Relic Hunted (Crax War Chronicles #2)

by Terry W. Ervin II

  I took a breath, Tahgs and Marguerite watching wide-eyed in anticipation. “Three Earth standard years ago, the Crax launched their invasion. Sometime after, an influential corporation, Capital Galactic Investment Group, covertly sided with the enemy. I and two others aboard this damaged ship played a major role in revealing Capital Galactic’s treacherous support of the Crax.”

  After waiting several breaths for some reply, and none coming, I continued. “I and two other humans have just escaped from a hidden Capital Galactic outpost prison, because of a raid mounted by human Intelligence, mainly with Chicher and Felgan forces. Three surviving Chicher are among those on our vessel. It’s believed the Chicher battlewagon, Chicher midget-frigate flotilla and their tender, and two Felgan combat vessels were destroyed in the engagement. Or were being chased last we observed.”

  I put my hand over the mic. “Are they receiving, Tahgs?”

  “We’re sending on three standard Umbelgarri frequencies, and two human frequencies, one military and one civilian, consistent with those from the height of the Silicate War.” She paused. “I think Capital Galactic is transmitting to the destroyer. They’re now overriding our ship from receiving, using an ID exclusion code.” She continued tapping, bringing up screens and icons. “Attempting to go around and access the transmissions.”

  I nodded and continued. “It’s imperative that you move to intercept and destroy any ships before they depart, and destroy any message rockets they might send which would inform the enemy of your arrival.”

  I looked over my shoulder to McAllister before finishing my message. “Go take care of the enemy. We aren’t going anywhere.”

  Twenty seconds passed without reply.

  McAllister looked like she’d sucked on a dozen bitter limes. “Way to go, Relic.”

  “There. Circumvented their block,” Tahgs said, and spun in her seat to face McAllister. “What would you have said different?”

  The receiving screen spun with colors. I translated. “Unrecognized partial interstellar vessel, the dominant human financial pod reports data that forms obtuse thought angles as opposed to parallel.”

  “Tahgs,” I said, “call up our communication exchange with the Cheval de Travail’s captain. Send it after I finish.” I took a deep breath. “Umbelgarri Heavy Cruiser, review the communication exchange that occurred between this ship and the armed and armored freighter that has since halted its retreat. Analyze not only the content but verify the voice patterns for authenticity.”

  I nodded to Tahgs and she tapped an icon, sending the audio file.

  Marguerite asked, “How long will it take a message rocket, once deployed to depart under condensed space travel?”

  McAllister told our pilot, “Give me your seat and your headset.”

  While taking the pilot’s seat, she slipped on the headset. “Pay attention, Keesay.” She then tapped a few controls and screen icons. I couldn’t see exactly what she was doing. It appeared she was sending number sequences and formulas.

  “I just sent a narrow beam communication. From my experience working with the Umbelgarri, the content should be identified as proprietary knowledge.”

  Seconds passed. “A bit of a gambit?” I asked.

  “What I sent should give our words more weight.” McAllister squinted at the screen readouts. “With this substandard sensor suite, from this distance it is impossible to determine if they’ve launched message rockets.”

  “They’re responding,” Tahgs said.

  Four letters appeared on her com-screen: ARTC.

  McAllister stared, uncomprehending. She glanced up at me. “Keesay?”

  Searching my brain for any connection, I shrugged. It was some sort of code. “McAllister, can you convert it into Umbelgarri?”

  “I cannot. This ship’s computers lack the files and I don’t have any of my equipment.”

  “Tahgs, request them to resend in Umbelgarri, not human text.”

  She complied, and a brief colorful reply appeared on her screen. As I watched, something deep in my brain clicked on. A phrase. A key that matched a lock. “Dolphins yearn for speech.” “What?” Tahgs asked me.

  “An implanted response,” McAllister suggested. All three women stared at me.

  I keyed my mic active and repeated, “Dolphins yearn for speech.”

  The Umbelgarri responded: AD 1985

  I replied, “Rory Rammer.”

