by Andy Kasch
Test of Fortitude
The Torian Reclamation
Book 3
Andy Kasch
© 2014 Andy Kasch
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, religious bodies, corporate or governmental entities, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including scanning, photocopying, or otherwise without the express prior written consent of the author.
Contents
Title Page
Hydro-Dwarf Planet 28, Torian Year 5356
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Hydro-Dwarf Planet 28, Torian Year 5356
Brigadier Gorbinshir climbed into the cockpit of the last fighter on the makeshift flight deck with rare enthusiasm. The disapproving body language of Colonel Halstov standing at the cavern wall was hardly a deterrent. Besides, Gorbinshir thought he also detected a slight air of hope about him. As second in command, Halstov knew better than to openly question Gorbinshir’s directives. But he must have considered it an eccentric impulse for the base commander to request a fighter and personally engage in what was sure to be a minor skirmish.
Admittedly, “minor skirmishes” frequently had a way of surpassing their advance billing in spectacular fashion. That was, after all, how Gorbinshir had risen to his current position.
This battle didn’t figure to be anything more than quick extermination, though. Gorbinshir certainly wasn’t displaying the same kind of recklessness the former Brigadier had when he joined in the attack run at the Torian space station several years ago. Yes, they had been confident of its immediate destruction at the time—and no, the incredible light weapon that destroyed the attacking squadrons was not something anyone could have reasonably foreseen. Still, high commanders were expected to refrain from directly partaking in such routine engagements, especially those in which casualties could be expected. It had obviously been an act provoked by the irresistible seduction of imminent glory.
Not this act. This one was motivated purely by cabin fever. Gorbinshir was sick of these caves and just needed to get out for a spell, any way he could. He wondered for a second if that was the reason he’d decided to destroy the visiting ships.
No. That wasn’t it. He was too well-trained to allow emotions to interfere with his command decisions. Chances were high that the visitors had witnessed the end of the training exercises as they arrived. It was unlikely they had seen much, or that they figured the Ossurian ships for anything other than local defense forces, but it was enough to potentially compromise the Ossurians’ carefully-guarded presence here. How unfortunate for the visitors.
Their ships failed to register a match within the Ossurian database, so the visitors were probably a yet-to-be-indexed race. It was, therefore, a fairly safe conclusion their world was not located on the outer edge of what was called the Erobian Sphere by the inhabitants of this portion of the galaxy. Those worlds had all been identified and, with one exception, temporarily dealt with. Some more reluctantly than others, to be sure, and some through the instigation of outright civil wars. But Ossur now had a strong foothold from which to proceed with the invasion.
When the cockpit canopy was sealed, Brigadier Gorbinshir fired the hover engines and the small dark craft came to life. The empty copilot’s seat next to him was, no doubt, one of Colonel Halstov’s concerns. Ossurian interstellar fighters were designed for crews of two to four and rarely operated solo. Gorbinshir was seeking a feeling of freedom today, and knew he could best find it with as much space around him as possible. He refused any crewmembers.
Gorbinshir eased the fighter across the cavern floor and finally out of the well-hidden cave mouth, leaving the darkness behind. Birds scattered from the tops of nearby trees along the canyon wall outside. There was air around him now, and the welcome openness of late-afternoon sunlight. He could already feel the tight mail of confinement begin to loosen and fall from his shoulders.
Confinement. That’s what living underground felt like. Too many months of this was starting to affect everyone. Sometimes Gorbinshir could perceive little difference between his existence and those of the natives they had enslaved and put to the mines. The life of the prison guard who gets to go home every night is not far removed from the life of those he guards. From a certain view of reality he is actually one of them, waning his days away in the same prison.
The saving consolation for Gorbinshir was that he knew his own confinement was temporary, and wholly necessary. Soon the general campaign against the Erobian Sphere would begin. The outer worlds were now mostly under Ossurian control. At the forward points, the underground bases on the hydro-dwarf planets were firmly established and perfectly concealed. The expansion would continue, vanquishing the evil classism infecting this portion of the galaxy and further securing the tranquil collectivism of Ossur. Once the Erobian Sphere was conquered, the progressive ideals which fostered Ossurian influence would forever be entrenched. This was a marquee occasion in the history of the galaxy.
Gorbinshir fired his main thrusters and spiraled his way upward, knowing Colonel Halstov would be less than appreciative of his acrobatic maneuvers. When he reached the upper atmosphere he straightened out, turned on his plotting screen, and positioned himself towards the fourth planet in the system. He activated the distortion field generator and waited for destination alignment. Seconds later, a ring of fire appeared around the hull of his ship and then he was rushing through bent space. In a few minutes he was there.
