Relic Hunted (Crax War Chronicles #2)

by Terry W. Ervin II

  Pressing ahead, firing at any signs of movement, I urged everyone, “Go now.”

  We had to make it to the balcony and beyond before fright and shock wore off the nearby loyalists and they got organized.

  The second Chicher was up, grabbing the fallen laser rifle. It was lighter than an MP rifle. Still, the three-foot alien looked like a seven year-old toting his father’s gun in a loping bipedal gait.

  “Hurry, Tahgs,” I urged, firing off a couple short bursts. Fortunately MP rifles carried over a hundred rounds.

  “I am, Keesay.” She moved from the Chicher’s back to the front, working on his legs while the Chicher tore at the duct tape holding his tail against his chest. “Go. We’ll catch up in a second.”

  Simms led Marguerite and Gerard through the equipment, toward the balcony. Someone opened up on us. One round ricocheted off the floor and glanced off my shin. It caused me to lose my balance while returning fire. Fortunately the floor had absorbed most of its momentum. Before the last Chicher was able to get to his feet, he took a round to the back of the head. The brown-furred alien slumped to the floor, blood oozing from the fatal wound.

  “Dammit,” Tahgs shouted, firing off unaimed MP pistol rounds. She didn’t stay put, however, showing once again that her strength and agility didn’t match her aged appearance. I struggled to keep up.

  I followed her between a dual-beam laser housing under construction and a deactivated eight-wheeled dolly-bot hauling a rusting bin filled with scrap metal. A flash of laser fire struck a metal strut over my head as we ran. MP rounds cracked and clanged off a large drill press behind us. I didn’t bother returning fire. There were dozens more of them than us, each one armed. Putting more machines and metal between us and them meant survival, at least for a few more minutes.

  Tahgs and I made it through the main entryway to the balcony. Wheeled and spot-welded into place along the railing, a half-inch steel plate with crude firing slits cut into it offered Simms and Gerard protection. They and one Chicher fired through the slits, down at the enemy below. Simms and Gerard with MP rifles. The Chicher stood upon two dead bodies to gain the necessary angle with his laser rifle.

  Marguerite almost shot Janice with her MP pistol, but the second Chicher, squealed and chattered, causing the frazzled woman to pull up instead. From behind the steel barrier, the rat-alien then shoved a third bleeding body under the balcony’s bottom rail. It crashed onto debris scattered across the floor below.

  I pulled Tahgs down to the floor an instant before laser and MP fire whizzed past, some impacting next to and above the doorway.

  The setup reminded me of the Iron Oxen’s hold where we overlooked the staged breaching pods. Instead of pods, below stood huge cranes and robotic construction equipment organized in diamond patterns, with scattered forklifts and massive storage bins.

  Blood and fallen bodies covered the floor and equipment, like a violent game of capture the flag was underway. It was apparent both sides had surged and retreated more than once. Neither side appeared to have more than small arms. Superior tactics must’ve supported the Chicher forces, but wasn’t enough against Capital Galactic’s overwhelming numbers.

  That was, until Simms and his group opened up. Where the Chicher had been driven back into a corner covering less than a quarter of the cavernous construction area below, the unexpected fire support from behind broke Capital Galactic’s advance. The remaining Chicher surged forward to sunder the line.

  Among the rats I spotted a braided red head in orange and a tall woman in a quasi-gray uniform. “Watch where you shoot,” I shouted over my shoulder towards Simms. “Agents Guymin and Vingee are down there with the Chicher.” At the same time I turned and fired from my prone position, clipping the shoulder of the first pursuer trying to follow us onto the balcony. I didn’t see Guymin but Simms would know him. I didn’t think he’d know who McAllister was.

  “We know that,” Gerard shouted, pulling a rearming tube from the barrel of his gun and securing another from one of the fallen men. “You just keep shooting at them your direction.”

  Gerard didn’t know Vingee and Guymin, did he? Humans among the Chicher was probably evidence enough. In any case, we couldn’t communicate with them. The Capital Galactic loyalists below would certainly be able to communicate with those above, and in the rest of the ship. Coordinate despite the pitch battle going on down there.