  Within seconds, the Umbelgarri replied one word that I translated: “Received.”

  Before the word had finished crossing my lips the Umbelgarri heavy cruiser surged to life, racing past us, opening fire. Five silver beams lanced out. Two appeared to miss wide of any target. One tore into the nearest armed freighter, the Cheval de Travail, like a white-hot shaft of iron piercing paper-mâché. The other two Umbelgarri beams struck more distant freighters.

  Almost immediately the Felgan light cruiser moved to keep pace with the larger Umbelgarri cruiser, loosing their own weapon. The particle beam tore into a modular dock, one more distant and twice the size of the one where we’d been held prisoner.

  The human destroyer sent a communication, but what they said was lost to me. The Cheval de Travail returned fire. One tri-beam blast struck the smooth planarian shaped heavy cruiser in the nose. The other struck us in the rear, tearing deep into our vulnerable aft section. We were holed. Outer hull breached and internal walls and compartments compromised. Hatches slammed shut in an effort to preserve life and precious air in the few undamaged sections.

  I leapt out of the co-pilot seat, allowing Tahgs to sit. Red warning lights signaled power and systems failing. Belatedly, the human destroyer launched two missiles and opened fire with her pair of forward tri-beam lasers. Who or what she targeted could only be guessed as the pilot view portal was our only connection with what was going on.

  The two Chicher commandos stood, facing the dropped hatch, their heads twitching, their eyes darting around. They must’ve realized they were the only two remaining of their pack. I tapped the nearest to get his attention, then pointed toward the hatch leading into the pulse gunner turret. Getting them in there would make room in the cramped area, and double the chances of someone surviving, should the pilot compartment lose integrity.

  The gravity plate failed, as did lighting. Emergency batteries kicked in, restoring light while McAllister used what little control she had over the two surviving docking thrusters, trying to halt our tumble caused by the laser strike and decompression of damaged sections.

  Life support was gone. Warmth and fresh air was in short supply. All that we had in the two adjoining compartments. We’d never make it to the emergency life pod, if it was still intact.

  “Spiteful bastards,” McAllister spat.

  In their position, it’s what I would’ve done—if I were a traitor. But I would’ve fired both laser batteries on us, instead of just one. The best they could do against the Umbelgarri heavy cruiser was to bloody its nose. I didn’t express that sentiment. Instead, after the Chicher commandoes floated up, into the pulse laser turret, I gently gripped Tahgs’ shoulders with both hands. “We’ll make it,” I said.

  “So close,” she said, her voice wavering. “Just my luck.”

  “Luck?” I asked. “What are the odds that a wormhole would appear, and three friendly ships emerge?”

  “Of all the potential locations,” McAllister said, “the probability for their return into this star system is quite high.”

  “Want to calculate the odds on the timing?”

  “Shut up, Relic. You’re wasting oxygen.” While her words were harsh, the tone through which she delivered them wasn’t.

  Chapter 51

  I was lying on a hospital bed with an IV dripping into my arm. White light reflecting off shiny metal assaulted my eyes and hospital antiseptic smells entertained my nose. I was in my own room, an examination room. Tahgs and Marguerite had been whisked away for a more intense medical examination. The Chicher commandos and McAllister were being
debriefed. At least that’s what I was told.

  Med Tech Leach, a curly gray haired man with a friendly smile, reviewed the readouts. “We removed the micro neural interrupter device from your neck,” he said.

  That was a relief. “Thank you.”

  He nodded once. “I’ll relay to the ship’s surgeon.” Then he frowned. “You have a severe hemorrhoid inflammation,” he said. “Tests indicate the condition is chemically induced, and should clear up within days.” He paused, checking a computer monitor readout. “The doctor isn’t sure what was used to cause the inflammation. If it doesn’t clear up, we can try treating it directly.” He met my gaze with raised eyebrows. “Would you be more comfortable lying on your side or stomach, Specialist Keesay?”

