Birth of Rebellion (War of the Three Planets Book 4)

by Justin Bell

  In mid-air I focus for the briefest of moments as my limbs and musculature inflate in a swift and odd expansion. I morph into Reblon form before I even hit the highest arc of my jump. The grav truck is now at least three yards beyond me and traveling fast.

  The nearest hoverbike steers towards me as I crest my jump. My new thicker muscles are tensed and ready for impact. Somehow, I time the leap right. I straighten my spine as I plummet, driving both heels of my boots into the chest of the hoverbike driver. He screams in shock and pain, flying backwards from the vehicle. I draw my knees back to my chest, swivel, and land in the seat of the bike as if I'd done this a thousand times.

  I haven't. I've done it exactly once. Just now.

  What am I?

  I'll have to answer that question later. With a twist of the right grip I brake, shifting and twisting the steering mechanism to the right. The hoverbike slows and jerks sharply as I unload with the side cannon, sending a pelting barrage of ancient metal slugs into the path of some of the oncoming vehicles. Two bikes run headlong into the strobing streaks of fire. Their drivers are tossed and the fronts of the sleek, dark speedsters are obliterated into smoking fragments.

  For a second I hear the grinding clang of a metal foot striking ground, then the low whistle of a cylindrical mini-gun spinning to life. I jerk the handles back, accelerate and lift, sending the hoverbike into a rapid backwards trajectory as the first Crasher nears and unleashes a torrent of gunfire from its right hand-mounted weapon.

  The ground erupts where I was as I spin the bike around, jumping up into a crouch and bending low to keep my hands on the handlebars and my feet on the contoured seat. The Crasher moves slowly, swiveling at the waist. The Reblon pilot tenses his muscles as if to force the contraption to move faster, but it can't move fast enough. I launch myself from the bike, sending it backwards. In less than a second I'm grabbing onto the Crasher with curled fingernails.

  The wide, stunned eyes of the driver are visible through the canopy. He can't seem to decide if he should stop piloting the mech suit so he can battle me hand-to-hand, or if he should thrash around and attempt to throw me off.

  I don't give him a chance to make the decision. My fist jackhammers twice into the glass canopy shattering it into the cockpit, then I reach through and wrap my fingers in tufted handfuls of thick, Reblon hair.

  His mouth opens to argue, but my own muscles flex and I pull, tearing him free of the cockpit and dragging him through the busted remnants of the canopy, further smashing the glass protective shell. Without looking, I throwing the pilot free, clamor into the cockpit myself, and slide into its contoured seat. My legs fit into the twin compartments, and my hands wrap comfortably around the diagonal control sticks as if they'd been trained to do so. It all seems to come naturally as I coil my fingers around the trigger grips.

  From my higher vantage point, I spot a tall, rectangular tower with three blinking lights just a short distance past the two trucks. It's the launch pad. I can barely make out the shape of an interstellar ship perched upon it.

  But hover-bikes scream past me as I watch. Those narrow black streaks riding invisible magnetic fields, hurtle over the grass and draw dangerously close to the trucks. The rocket launchers and my hoverbike hijack created a diversion, but a very short one, and time is running out.

  An impact jolts my left shoulder, making me stumble forward, barely keeping my balance in the top heavy mechanized suit. I try to turn in the cockpit, but realizing that I can't so I flip a switch to activate a rear camera.

  Another Crasher is charging at me, lifting its arm to swing. I try to turn into it, but the hammer fist smashes into my right arm this time, shooting sparks and jolting pain through the control stick into my clenched fist. I suppose the pain is some kind of twisted incentive to operate the Crasher as you would your own body, but as my fingers shoot apart, and I cry out in pain, all it does is make me mad.

  As the second Crasher lurches forward and slams into me, I feel myself toppling backwards, but I manage to compensate and surge forward, slamming my own fist into the front canopy of the other Crasher. Exploding glass showers my face since my own canopy is more or less destroyed, but the other mechanized suit stumbles.

