by James Aspen
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Message From The Author
The Specter
Rising
The Ambra Wars Book One
By
James Aspen
THE SPECTER RISING:
The Ambra Wars Book One
Copyright © 2021 James Aspen
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without in any matter whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
For information write the author at [email protected]
Front Cover Art by: www.bookcoverzone.com
For Ian, thank you for reminding me that I used to be a dreamer.
CHAPTER ONE
THE CALM STILLNESS of space wavered in the moments before the cruiser dropped from hyperspace, its massive gray hull stark against the void. Drive engines appeared, a dozen flickering flashes flickering among the stars. Starfighters streamed from the cruiser’s launch bay in tight formation, the squadron gaining speed as they streaked towards Paul Riley’s ship. In an instant, he knew he was going to die. He pulsed his distress beacon and faced his doom.
The viewscreen of his small cockpit filled with clusters of starfighters bearing down on him. The dull glow of their ion drives blended with the backdrop of stars, and Paul strained to track their movement. His heart raced, and he knew they’d be on him in moments.
With a flick of his thumb, bright blue icons appeared around the tiny ships on his viewscreen. He gritted his teeth, angled the ship’s shields double front, and increased his speed. Retreat wasn’t an option. His only chance was to barrel through them and try to strand them in deep space. He’d plow through their formation and have a few seconds to cripple the cruiser’s engines before the starfighters locked him into a desperate melee.
Once his attack run was complete, he’d try to hold out against the swarm until reinforcements arrived. He would take as many of the fighters down with him before one inevitably cracked his shields and vaporized him. The reinforcements would have to mop up the rest.
“Here goes nothing,” he muttered and switched his torpedoes to single fire.
His thumb pressed the targeting button of his stick, and the computer highlighted the nearest ship with flashing yellow crosshairs. He shifted trajectory directly towards the starfighter and centered it in his sights. Sweat made the stick slick in his hands as he waited for the crosshairs to turn the bright red of a target lock.
“C’mon, c’mon,” he whispered, wished his targeting computer could lock on the tiny ships faster. At this distance, the computer had trouble locking onto the sleek ships.
The computer beeped, and the crosshairs flashed red. He instinctively squeezed the trigger and a torpedo shot from below his viewport towards the target with blistering speed. With a quick twist of the stick and another thumb flick, Paul changed course and targeted another fighter in the same tight formation. The crosshairs flashed red, and another torpedo was rocketing towards its target just as the first hit its mark.
Paul’s torpedo hit the lead ship dead-center. The fighter broke apart with a quick burst of bright flame that fizzled out almost immediately, the cockpit’s atmosphere consumed in a flash.
The second starfighter broke away from the main group, trying to evade Paul’s incoming torpedo. The doomed fighter was too late, and the torpedo slammed into its side. The explosion severed the starfighter’s wing and sent the ship careening into its neighbor. Both ships fragmented into a swiftly expanding cloud of metal as Paul’s computer locked onto the final member of the flight group. Paul squeezed the trigger as the ship broke off the attack and started evasive maneuvers. The torpedo changed trajectory, tracking the fighter’s new vector with a sharp curve.
Close enough to make out the distinctive shape of the enemy ship as it pulled away, Paul cursed. The ships were faster than he’d assumed. He barely had time to switch to lasers before his viewport filled with a haze of bright green laser fire splashing against his shields.
He squeezed the trigger reflexively and a quick burst of red laser fire streaked towards the remaining starfighters. A lucky hit sent one ship careened off in wild loops from the formation, spinning out of control after Paul’s bolts severed a wing from the fighter. A bright flash caught his eye, his torpedo catching up with its quarry and vaporizing it.
“Only seven to go.”
His adrenaline surged as energy bolts pummeled his shields and jerked the ship roughly. He twisted the ship into a snap-roll, evading the incoming fire. The dull flicker of strained energy shields appeared outside his viewport, threatening to collapse.
Paul targeted the next ship in the formation and fired. His red laser bursts mixed with the green bolts streaking towards him as the enemies adjusted their field of fire to match him. Paul ignored his flickering shields and kept pouring his blasts towards the sleek starfighter in his crosshairs.
He grinned when the fighter broke apart in a burst of flame when his blasts hit something critical.
Five down. One more out of the fight. I might make it out of this alive, he thought.
He spun into a roll and pushed the throttle to full, barreling through the hole he had punched into the enemy formation. The remaining six ships darted past, already beginning to veer away to come about behind him.
Paul glanced at the shield readout and paled. His forward shields read 55%, with 25% remaining in the rear. If he hadn’t doubled up in the front before his head-on run, he’d be fried.