The sight of the bottled-up Latian fleet was always irritating to Gorbinshir. It made it impossible for him to enjoy the bright green scenery the gaseous fourth planet provided as a backdrop. Not because Gorbinshir cared for the plight of the Latians. They would eventually realize the fate of all Ossurian-conquered races: extermination or slavery, whichever they saw fit for themselves. Subjugated races were inferior, carried the seeds of rebellion, and could never attain a respectable status in Ossurian society.
The empty Latian transport ships in orbit here represented a minor defeat. Such annoyances could be acknowledged, but were never to be expected. Gorbinshir’s engineers had not yet designed a way to circumvent the security systems so that these numerous vessels could be re-employed for the Ossurian cause. That was just as frustrating as being constantly reminded of the setback.
Gorbinshir saw his own ships now, as he came around the front side of the anchored Latian fleet. His fighters looked poised and ready to run. Gorbinshir’s cockpit speaker crackled as the squadron leader acknowledged his approach.
“Brigadier, do you request the honor of leading the attack?”
“No, Captain.” Gorbinshir smiled as he realized how glad he was to be here. “I request the honor of observance, and acting as rearguard. What is the current position of the intruders?”
“No change. Our long-range scopes still show only four transpo
rt ships. We’re picking up a couple of blips now underneath them, so they may be deploying fighters.”
“More likely shuttles,” Gorbinshir answered. “But come ready for a fight, all the same. You better take us in before they launch additional craft.”
“Yes, Brigadier. Your screen should be synchronized now. We’re set to go in 19, 18, 17, if you have no objection.”
“No objection, Captain. Proceed. Destroy the transport ships and any fighters. If there are landing craft in route, intercept and escort them to platform four. We need to index the race, and increased production in the mines is always welcome.”
“Acknowledged.”
A few seconds later, the twenty Ossurian fighters simultaneously engaged their distortion fields and warped their way back to the small third planet which hid their base. They came out of distortion drive directly behind the four visiting transport ships.
The intruders were easy targets, having established orbit in a tight formation. Below them, three landing craft were deployed and nearing the atmosphere. No fighters. They obviously weren’t expecting trouble, whoever they were. The transport ships were small and couldn’t be carrying too many fighters.
The Ossurians weren’t planning on finding out. Gorbinshir remained in the rear and watched his squadron spread out for a uniform attack. Moving fast, they let loose with a timed missile barrage and then hit the ships with lasers as the missiles neared their targets.
It was over quickly. Only two of the transport ships managed to fire a defense laser before being overtaken in explosions that rocked and then ruptured their hulls. The Ossurian lasers connected with their outer distortion field rings before the missiles hit, effecting enough damage to prevent them from escaping into bent space. A second missile barrage was all it took to blow the intruders’ ships to pieces.
“Get on those shuttles!” Gorbinshir radioed. All three of the visitor’s landing craft had just vanished from sight into the planet’s atmosphere.
The Ossurians had no trouble running them down. The shuttles were moving slowly, as if they were first-time visitors following unfamiliar coordinates. They suddenly found themselves surrounded by hostile fighters hugging them tight. The universal language of lasers firing around them, and then one out in front pointing where the Ossurians wanted them to go, was clearly understood. Soon the shuttles and their impromptu escorts landed on platform four, a rocky plateau indistinguishable from dozens of others in the area.
How surprised the intruders must have been when the center portion of the plateau broke away from the outer edges and lowered them into an underground station. Gorbinshir and the remaining fighters flew back to the primary entrance tunnel deep in the nearby canyon.
An hour later, Gorbinshir walked into the grotto that served as Colonel Halstov’s office.
“Who are they?”
Halstov waited for the galactic map to show on his computer screen before answering.
“Their world is called Bolkos, and is located here.” A red dot appeared among the star formations on the screen that was now filling with familiar gridlines.
“They’re not far from our edge of the sphere,” Gorbinshir said. “I’m surprised we didn’t have their ship designs indexed by now.”
Halstov changed screens to display an image of the Bolkans’ now-destroyed transport ships.
“I don’t think they’re very active,” he said. “Came here in lightly-armed vessels that were clearly unequipped for any type of warfare.”
“Then what are they doing here, Colonel?”
“Delivering heavy machinery. Some kind of a trade deal, from what we could gather—probably for the mineral. A stroke of luck for us. We’ve retrieved six beam-borers from their landing craft. Good ones. Powerful and more sensitive than those we’ve acquired from the natives.”
Gorbinshir nodded. “We can certainly use them. Let the commanding excavation engineer know. Orient the captives in the usual fashion. Then see if any of the survivors happen to be experts in operating those borers.”
The chief astronomer came rushing into Halstov’s office and interrupted them.
“Sir, we have another visitor.”
“More Bolkans?” Halstov asked.
“No. Azaarian.”
“Those fools,” Gorbinshir muttered. “Better see what they want, Colonel, and fast.”
At that moment another messenger ran in, filling the dank den to near capacity. It was one of the chief astronomer’s subordinates.