  Grasping controls, and frantically flipping switches, I search for what to do next. Turns out just because I'm a Reblon doesn't necessarily mean I know anything about these Crashers. My Mojo doesn't seem to be working. The controls aren't coming to me naturally like the jettison pods or the hoverbike.

  The other Crasher recovers and barrels its gun arm into the space on the suit where its ribs would be, denting armored plate and showering the grass below with sparks. In my mind as I go toe-to-toe with this thing I can picture the hover-bikes now catching up with the grav trucks and reducing them to ribbons with their side guns. I don't have time for this. I swing, slamming my fist into the curved top half of the other suit.

  Suddenly my eyes land on the switch I'm looking for. It's a large red lever. I plant my legs with metal grinding sounds, reach down, and yank the lever up. I hear the familiar whine as my right limb vibrates with the rolling spin of the mini gun.

  I swivel my waist, wrapping my hand around the contoured grip of the control stick. With a metallic slam, the other mech suit lands on me and brings its fist down on the top of my Crasher so hard it dents its armor and sends sparks that threaten unconsciousness dancing behind my eyes.

  Purely out of reflex, my fingers clench the joystick as I surge forward, thrusting my arm deep into the midsection of the other suit. The mini-gun erupts in a spasm of shuddering gunfire. Hundreds of bullets jolt from the rotating barrel all of a sudden, smashing and tearing into the other Crasher.

  With one last shout from the Reblon pilot, the suit topples over. The entire center of it is consumed by a thick, dark smolder, and smoky fingers. Through the darkness I can see even more Crashers charging towards me, and for a moment I brace to face them, but the low sound of gunfire from behind reminds me of other threats.

  I turn, pumping my legs into a clumsy run as I search for the thruster controls. In the distance I can see the trucks nearing the launch pad, but I also see hover-bikes swarming towards them and around them, peppering the vehicles with gunfire. A rocket streaks from the left truck and sends a hoverbike exploding into oblivion, but three more are moving up to take its place.

  Five steps, six, and seven, my Crasher runs, but not fast enough as I continue to search for thrust controls. Behind me I hear the massive metal slamming of the other Reblon vehicles, whose pilots are well aware of how to use their thrusters to cover distance. One of their mini-guns begins to whir and whine, so I send my suit lurching right, avoiding a deadly barrage of metal slugs. I start to tip over, so I lean to the left, desperate to compensate.

  I see it there. A small red button etched into a rectangular panel, with a few flip-switches on each side. It's labeled in Reblon dialect, but I can read it in this form. As my Crasher starts to tip, I drill my fist into the red button.

  Thrusters ignite on my back with a thin whoosh of blue flame. I knock the two flip-switches upwards, shifting controls from limbs to jets. As the short burn engine ignites, I shove the control sticks all the way back and hit the triggers, igniting fuel and throwing my mech suit into the air at a velocity that seems impossible.

  Behind and below me, the three Crashers watch me leap away, waiting for their own fuel cells to recharge before they can thrust-leap again.

  From this height I see six hover-bikes converging on the two trucks. I reduce thrust on the left and increase it on the right, turning my suit on an axis, before bringing it down from its jump. I tip and drop when the fuel is suddenly spent and all I can do is pull back on the sticks and hope to land upright as I come hurtling down towards the two trucks and the surrounding bikes.

  Massive metal feet slam down into the grassy meadow with an almost deafening echo of pounding steel, like an oil drum being struck with a sledge hammer. I lash out with my right arm, stiffening it l
ike a post, and one of the hoverbike drivers slams into it chest-first, catapulting off of his cycle to flip end over end backwards as his vehicle swerves and crashes.

  I trace a second hoverbike with my gun arm. Two more hover-bikes blast apart, spraying dark, polished metal.

  "Get to the ship!" I shout from inside the suit and realization settles on Drewsk's face.