  Tahgs was lying next to me, pressed against the wall and ready to shoot her pistol. I told her, “McAllister’s down there.” I didn’t know the extent of the two women’s relationship, but they’d served aboard the Kalavar, and were in contact on Tallavaster, prior to the invasion.

  “Really?”

  “What I really hope is that they don’t have any grenades.” With the shouting and ring of Chicher small arms fire, like .22 caliber gunfire, along with the ever present claxon, I wasn’t worried about anyone overhearing our conversation.

  Her eyes went wide. “That’s for sure.”

  “Wish they hadn’t shoved that body off the balcony,” I said. “Could’ve used it for cover.”

  “Right,” she said, pushing sweaty strands of gray hair from her face.

  Around the corner, they were formulating a plan of action. There were two open archways: the near one and the second about twenty-five yards further down. And equipment they could push ahead of them for protection, both from us and gunfire from below. We’d be wide open. Couldn’t let that happen.

  “Trade weapons,” I said, “Quick.”

  “Bayonet too?”

  “Why not,” I said, preparing for a charge back into the construction area.

  “Thanks, Kra, for coming for me.”

  “Later,” I said, offering her a wink. “If I shout Kalavar, slow count to ten. Only then come running.”

  “Want me to come with you now?”

  I shook my head. “I got this.” With that, I raced forward, hunched low with pistol and bayonet held ready.

  Chapter 46

  I ran, shooting at anything that didn’t resemble a machine. A woman standing with her back to the opening went down with one of my MP rounds in her throat. Two maintenance techs standing with partial cover behind an automated drill press went down next. One struck in the shoulder, the other in the forehead.

  I dove between the drill press and a stack of metal plates. Flashes zipped by and snapping MP fire struck near where I crouched. Rounds continued to bounce and ricochet off the plates and drill press. I drove my bayonet in to the chest of the wounded maintenance tech trying to get to his feet. In his stunned condition, he never saw it coming. The other tech on the floor, I slit his throat, to be sure. After slipping my bloody bayonet into my belt, I picked up one of the dead men’s MP pistols and crawled forward, under and between machinery.

  They must’ve lost sight of me because the snap of MP rounds and the cracks and clangs as they struck metal ceased.

  The dead maintenance techs had been directing a dolly-bot with a steel sheet attached toward the balcony. When their remote was dropped, the bot stopped.

  I popped up and fired both pistols in several directions. My shots weren’t aimed but they caused the engineering and med techs to duck for cover. That gave me a chance to winnow my way back toward the drill press. Doubling back might temporarily fool those gunning for me. Who’d choose to hunker down between a pair of dead bodies?

  There was no way I could take out the two or three dozen loyalists scattered around me. I was playing for time. Enough time for the Chicher commandos and McAllister to break through. I exchanged fire against the semi-circle that closed in on me. None of them were marksmen. Still, a couple of ricochets struck home. None penetrated my body armor. In the meantime, I only wounded two. My luck was bound to run out.

  I missed the comforting grip and recoil of my single-action revolver and the scattering blasts of buckshot my shotgun threw. The sounds of combat beyond the balcony continued, giving me a wistful sliver of hope.

  One of my p
istols clicked empty, confirmed by the pale arming light that had shifted to red. I picked up another pistol lying next to one of the dead maintenance techs. His body had taken a few stray rounds deflected off the floor and stack of steel plates. Hunkering down between a pair of dead bodies wasn’t the worst idea I’d ever had.

  I’d probably feel remorse for that, and the callused way I’d gunned down the med techs and even some of the wounded in the triage area. If remorse were to have a chance of forming, I had to survive.

  Crouched low, I prepared to lay down a spray of fire and return to my previous position.

  Snaps of MP fire emerged from the balcony.

  It was Tahgs lying prone, taking aimed shots. I saw only her MP rifle’s muzzle, meaning she was using the wall for cover. It limited her range of targets, but freed me up to concentrate on only two-thirds of the semi-circle, and forced the untrained attackers to consider another threat.