  Despite everything that had happened and my utter exhaustion, I sensed the burning pain, wasn’t going to be an everlasting gift from Lawyer Heartwell.

  While the human destroyer deployed an emergency rescue shuttle, McAllister had used the Gravel Box’s docking thrusters to alter our facing. A minimal expenditure of battery power provided optical magnification so we could witness the Umbelgarri and Felgan cruisers slice through what remained of the loyalist ships and resistance. They targeted thrust engines and weapon mounts, calling for the enemy’s surrender, which they did in droves, except for two ships. One armed freighter’s captain and crew chose self-destruction rather than capture. A second attempted to ram the Umbelgarri heavy cruiser. It was like an arthritic dairy cow trying to out maneuver a wild pinto in his prime. With that one the Phibs appeared to lose their patience, or decided to prove a point. She opened up with all guns. Two minutes later she’d rendered the freighter a hunk of scrap metal, floating holed and on fire.

  My guess was the Umbelgarri, realizing they were at war—and losing—intended to preserve as many usable assets as possible. The Felgan light cruiser recovered the escape pod containing Simms, Vingee and Guymin, along with a handful of Chicher commandos. The second Felgan destroyer had been destroyed, but the Chicher battlewagon survived. Apparently the loyalists disabled the ship and intended to force a surrender. To what end, I wasn’t sure, and wasn’t told.

  “Specialist Keesay,” Med Tech Leach said. “Would you like assistance rolling onto your side?”

  They’d removed my appropriated prison guard uniform for a plain white hospital gown. No flowers. Ensign Ciriegio was in the room, waiting for her turn to question me. This was to be her second session. I stayed on my back. A little modesty over comfort seemed in order, even if it wasn’t her first session.

  Ensign Ciriegio was an older woman, thin with a welcoming, toothy smile. Everyone serving aboard the Reef Shark appeared to be, on average, older than those holding similar positions in the fleet. It made sense, since they’d departed through a wormhole nearly twenty years ago to take the fight to the Shards, and were only now returning. How had the fight gone? Did they establish a foothold for Human-Felgan-Umbelgarri society? They’d figured out how to create and harness a wormhole as evidenced by their return to the Orion Arm of the Milky Way. I was sure there were many stories to be told, but my time for hearing any wasn’t at hand.

  Med Tech Leach observed me, waiting for an answer and standing ready to assist.

  “No, thank you,” I said to the med tech. “I don’t know how long I was imprisoned, but I’ve grown accustomed to discomfort.”

  Ensign Ciriegio tapped a note onto her computer clip and said, “We must corroborate dates with the Intelligence agents currently aboard the Felgan light cruiser, however I am authorized to share that we believe no fewer than four months yet no greater than seven.”

  Her voice carried a joyful lilt, even when explaining an estimate based on gathered facts. I didn’t know her well enough to accurately assess if she was just a cheerful person, or someone who could project happiness despite her mood.

  “That’s a wide timespan,” I commented, then shrugged. “If you’d’ve said two years, I wouldn’t’ve disputed your estimate.”

  She nodded to me and then dismissed the med tech. She pulled up a stool. “You have already chronicled how you came to be imprisoned and who was involved. The Senior Engineer’s recollection fits with what you’ve shared.”

  I knew what they were after, and were trying to fit the pieces together, which they’d report to Fleet and Intelligence at the first opportunity. They knew I worked for Intel, serving in the guise of a Security Specialist, and a little about why Capital Galactic had offered a bounty on me. I had nothing to hide, at least until her next line of questioning began.

  After a few taps at her computer clip’s screen, Ensign Ciriegio asked, “My captain would like to know why the Umbelgarri acted so decisively when the scenario playing out upon our arrival was anything but clear cut.”

  “They accurately assessed the situation.”

  “Are you indicating that you played no part in that assessment?”

  “No, Ensign, I am not.”

  “What did you say to them and why did you communicate with them instead of this vessel and our captain?”