  "Brie you crazy nutcase!" he shouts back, but his face splits in a wide grin. I charge forward, pounding the ground with three swift, heavy paces, then shift and swing a straight uppercut into the fourth hoverbike to flip it over backwards, sending the driver spiraling.

  A fifth one unloads its guns, peppering my metal armored legs with gunfire. As I take two steps back under the barrage, I almost lose my balance, but I plant my metal foot and lunge forward, swinging my fist down in a tight arc. It smashes into the front of the hoverbike and crushes it like an empty can, throwing the driver forward. The pilot crashes awkwardly into my metal suit, then bounces off and lays still.

  Near the launch pad, I see the two trucks parked askew and shrouded figures running from the vehicles towards the ship perched in the middle of the pod, its dark shape blatant against the empty night. They're almost free.

  A series of loud metal bangs causes me to jerk my eyes back around. One after another the three Crashers cuts thrusters to slam down onto the ground. A hoverbike tries to skim past me, but I snag it with metal fingers, then swivel around to throw it sideways into the Crashers.

  The one in the lead takes a strong step forward and shoots his hands out to catch it effortlessly. He splits the bike in half and tosses the two halves away, sending sparks and jagged fragments towards me in an outward spray of metal.

  Three against one. Those are fine odds. I have to give my people time to get away.

  "This is Reblon Field Commander Hunjar Flox!" shouts the lead pilot. "Whoever you are, surrender now."

  Reblon field commander? They certainly seem to be taking this seriously.

  "I'm afraid we can't do that," I reply. "Our job's not done."

  His suit takes a confident step forward, an emotion I wouldn't have thought possible for a mindless mechanized suit, but somehow it translates.

  "Oh, your job is done," he growls, his voice echoing out of the roof-mounted loudspeaker. "You just don't know it yet."

  Field Commander Hunjar Flox is typical military brass. Of the three Crashers, Flox's Crasher is the most spit-polished. It is darker than the other two, a polished onyx, reflecting the low light of the setting sun. Twin crimson headlights are narrowed and burning into me. The canopy itself a semi-translucent slab of red. Its right arm is a massive multi-weapon powerhouse that has a mounted mini-gun, but also has a twin-barrel mini launcher bolted onto the interior. Over each shoulder there are two smaller rocket mini pods. This thing is loaded for bear, and facing off against me, supported by two others.

  "Nice suit," I say.

  A low rumble echoes behind me, it starts with a sharp snap, a bang, and then a thudding, consistent growl. It's the sound of a ship launching.

  "Sounds like they're getting away," I say with a smirk.

  "Let them," Flox replies. "You're the one we really want, Brie Northstar."

  Ah, of course. This guy is smarter than I give him credit for.

  "Without you, any words uttered by those conspiracy zealots will be widely ignored, discarded, and scoffed at. They mean less than nothing."

  "Why am I so important?" I ask. "I lived eighteen years without anyone caring about me. What changed?"

  He laughs, a metallic choking guffaw weirdly amplified by his internal loudspeaker.

  "Nobody knew, child. Your parents kept your secret well hidden. Until the galaxy began learning of your exploits, the myth of the Child of the Stars was just a children's story."

  "What if it still is?"

  Flox's Crasher leans forward, adjusting its stance. Through the scant transparency of the red tinted canopy I can see his fingers drumming on the control stick, antsy to begin this little skirmish.

  "Oh I'm sure it still is," Flox replies. "But your existence brings doubt, and doubt fuels theory. Theory spirals into mythology and they all feed off of each other. If your existence comes to wider light, and you are seen supporting the resistance, it will be bad. Very bad."

  "Bad for whom?"

  He chuckles under his breath, a gasp spewed out over the speaker in his suit.

  "It won't get that far."

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a brief streak of motion, the telltale sign of the jump ship thrusting up into the air just over my left shoulder.

  They made it. They're clear. Kleethak, Luxen. Drewsk, Pung, Segaris, and all the others are safe.

