Relic Hunted (Crax War Chronicles #2)

by Terry W. Ervin II

  The guy had called for help on Deck 12. That meant someone might be coming, or at least searching through surveillance. I shot out two recessed cameras before finishing off the second man. Then I took the rifles, boots and belts, and limped back toward the elevator shaft. I took my shotgun and bayonet too. It was extra weight. Don’t ask me why, but even with a loaded MP rifle in hand, I felt naked without my shotgun.

  I should’ve checked their pockets. Shaking my head at my oversight, I continued forward. There wasn’t time to go back.

  Everyone but Gerard and the unconscious woman had entered the shaft. He knelt over her, trying to shove a wadded strip of gown against a wound where her neck curved into her shoulder. Already a huge pool of blood had formed. It was red, but with a flecks of green.

  “Leave her,” I said, offering him the larger pair of boots and a rifle.

  A stray shot must’ve struck the woman. Or her skin and flesh had split along one of the welts. I warned Gerard, “One of the techs called for help.”

  He balked taking the rifle, saying, “We can’t leave her.”

  I shot out the camera opposite the elevator shaft. “You know how to use a standard MP rifle?”

  He nodded. “I do, Specialist.” Hints of anger and betrayal hung in his voice.

  “She’s taken a round to a carotid or vertebral artery.” It was a logical guess based on the profuse bleeding. More viscous than normal blood. “She’s going to bleed out no matter what we do.” I matched his intense gaze. “You did more for her than anyone could ask.” It was the truth. We weren’t surgeons and didn’t have the tools to probe into the wound and attempt to cauterize the severed artery, let alone clamp it off or sew it shut.

  Then he nodded, trying not to tear up.

  I took one of the gown strips and tied a makeshift sling to his rifle. “Best thing we can do to honor her is to escape and kill a few more Capital Galactic loyalists along the way. Now, hurry down.” My voice was stern. I buckled on the remaining belt and I tied another makeshift sling for my MP rifle. “I’ll watch for enemies and follow.”

  Gerard wiped blood from his hands onto his gown and whispered something to the dying woman. I joined him, placing a hand on her forehead. The swollen skin felt spongy.

  “Lord, we ask that you watch over this woman, your child, as she returns to you. We pray that her suffering, inflicted by fellow humans, comes swiftly to an end, and that she soon basks in the light of your love.”

  Gerard nodded at my words, then slid on the boots and the belt, and bundled the other pair of boots inside the remnants of a gown. Since nobody else was visible in the shaft, they must’ve made it past the elevator. No shouts or screams, so they hadn’t run into anybody. Or they were surprised and never got the chance.

  No Capital Galactic loyalists appeared while I waited for Gerard to descend through the gravity plate. Feeling guilt at my calloused action, urging Gerard on and abandoning this woman, I again placed a hand on her disease-ridden forehead. The 23rd Psalm crossed my lips. Her breathing faltered as I spoke, and stopped by the time I finished.

  Another victim of Capital Galactic.

  We all stood atop the elevator except Marguerite. She lay with an ear pressed to the metal, listening. By the size of the elevator and shaft, my guess was that we were gathered atop a small freight elevator.

  “We’ve been quiet as possible and she hasn’t heard anything,” Tahgs whispered to me and Gerard.

  Simms eyed our rifles.

  “Forced donation,” I whispered.

  Tahgs was already slipping on the spare boots. I unslung my shotgun with bayonet. “Give Marguerite the stun baton,” I told Tahgs. “Gerard,” I whispered, pointing to the emergency hatch, “you open that and I’ll go down first.”

  Simms stepped between me and the hatch with his MP pistol held ready.

  “Right,” I said. “You’re better armed for it.” Maybe he saw my limp too. My leg no longer throbbed with pain but it ached.

  Simms took Marguerite’s stun baton, whispering, “A moment only.”

  The hatch wasn’t locked. Within seconds Gerard had it open. Simms stuck the MP pistol in the elevator, searched and then dropped down. Immediately he reached up and discharged the stun baton against the surveillance camera.

  Simms then examined the panel and interior before tossing the stun baton back up to me.