“I can’t handle another beating like that.”
With precise, practiced movements, he balanced his shields around the hull at 40% and rerouted power from his lasers into his engines to eke out more speed. Setting torpedoes to dual fire mode, he targeted the engines of the carrier cruiser in the distance. The blue glow of its drive plume was bright against the sea of stars even at fifteen klicks.
The cruiser is already trying to get the mining colony in range of their missiles. I better make this quick, Paul thought.
Anxiety pulsed through him as the red blips of the starfighters on his combat map flipped around and crept towards his ship’s position at the center of the map.
It was a race now, one that would last seconds. Long enough for a lock, he hoped, but not enough to give his shields time to recharge. All he could do was hope he could launch before they drew him into an extended battle. As if encouraged by his thoughts, the crosshairs surrounding the cruiser’s engines flashed yellow as he finally passed into the range of his targeting computer.<
br />
“Just a few more seconds,” he whispered, willing the flashing crosshairs to change.
Calm washed over him, and he took deep, steady breaths. His focus narrowed as he placed his finger over the trigger. Nothing mattered except his breath and the ship ahead in the quiet of the void.
The distance between his ship and the cruiser shrank with dizzying speed. Yellow crosshairs pulsed faster. The red blips of the starfighters grew closer on the combat map. His shields recharged to 42% all around. Sweat trickled down Paul’s forehead. Every moment seemed an eternity. All flickered at the edge of his awareness.
The crosshairs icon flashed red and his finger squeezed the trigger before his mind registered the lock. Two torpedoes shot from his ship, racing towards their target. He kept the trigger pressed down, launching a second pair of torpedoes as his ship began to jerk from the laser impact from behind. Green streaks of energy flashed past his view, near-hits bright against the black.
He glanced at his readout, watched his shields tick from 40, to 37, and then to 30% within a heartbeat. Fear and instinct told him to break off, to flee, but resolve kept him streaking towards the cruiser. His third set of torpedoes left the launch tubes.
Another volley of laser fire rocked the ship. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his shields drop to 18% then to 3%.
He held his breath, hoping it would not be his last, letting it out with a gush of relief when his final volley left the launch tubes.
His torpedoes away, he jerked the stick back and veered in a sharp vertical vector. Stray shots splashed into his forward shields before he left the starfighters’ field of fire.
Spinning wildly, he acted on instinct alone, bobbing and weaving through vectors to keep the fighters from clear shots. He balanced his shields again, left with a dismal 6% coverage around his hull - barely enough to stop a few glancing hits. Rerouting power back into the weapons system, He gripped throttle control tight and did his best to keep his flight pattern as random as possible until his lasers could recharge.
The weapons icon flashed green on his console, and he jerked the throttle to zero and kicked in the reverse thrusters. He gripped the trigger and fired randomly towards the swarm of fighters that rocketed into view, unable to compensate for his sudden loss of forward momentum in time.
By sheer luck, Paul’s lasers tore through the hull of a fighter and sent it streaking out of view, damaged but not destroyed. He gunned his throttle again and fired towards a second fighter, relying on sight alone to line up his shot. He let out a whoop of triumph as it exploded. A small burst of fire consumed the atmosphere of the small ship, and a molten cloud of metal shrapnel flew into oblivion. Paul locked his targeting computer onto the third fighter and attempted to match its desperate evasions when a sinking feeling passed over him.
What happened to the other three fighters? Even with his little trick, the remaining starfighters should have torn him to shreds in moments.
He glanced at the combat map. Three starfighters were changing direction from their intercept course with the cruiser and headed back towards his location.
Crap, I can’t believe I didn’t think of that, he thought. The cruiser moved away from the battle at a steady pace, undamaged. The enemy fighters had intercepted his torpedoes before they could hit the cruiser, or at least enough to keep the remaining from overloading the ship’s shields and causing damage.
He overcame his shock in time to see his viewport with a stream of laser fire. In an instant, his weakened shields collapsed. His ship tore apart in a bright flash of light and wail of emergency alerts. He had enough time to take satisfaction in taking out seven other fighters before his ship exploded into vaporized metal.
***
Paul flipped over his joystick in disgust. The cinematic animation of his ship’s explosion, accompanied by dramatic music on his computer screen, added insult to injury.
“I can’t believe that didn’t work,” he said. He ran his fingers through his greasy brown hair in frustration. He’d been trying to beat that level of Galactic Command for weeks now; it tormented every moment of his free time. His previous attempts to beat it had always ended when the second wave of fighters launched from the cruiser and overwhelmed him. He’d assumed if he crippled the command ship before the wave was launched, he could hold out until reinforcements joined the battle.