  Good.

  Flox moves faster than I'm prepared for, charging forward and hurling his huge, left fist. The hammer shaped appendage drills into my right side, spraying sparks, and the pain is loud and real. Fireworks blast in my head, sending me stumbling.

  I swivel my hips and set my feet, twisting to fire my mini-gun. Flox steps aside and the onslaught from my gun arm stitches across the chest of the Crasher to his right, stuttering sparks and punched holes in the metal armor.

  Flox recovers and hits me again with a swift left cross that smashes over my canopy, where there's no glass left to block it. The reinforced titanium supports bend under the impact and I feel servos in my left hip snapping, forcing me into a clumsy left kneel. The Reblon commander steps forward, shifts his weight, then kicks out with his thick, armored left foot. It collides with the top of my suit, shattering headlights, throwing me over backwards, and smashing my back onto the grass covered meadow. Around me, the suit groans and whines, spewing spent fuel from a broken line at my left shoulder and shooting sparks from joints at my hip.

  This thing is a large metal Reblon-shaped coffin with me buckled into the seat. The seat is close and tight around me, locking me in place. I am effectively trapped on the ground as Hunjar Flox steps forward and raises his right hand. The mini-gun beginning that telltale whine.

  The resistance escaped. They'll live to fight another day. It's looking more and more like I won't have that luxury.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The sky above me is deepening into forest green and the first stars are blinking into existence across the horizon. Locked in the cockpit of the Crasher I'm staring up into the sky, waiting for the inevitable assault.

  Shadows passes over me and my sight shifts, looking up into the black and red polished metal monster. From this low angle I can make out the vague form of Reblon Field Commander Hunjar Flox in the cockpit with his sharp-toothed grin flashing behind the clear red canopy and his eyes flickering. His determined step forward echoes in my ears.

  I'm trapped by my massive shape crammed into this form-fitting cockpit that feels like it was poured around me in a mold.

  "Your battle ends here, Northstar," Flox growls, glaring down at me.

  Nowhere to go.

  His mini-gun whines and begins its telltale spin, swiveling rapidly and I can hear the metal clanks of rounds being loaded from the ammunition belt into the cannon and the rapid ratcheting of brass on brass.

  This is how it ends.

  It all happens at once; the thought occurs and action takes place nearly at the same time.

  Sparks and flame explode from the barrel of the gun. I draw up into myself, contract my muscles, and leap free just as the barrage of bullets tears into the cockpit of the Crasher and shreds the body of the mechanized suit into so much ragged, smoking scrap.

  I plant my hands on the ground and handspring backwards in my Bragdon form. This form is slimmer than a Reblon and able to squirt free of the contained canopy of the Crasher. I hit the ground in a low crouch as Flox stomps towards me, shattering what's left of my Crasher with one thundering footfall.

  "That is impressive," he growls through his loudspeaker. "I will give you that, young one!"

  To his left, a second Crasher moves into position, lifting its g
un arm and firing. I leap to my right as bullets chew up the ground where I was standing, spraying grass amid fountains of dirt.

  So I am out of my doomed mech suit; now it's me against three Crashers with no weapons and no clear way out. How was this an improvement again?

  The third Crasher moves in, firing its own weapon, trying to force me into a deadly crossfire, but I leap over the spray of gunfire, tuck into a tight curl, and roll end over end through the long grass with chunked up ground spraying up behind me.

  My graceful evasive maneuvers don't last long. As I come up into a running stance, he's right there, Hunjar Flox. It's the mighty Reblon Field Commander himself, not his Crasher. He is running at me across the meadow sans mechanized suit.

  I turn, but not quickly enough. He's on top of me, swinging some massive club with an ornate decoration on one end. The thick, bulbous sculpture bolted to the end of the narrow shaft strikes me in the right ribs, sending a flare of pain up my entire side. My momentum halts and I'm thrown hard to the left, rolling awkwardly on the ground as he moves towards me.