  I handed the baton back to Marguerite. “Okay. Simms and me and Gerard are the best armed. We’ll drop down, pry the doors open. Move out and then you two follow once it’s clear. Cover our backs.”

  Tahgs glared at me, a look of hardened determination. “We’re not staying up here. We’re not.” She held up a wrinkled hand, before I said anything. “How can we follow up if we’re up here? Have your back if we’re up here jumping down while you’re somewhere out there?”

  I tilted my head, assessing her weak argument. “Fair enough,” I said loud enough so Simms could hear. Something had switched in Tahgs. Maybe it was being imprisoned here. Maybe it built upon her experience aboard the Kalavar and then on Tallavaster. Combat, war. Suffering. “Same plan but with you and her down there with us.”

  Inspired by Tahgs’ new-found fierceness. Marguerite said, “If they get any of you, I’ll pick up your gun and shoot any of the bastards that are left.”

  Once we were all down, Gerard used my bayonet to pry apart the inner doors, just a crack. Then, with deep a breath, he pulled them apart.

  Before he began prying the second set of doors, Marguerite stepped forward and rested a hand on the muscled man’s shoulder. She still had Heartwell’s computer clip, although she or someone had touched the screen as it displayed a locked screen. “Let me listen first,” she said.

  Gerard stepped aside, allowing her to place an ear against the door. Elevator doors were thick and insulated. Even so, with eyes closed in concentration, she reported, “Shouts. Not right outside the door. I think.”

  “Good enough,” I said. “Thanks.”

  Gerard cracked open the outer doors. Tahgs took the bayonet from him before he spread the doors open. I rushed out, ducking under his right arm. Simms went under his left.

  We were in a large manufacturing sector. Crates, lifts, conveyers, and swivel-mounted robots of all sizes, with precision tools, welding and soldering heads. Yellow, orange, red colors and shining stainless steel dominated the landscape, all with the Capital Galactic Logo: CGIG emblazoned atop a glittering Milky Way. The fabrication and assembly equipment appeared to be constructing some sort of armored turret housings and internal control components, shut down mid job. The double height area was well lit with a combination of halogen and LED bulbs. While a manufacturing area was unexpected, what stood out even more were the scattered Chicher bodies in their combat harnesses, bloodied and broken. I could see six or seven from where I stood. A recent battle. The blood glistened, wet in pools and splatters. The scarred walls, floors, and equipment from laser fire and pockmarks and etched grooves from rifle fire and small grenade blasts attested to the fight’s intensity. There weren’t any human bodies, but blood aplenty, and boot prints from men passing through. Carried off the dead and wounded?

  The stench of battle, blood and burned metal and spilled bowels. It affected everyone, but Marguerite more. She ran into the elevator struggling not to vomit.

  The layout appeared organized in rows with only a few feet between floor level conveyer paths, metallic like old-time escalator steps, but moving flat. Circular rotation areas enabled 90 or even 180 degree changes of direction at intersections. Some equipment sat slightly askew, other machines and construction robots appeared undamaged.

  Two women, an engineering tech and an information systems specialist based upon their red and sky blue coveralls, stood atop a squat robot, facing opposite the elevator. Their interest was focused in the direction echoing with random shouts accented by sporadic small arms fire. A hydraulic robotic arm half-elevated offered concealment. From their front, not from us.

  Sim
ms and I crept up on the two women, followed by Gerard and Tahgs. Simms signaled for me to take the information specialist on the right and for Gerard, along with him, to focus on the red clad engineer on the left. It made sense. Simms had a pistol which was less accurate than a rifle, and Gerard was an unknown. The big man might be competent with a rifle, or it might be his first time firing a gun, let alone at a human being. Simms knew of my gunfight under pressure when an assassin attempted to kill Representative Vorishnov on the Mavinrom Dock.

  “On three,” Simms whispered while taking aim using a two handed stance.

  We were less than twenty yards away. Using a plastic crate to steady my aim, I went for the center of her back rather than risk a head shot. Even though MP rifles had less recoil than a .22 caliber rifle of equivalent size, the selected three shot burst would rise a little. If my aim was true and remained centered, the third round would strike the base of her neck.