  If the Chicher offensive faltered I’d shift to my backup plan. Make a break for the elevator used to carry away the wounded. Do as much damage as possible before they brought me down.

  Narrowing my scope of fire to a 120 degree arc helped, plus watching along the entrances to the balcony. Those opposing me weren’t interested in unduly risking their lives, and they lacked any form of effective leadership. They appeared content to keep me pinned down and hope for a lucky shot.

  Popping up and shooting between equipment, moving again, and placing my back to a CNC lathe, I reviewed the layout and pieced together a route to the elevator.

  The battle’s tenor beyond the balcony changed, faltering to near silence. Shouts of “I give up” and “We surrender” rose.

  “You’re all warp-screwed now,” I shouted. “If you can’t take out one half-starved prisoner, what chance do you have against a company of Chicher commandos?”

  While crawling to reposition and avoid becoming a target for accurate gunfire that my prolonged taunt offered, I was surprised how effective my ploy had been. Tahgs confirmed the movement spotted between the machines and equipment, shouting, “They’re running, Kra!”

  “Stay down,” I warned, doubling back. “Might be a few stubborn ones.”

  I was right. Tahgs and I exchanged gunfire with four committed loyalists until a squad of Chicher entered the upper manufacturing area.

  The few remaining loyalists fled and I set my MP pistols down, saying, “Don’t shoot. We’re on the same side.”

  One of the commandos came up to me, a tan-furred male with scattered bits of black. After sniffing me while two of his company leveled their automatic rifles, the leader bowed his head once and flicked his prehensile tail affixed with a tri-bladed knife to the left. He chattered something to his fellow commandos and they moved past.

  “Isn’t hard for one Relic to recognize another, Keesay.” It was McAllister, lugging a satchel and one of the Chicher sub machine guns. It looked like a toy in her hands. “A prison guard uniform? Moved up from Security Specialist I see.”

  Her chiding words didn’t match the purpose showing in her face. The trio of Chicher following her appeared agitated beyond measure.

  I stood, hunched to keep the stack of steel plates between me and any possible stray rounds, while trying to figure a way to slide the MP pistols into my belt. “Didn’t think I’d ever be saying this, McAllister. I’m really happy to see you.”

  “Don’t put your guns away yet, Relic. Soon as your Intel buddies wrap up their reunion, we’ve got to get off this modular dock.”

  Modular dock. That answered a few questions. “Where’s Tahgs?” I asked.

  McAllister came up next to me, hunched down for cover as well. “Who?”

  “Janice Tahgs,” I said. “She was on the balcony, providing me cover fire.”

  A look of confusion, followed by surprised recognition crossed McAllister’s face. “With the MP rifle?” she asked.

  I didn’t have to say yes, or even nod.

  “Damn,” McAllister cursed. “What the hell did those Capital Galactic bastards do to her?”

  Chapter 47

  The use of modular docks established a more rapid system for humanity’s expansion into the galaxy. A series of specially designed ships travel to a destination. Upon arrival, each ship’s aft thrust engine section and forward cascading engine compartment detach from the vessel’s central hull section. Engineers and construction-bots weld center sections together, forming a functioning dock. The forward and aft engine sections then unite for a return trip.

  The modular docks require higher degrees of maintenance and the return trips are difficult on crews as ship facilities are limited. It’s the price humanity has chosen to endure for the ability to swiftly establish distant footholds. It was also the price Capital Galactic chose to accept when stationing a modular dock for the purpose of manufacturing external ship weapons systems.

  Or those were my thoughts when McAllister told me what the imprisoning ship actually was. She was too busy to say much more, like how they’d found me—or located the prison that held Deputy Director Simms, and me, and Tahgs. I think the fact McAllister didn’t recognize Janice embarrassed the engineer, and reopened a form of devastation that tore at Janice’s heart. The genetic manipulation performed on Janice, Marguerite, and Gerard, and the woman Gerard carried until her death, added another voice to McAllister’s choir of anger directed at Capital Galactic and their Crax allies, or overlords.