“Sir, we’re picking up another ship, just arrived at the Latian fleet above the fourth planet.”
“Latian or Azaarian?” Gorbinshir asked.
The junior astronomer, now completely out of breath, only shook his head.
Gorbinshir raised his brow. “Bolkan?”
“No,” he managed to say. “Unidentified.”
*
“Your brother is on his way up,” Shaldan said with a contagious smile, revealing the teeth at the corners of his rumpled mouth.
Trodenjo chuckled. He knew Shaldan was just as excited as he was whenever they stopped for a little sightseeing—and Trodenmark, Trodenjo’s younger sibling, always had to be in on it as well.
By the book, Shaldan and Trodenjo were the only two civilians officially allowed on the bridge. But the military staff was used to this by now, and weren’t prone to getting uptight over such things—especially with the enterprise shaping up so successfully. The Measure was now projecting to be profitable within a few short months. It would be the first of Mpar’s six new interstellar commercial ships to reach that status, and, correspondingly, the first successful commerce vessel operating in the Erobian Sphere.
The sliding door in the rear opened and Trodenmark arrived.
“What have we got?” he asked as he came around the railing that separated the command pit from the upper perimeter of the rectangular bridge.
Trodenjo was half-sitting on the railing and didn’t bother standing up. He pointed to the medium-sized screen over Shaldan’s workstation before answering his brother.
“There it is. The surrendered Latian fleet, peacefully drifting over a beautiful gas giant.”
“Hmm,” Trodenmark said. “Hard to see from here.”
Trodenjo turned his head. “Can we get closer, Admiral?”
Admiral Farenbart only nodded from the command pit and mumbled some instructions to the senior navigator. The Measure responded and the view of the moored Latian fleet gradually became large on the viewing screens about the bridge.
“Quite an ominous site,” Trodenmark said. “Let’s not get too close. I’m actually glad we didn’t know about it the first time we came through here.”
Shaldan looked up from his station and said, “Information is the most valuable commodity. Right, Trodenjo?”
Trodenjo hesitated to respond. As the lead merchant, he recognized the truth in that statement. But he also knew it wasn’t in Mpar’s best interest to be in the intelligence business. That was a dangerous profession, especially in unstable times. The crew of The Measure was quickly becoming aware of just how unstable the current times really were. That made it all the more important for them to establish a reputation as a neutral and entirely profit-motivated commercial venture.
“Yes and no, Shaldan. It’s critical we stay apprised of interstellar political relations, yes. And there’s certainly a market for information. But The Measure will never deal in that particular commodity. We seek it solely for purposes of our own security.”
Shaldan shrugged. He was young and idealistic, but Trodenjo knew he also respected the business savvy of his superiors. The kid would be a good trader someday, assuming Trodenjo remained his mentor. For now, Shaldan was content to handle merchant communications and learn. That’s where most of the action was anyway.
Trodenjo noticed his brother looking disturbed as he surveyed the Latian fleet.
“What’s the matter?”
Trodenmark shook his head. “I regret asking to come closer
. It shudders me to think that if we—or anyone else who might be in the area—should fire a single missile into one of those ships, the whole fleet might blow in a chain reaction, possibly taking us with them.”
“I doubt the security systems are as sensitive as that,” Trodenjo replied. “And we aren’t as close as we appear. I thought you’d enjoy the sight. Why are you so easily rattled all of a sudden? What happened to the fearless merchant marine who signed on with this outfit?”
“I think he disembarked at Dirg.”
Trodenjo laughed. “Didn’t care for the Dirgs, did you? They weren’t so bad. Offered some interesting items for our catalog, and we have them profiled enough now that we ought to be able to target goods for them. We’ll make customers out of the Dirgs yet.”
“No, it’s not that. They were the last world we visited along the outer rim, and the only receptive race out there, if you want to call that receptive. Everything we’ve learned about that region is discouraging. If our government had gotten a sniff of how much war is really in the wind on this side of the sphere, I doubt they would have sanctioned our project.”
Trodenjo stood up off the rail and faced his younger brother.
“The time for interstellar commerce has arrived,” he said. “It’s only proper that the Mparians pioneer it. We must adapt to the environment we find ourselves in, and make the best of it.”
“Without accidentally making enemies, you mean.”
“Of course. That would be unproductive.”
Trodenmark looked back at the screen. “I wonder if it can be avoided. We’re bound to eventually upset someone, or at least draw suspicion of having made political alliances.”
“That’s why it’s important for us to establish a reputation for nonpartisanship.” Trodenjo raised his voice as he walked around the front railing. “You worry too much, brother. Forget about those unreceptive worlds on the outer edge. We’ve established trading relationships with a dozen different races already. That’s plenty. We’ll disregard the others for a while. I’m all for playing it safe.”