  Years ago, while training to be a Security Specialist, I’d never have considered shooting anyone in the back, especially a woman. War, treachery, and survival had overridden that naive stance. I’ve always believed in winning a fight by doing whatever was necessary. Shooting an unsuspecting enemy guard, a human, in the back now constituted what was necessary. Another blemish on my already tainted soul.

  Another act that might allow other souls—loyal souls, innocent human souls—to survive. That’s what I told myself.

  A fraction of a second after Simms counted, “Three,” my target fell forward, momentarily draped over the robotic arm before slipping to rest atop the robot’s aluminum cover. She twitched twice. The engineering tech tumbled backwards, falling and striking the floor shoulder first. Before any of us could target her for a second burst, Tahgs raced past us and drove my shotgun’s bayonet into her chest. It wasn’t necessary. Simms had gotten her in the back of the skull. Gerard’s single shot took her in the back of the knee.

  We all followed Tahgs, taking cover behind the boxy robot and listened. She’d already removed the engineering tech’s belt and holstered MP pistol. She drew and checked it before putting the belt around her gown. Then she picked up and slung my shotgun over her left shoulder. “I’ll keep this for you,” she said.

  In the meantime, Simms climbed up to retrieve the info specialist’s sidearm and belt. He bent low and offered it to Marguerite. “You know how to use this?” His voice was nearly gone.

  She shook her head. I took the firearm. “Put the belt on over your gown,” I said. “Better we have a couple of you not in uniform. New boots for you and Tahgs, if they fit better. Then I showed Marguerite the basics of her newly acquired MP pistol. The safety, how to shoot, and reminding her never to point at anyone she didn’t intend to kill.

  Gerard stood watch next to us while Simms observed from the dead women’s perch. From what I could see the area had been policed of weapons and human casualties. The dead rat-like aliens had been left, but someone had picked up their small firearms.

  I’d read about Chicher soldiers. They were tenacious and fearless, and had a tendency to selflessly throw themselves upon the enemy in support of fellow pack members. The normal result was that they either emerged victorious or utterly wiped out to the last man, or more accurately, pack member.

  After I finished my firearm instruction and examining the nearest two dead Chicher, Simms signaled for me to join him. From the elevated vantage we spotted wounded men lying on the floor between robotic equipment. They were being bandaged and placed on tarps used as makeshift stretchers. They were being moved to a functioning conveyer which carried them to an elevator along a distant sidewall on the right. The conveyer was the only mechanical device working.

  A short distance from where the emergency triage was happening, a trio of Chicher, bound at the ankles and wrists, with their prehensile tails duct-taped to their chests, were being interrogated. That consisted mainly of one man shouting at them. Nevertheless, the shouts were one in a choir. Orders given to med techs and the pleading cries of wounded men and women, and the sound of distant combat. Most of the Capital Galactic personnel were armed with MP pistols. That everyone was armed, even the Med Techs treating the wounded, said something about the renegade corporation’s expectations and culture.

  Several wide archways with doors elevated, opened to what appeared to be a balcony area. Waist-high guard rails overlooked enormous cranes and robotic welding arms and other manufacturing equipment. If the area we stood in put together dual and tri-beam pulse lasers for shuttles, out there must be where Capital Galactic was building warship-sized laser turrets.

  Doing so broke more laws than I could count but, since they’d turned on humanity and sided with the Crax, what did that matter?

  “Rear area,” I said in a low voice to Simms. “We’ll approach silently, strike fast, drive through. Free those three Chicher and any others along the way. If they’re taking prisoners, the loyalists must be holding, and maybe advancing against the boarders.”

  Simms nodded in agreement.

  “Oh,” I said. “Do you recall your .22 caliber pistol, the antique with rosewood grips?”

  He smiled. “I do.”

  I grinned back. “It’s still knocking around. Intel Agent Guymin or Vingee have it. It was with my gear on our shuttle, before I got separated from them.” I wasn’t sure why I wanted to share that. I didn’t want to mention it to him while we were in the cell together, not sure how Capital Galactic could use the information. Maybe I wanted him to know that I was a man of my word. He’d lent it to me while we were on the Pars Griffin, while I was wounded and dying. Just before he was wounded and subsequently captured. I’d promised to return it to him.

