…get off here.”

  When he wasn’t moving, Gerard held the unconscious woman with ease. I wanted to ask if she was still alive…sort of wondered if she wanted to be alive. So many prisoners died from Heartwell’s Sarin gas. Was that a mercy? It wasn’t my decision, and I’d never know anyway.

  We made it to the elevator without incident. Simms pressed the call button. Nothing happened. I put my ear to the doors and listened.

  Looking up at the recessed security camera I said, “I’m prying them,” and jammed my bayonet between the doors. When they’d been separated an inch, a shrill alarm added its voice to the muted claxon.

  “Kra,” Tahgs gasped. “Hurry.”

  “Gerard,” I said.

  Before I’d stepped aside, Marguerite and Simms were holding the green-splotched woman. Gerard jammed his fingers into the gap. The big man’s muscles flexed and the door mechanisms screeched as his strength overpowered the internal gears and motors.

  Scattered LED lights lit up the shaft. The bottom of the elevator was two levels below. The neon green line with brown diagonal striping identified where the gravity plate was. It was eighteen inches above the top of the elevator, or technically the bottom, as anyone on the other side of the plate would say.

  Off to the right was a recessed ladder. A few feet below was a wider recessed circular area were the ladder could rotate 180 degrees to reorient the person, depending on their direction. Even this section was set up with rods that would emerge from the walls and into fittings in the elevator so that it could rotate as well.

  For about eighteen inches there’d be neutral gravity.

  “Simms,” I said, “you go first. Then me. While we’re doing that, Tahgs, watch, and Marguerite, tear up Simms’ hospital gown and tie the woman to Gerard’s shoulders.

  “We’ve got to move before someone shows up. Same plan, just keep following.”

  Tahgs held out the flowered garment that Simms had stuffed in a pocket. I sliced it several times with my bayonet. Those gashes would make the garment easier for her to tear into long strips.

  “Same plan as before. Just follow. Tahgs, you bring up the rear.” She looked far older than anyone but physically she might’ve been in the best overall shape. “The doors are just on rollers now, so push them closed as best you can.”

  Tearing cloth, she said, “Okay.” Her voice trembled a bit. The stress was getting to her.

  I glanced in the elevator shaft. Simms was holding onto the ladder. He’d already pressed the rotation release and hung on while it spun 180 degrees.

  “Kra!”

  I looked back and followed Tahgs’ gaze. Down the hall two men appeared from the cross hall.

  “Hey,” one of the men shouted. “Halt. Don’t move!” Both were armed with MP rifles. Simms’ and my uniforms might’ve fooled them, but the flowered gowns of everyone else sent up a red flag.

  Fixing my bayonet I said, “Tahgs, down. Finish up here,” and charged the tan-clad maintenance techs.

  Chapter 44

  Both maintenance techs were tall and lanky. The dark-skinned one on the right had straight black hair that stopped just above his shoulders. The light-skinned one had close-cropped brown hair with a thin mustache. The long-haired tech shouldered his rifle, and shouted, “Halt, or I’ll shoot.” The other didn’t bother and
inexpertly fired from the hip. Both glanced at their rifles in confusion. They’d forgotten to click off the safeties. That gave me time to close with them.

  They were going to get some shots off. I hoped the built-in armor of my prison guard uniform could resist penetration by any rounds that might strike. That they didn’t get a lucky head shot was on my list as well.

  This was CGIG. How much would they spend on their mundane loyalists?

  The long-haired tech stood several paces closer to me than his partner, so I veered right, narrowing the mustached tech’s angle of fire.

  Above the claxon and my boots pounding on the metal floor, the sharp snaps of MP rifle fire sounded. Both men backpedaled, still triggering off rounds in semiautomatic mode. I slid like a man stealing second base but with my shotgun and bayonet braced to strike the nearest man’s gut. Rounds ricocheted off the walls and floor. One hit me in the leg. A second in the gut, knocking the wind out of me.

  The long-haired tech tried to dodge, earning him a bayonet thrust that tore into his intestines just above the hip. I held firm, forcing the stabbed man to the left to keep him between me and the other rifleman, struggling to avoid ending up in a tumbled mess with one or both of them on top of me.

  The wounded man cried out in pain, dropped his rifle and grabbed my shotgun’s muzzle.

  The wind was knocked out of me and I wasn’t able to draw a breath, but the uniform’s body armor held. I managed to twist and shove the wounded man away from me, further blocking the other maintenance tech.

  The second man was shouting into his collar mic, “Intruders, Deck Twelve—”

  That was all he said because I managed to grab the discarded MP rifle and got in a lucky shot to the side of his forehead. It didn’t penetrate, but it knocked him to the floor and shut him up. That gave me a moment to catch a breath.

  The bayonetted man began to scurry away like a kid in a crab race relay, with a glob of intestines threating to spill out. I shot him. The first round deflected off the floor into his leg. The second took him in the throat. Favoring my right leg, I climbed to my feet and limped over to the head-shot maintenance tech. Again, my prison guard uniform had resisted MP fire, but my thigh felt like Gerard had slammed it with a ball-peen hammer.