  “Senior Engineer McAllister selected the party to be communicated with.” She also must have purged Gravel Box’s system of the communication exchanged with the Umbelgarri.

  The ensign nodded and smiled. I glanced up at the surveillance camera. Both it and the ensign were recording my debriefing.

  “Is there a reason you’re being less than forthcoming in your answers, Specialist Keesay?”

  I shrugged. “I am tired. It happened so fast.”

  “You appeared to spare few details in our previous session.”

  “I had a lot of alone time to think on that and the treachery involved. Many months it would seem. That makes a difference.”

  “The forward section of the Gravel Box has been retrieved and examined. Standard files for such vessels would not include the ability to translate Umbelgarri into a format humans can normally understand. How were you able to communicate? We detected scrambled signals. Bursts consistent with Umbelgarri rather than human communication.”

  McAllister had wiped the communication files, probably made it look like damage sustained in the Cheval de Travail’s final spiteful gesture. Corrupted the communications data. She owed some amount of loyalty to the Umbelgarri as well. I think Tahgs recognized what she was doing, and maybe Marguerite did as well but, as a Relic Tech, I could reasonably get away feigning ignorance. Still, telling a lie would eventually catch up with me.

  “The Umbelgarri implanted the ability for me to comprehend their color-coded language. My hearing is unable to detect the auditory portion, so I must interpret what I see without the benefit of emotional emphasis.”

  “When did the Umbelgarri do this?”

  “Actually, I believe it was their thralls that assisted in the process while I was under the Cranaltar IV, which is information both Intelligence and the Umbelgarri probably want to remain unknown to the general population.

  “I mentioned it briefly during your first interview, Ensign. Why Capital Galactic placed a bounty on my head?”

  McAllister, to my understanding, was providing an update of what was happening in the war. Guymin, Vingee, and any of the Chicher commandos and the battlewagon’s surviving crew could do that as well. And probably were.

  The losing war scenario wasn’t one the crews emerging from the wormhole were prepared for, and a portion of that war revealing itself immediately upon their emergence. That they experienced it was to their benefit. Otherwise, if the three ships had split off, the Umbelgarri heavy cruiser and the Felgan light cruiser might’ve stumbled into their home territory, enemy occupied territory. The Felgans having been overrun with only remnants remaining free, and most of the Umbelgarri colonies and outposts having been destroyed.

  The ensign asked, “Why did the Bahklack thralls, under the direction of their Umbelgarri masters, implant the ability in your brain?”

  “That’d be something to ask the Umbelgarri.”

  She smiled. “The
ones we are associated with would have no knowledge of this.”

  Still lying on my back, I frowned and shrugged. “You could ask Special Agent Guymin.”

  “Please speculate, Specialist.” The ensign’s voice was calm and patient. “Why would the Umbelgarri implant the ability for you to comprehend their language?”

  “They had the opportunity,” I said. “The Cranaltar IV was an experimental device of Umbelgarri origin.”

  “How were you able to convince them which side to believe so quickly without evidence?”

  It was easy to see and hear in her voice that Ensign Ciriegio was following a line of questioning that wasn’t her own. She was under orders. “Those Umbelgarri are here. Ask them.”

  “True, but you’re here in front of me now.”

  “You travelled between galaxies with them?”

  “We did. We fought alongside them. Died alongside them. Did what we could to establish a secure outpost before returning.” She paused to tap at her screen. “How did you convince our Umbelgarri allies?”

  McAllister was right. The Phibs remained the senior partner in our alliance. “Your captain wants to know? Can’t your captain ask them?”

  Ensign Ciriegio’s eyebrows pinched together as she tapped at her screen.

  They’d already asked, and the Umbelgarri didn’t give them an answer. Refused to answer, or give one that was satisfactory. “Consider this,” I said. “How many of your crew have family that’s tied to Capital Galactic? How many even now are wondering which side their family—their husbands, wives, parents and grandparents, children, nieces, nephews are on? That doesn’t count lovers, friends. And acquaintances. Wondering which side should they be on?”