  He shook his head, amused. “Appreciate,” he rasped.

  It was an odd time to bring up something so trivial. Was I subconsciously trying to set the record straight, take care of obligations before I died? Something likely to happen. But it’d been that way for a long time.

  We climbed down. I continued giving Simms my assessment. “If they repel the incursion, we’re stuck.”

  I told Tahgs, Gerard and Marguerite what Simms and I saw and my assessment, and the plan. Simms again nodded in agreement.

  “Any of us go down,” I said, “press on. If we break the line from behind, it’ll help the Chicher pour through, capture this ship. It’s our best chance to escape, and the best chance for any of us that fall wounded.”

  “They’re aliens,” Gerard said. “I’ve seen vids of them before. Can hardly tell one from another. They don’t dress in colors and use insignias like we do. Won’t we just be humans to them?”

  “They’ll know me,” I said. “At least if they get the chance to smell me.”

  Marguerite tilted her head. Her nostrils flared as she breathed in deeply. “If you say so, Specialist.”

  Tahgs stepped between me and Marguerite. “If he says so, it’s true,” she said, her lip curled.

  Before any bad blood could form, I said, “Stay quiet until we get close. Then do as I direct, what Simms signals, or whatever you feel is best.” I checked my rifle, making sure it was set on three-round bursts. “Nemo me impune lacessit.”

  Gerard asked, “What’s that mean?”

  “I’ll tell you when this is over.”

  Chapter 45

  The three Chicher prisoners were in sight. We hunkered down behind a row of yellow crates. We viewed the interrogation framed between a multi-armed riveting robot and a wheeled bin filled with rows of rectangular steel panels.

  A pudgy, puffy-eyed Capital Galactic executive spoke into a computer clip, allowing it to translate. “How many Chicher troops make up the second wave of your assault force?” Anger and contempt dripped from his shouted words. “Answer now or your pack member dies.” The man’s soft hands and features shouted ‘arrogant executive.’

  Next to him a security specialist, an S2 supervisor according to the patch above her chest pocket, held a medium duty laser rifle. While the executive’s words emanated fro
m the computer clip in chattering and squeaks, the Chicher language, the S2 leveled her rifle at the Chicher on the right, smaller and more agitated than the others.

  “Now,” I ordered, squeezing off a headshot at the S2. Guessing her jacket and smooth coveralls might have built-in body armor, it was the best choice. She should’ve been wearing her riot helmet instead of allowing the executive’s assistant to hold it. The assistant, a diminutive woman with dark hair covering half her face, looked overwhelmed, like she wanted to drop the helmet and run away. She would’ve lived longer if she had.

  Tahgs and I shared the same target. Simms and Marguerite had the executive, and Gerard, the assistant. The S2 staggered for two steps before dropping, the top of her skull shattered in a spray of blood. At least one of Tahgs’ rounds took her in the torso, but didn’t appear to penetrate.

  I didn’t focus on that. The executive was on the ground, but Gerard had missed the assistant. Simms and I brought her down before her shock voiced itself as a scream.

  Tahgs clambered over the crates, racing for the Chicher. She’d discarded my shotgun but carried my bayonet. I was right behind her with Simms on my heels. I didn’t look back to see if the other two followed.

  I took up position to the Chicher captives’ rear, partially concealed by the wheeled bin. Down the aisle, a number of the loyalists looked our way. I targeted with small bursts, a med tech looking up from patching up wounded guards, then a security specialist, and an information specialist and computer technician carrying the wounded our direction, toward the elevator located a hundred yards behind me. Simms faced the other direction. Sharp snaps sounded as he let loose with his MP pistol.

  Tahgs sliced through the plastic ties holding the nearest Chicher. She shoved her MP pistol into the alien’s hands and started freeing the next one. Shouts and warnings rang out, causing all those working along the wide conveyer to duck, taking cover between the parts bins, robots, and other machinery. Within five seconds, everyone able to move was out of sight. No more easy targets, except those unconscious or on the floor, unable to move.