  McAllister was kneeling with her computer on the floor. She’d hardwired it to Heartwell’s. Based on her skills, she’d have access to his files within minutes. I stood behind the Senior Engineer with my arm around Janice, trying to comfort her while listening to the Chicher commando outline some sort of plan to his subordinate pack members, and to Agents Guymin, and probably McAllister, if she was listening. The Chicher leader wore a translator affixed to his harness, but it was slow, and was set only to listen and translate anything Guymin might say. My guess was that Intelligence provided their agents, and probably McAllister, with a translation device of some sort, maybe even software incorporated into their receiving ear implants.

  Agent Vingee was there, across from us, whispering to Deputy Director Simms, and offering him water from a medical canteen. The salve spread across Vingee’s burned bicep glistened under the array of lights. Other than a hurried “Glad you made it” from her and a heartfelt smile and brief handshake from Guymin, I was quickly forgotten, the recovery of Deputy Director Simms being their primary mission. Early in the battle, Capital Galactic had employed heavy lasers and 40mm grenade launchers, but in severely limited numbers and supply. It was sufficient to wipe out one of the two Chicher companies within minutes after boarding.

  Vingee was lucky. Another quarter of an inch and her salve-covered arm would’ve been charbroiled, despite her Intel-supplied body armor. I’d suffered laser burns, and knew the pain she was enduring.

  Gerard and Marguerite sat huddled between a dolly-bot and a robotic welder. Both were exhausted, with a Chicher medic providing them water and some sort of energy paste. I held the same in my left hand. It looked and smelled a lot like peanut butter in a collapsible dish.

  Janice’s body shook as she sobbed. Exactly what caused her to break down, I could only guess. An aftereffect of coming off an adrenaline rush coupled with surviving a hopeless predicament played a part. McAllister’s inability to recognize Tahgs reminded the Information Specialist of the cruel damage Heartwell had inflicted upon her once youthful appearance.

  Gray hair, wrinkled, liver-spotted skin. Tahgs retained muscle tone beneath what was out of line with the centenarian she resembled. Her internal organs or at least her respiratory and circulatory systems, and her reflexes responded as a woman still in her youthful prime.

  My physical condition was nothing to brag about. Genetically damaged as Tahgs was, her stamina outshined mine.

  All but five of the Chicher commandos had spread out around us, what was left of them. Fewer than fifty, and ten of those injured to
some degree or another. An interesting use for their battle harnesses was the ability to attach a wounded pack member to their back. It slowed the healthy combatant down, but allowed the carrier to move, and fight in a limited fashion.

  “Got access,” McAllister hissed with enthusiasm and began calling up dock diagrams on one part of the screen, color coding them, and attaching relevant security video in some instances. Modular docks weren’t standard construction like many interstellar vessels. Within reasonable parameters, each section could be modified to meet individual requirements. She showed the screen and information to the Chicher and Guymin.

  Tahgs wiped her nose on her sleeve and asked, “Want to bet it was McAllister who disabled the prison locks?”

  “Special Agent Guymin isn’t a slouch when it comes to hacking systems,” I replied. Squeezing her shoulder, I added, “You’re probably right.” I offered her what was left of my Chicher food. “Not bad. Smells like peanut butter but tastes like wheat paste with a touch of sulfur.”

  She crinkled her nose.

  “Not bad as you might think, Janice. Reminds me of the ‘field rations’ we shared on Tallavaster, minus the sorghum syrup.”

  She smiled at the memory. A brief, quiet meal shared in my bunker in the trench line.

  “It’s making me feel like I might have a second wind,” I said. “Both the food and the memory.”

  She took the Chicher rations. “We’re not out of this yet.”

  “No,” I said, trying to catch a little of what Guymin and the Chicher leader were planning. “No, we’re not.”

  She saw my distraction and impatience. I wanted to move. She knew as well that time was against us. She also recognized the situation was dire, and we needed a plan, and that our participating in its formation wasn’t in the cards.