Of course, he should have known the game designers would program the AI to intercept torpedoes launched at the cruiser. Paul was becoming more and more convinced that he could only beat the game if he splurged and renewed his multiplayer pass. He’d have to join a guild, or pay for an expensive upgrade package for his ship to beat the game.
“Stupid pay-to-play traps,” he grumbled. He loved the game, but he hated the company that designed it to bleed players out of every penny they could. As if paying $50 for a game wasn’t enough to begin with.
Paul’s knees cracked as he stood up from his desk.
How long have I been playing, anyway?
He glanced at the space shuttle shaped clock hanging on the wall of his small kitchen nook. His eyes widened.
“Crap, I’m late for work!”
The mocking tones of the game music filled Paul’s tiny apartment while he stumbled around frantically looking for his shoes and a jacket. He scooped his trusty black zip-up hoodie off his bedroom floor and brushed the dust off.
Good enough. Now where are my shoes? He threw his hoodie on and headed into the main room of his small apartment. He spun around the tiny space that was his living room, kitchen, and - since the door had fallen off the hinges - the bathroom.
“C’mon, where did I leave them!”
The loud fanfare announcing the game restarting finally got to him, and he slammed his laptop screen down to send the machine to sleep. The sudden silence calmed him immediately. He hadn’t realized how much the background noise had been beating away at his nerves.
Maybe next time I play I should turn off the lousy in-game music; it might help me keep my cool, he thought. Another flash of frustration shot through him and left his forehead aching with tension. He was already annoyed with himself for losing track of time, but thinking about the damned game infuriated him more.
He was out the door and racing down the stairs when his cellphone vibrated his pocket. Still moving fast, he whipped it out and accepted the call without checking the caller id.
“Hello?” The strain in his voice was worsened by his huffing breath as he raced down the hall.
“Paul, where are you?!” Rachel said.
Damn, I screwed her over! Again.
“I’m almost there, I swear!”
“Right, I bet you’re just leaving your apartment,” she said.
Paul winced as the door to his apartment building slammed shut behind him. “You’re right. I’m just leaving, but I’ll be there soon. Cover for me, okay? I swear I’ll make it up to you.”
Her sigh was loud and slow in his ear. His cheeks burned; he hated disappointing her again.
“Look, it’s fine. Just get here before Bryan shows up. He’s been looking for an excuse to fire you.”
Paul crossed the street and ducked down the alley in a steady jog. Cutting through the park would shed a couple of minutes off. As close as he lived to work, he had no reason to be late. “I’ll be there in five minutes, I just have to run through Kinsey Park and cut across Wallace and I’m there.”
Her voice softened. “Oh, I didn’t know you lived that close. You should be okay. Well, did you beat it?”
“Beat what?” The stench of the seafood restaurant’s dumpster in the alley made him gag as he jogged past.
“Th level in Galactic Command that always makes you late.” Her mocking tone let him know she wasn’t mad at him. Not really, anyway.
Paul laughed. “Nope.”
“Well, one day you’ll be as good as me. Or you’ll finally join my guild.”
Paul loved that Rachel was even more of a gamer than he was. It was the main reas
on he was so smitten with her.
A car barreled down the alley at high speed. He leaped out of the way, a gust of wind letting him know he’d narrowly missing a detour to the hospital.
“Watch it!” he yelled, shaking a fist at the driver.
“Uh, I’ll just see you soon, okay?”
“Sorry, I almost got hit by a car. I’ll be there soon.” He hung up and started sprinting.
Paul showed up in the parking lot of Grind Coffee Shop, out of breath but exhilarated from the rush of endorphins from his frantic run. A glance at the parking lot showed he had beaten Bryan to work, and relief washed over him. Bryan took his supervisor job far too seriously for the extra fifty cents an hour the company paid him. Paul ducked into the employee entrance and neglected to clock in. He’d claim he forgot later and have Bryan adjust it. Rachel would cover for him if asked; she might get annoyed with him, but she was a good coworker and would never rat him out.
He hung his hoodie on the peg outside the office door, grabbed a clean apron, and took a deep breath before he pushed open the door to the coffee bar. Rachel shot him a glare from behind the espresso machine. She was steaming milk for a cappuccino, her hair frazzled. She jerked her head toward the line of people at the register without comment.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Paul muttered as he scrambled to the register.
“Yeah, yeah, you owe me big time,” she said. Her voice was more lighthearted than he expected, based on her glare.
He met the eyes of the woman at the counter and smiled his best fake smile. “Hi ma’am, welcome to Grind Coffee. What can I get for you?”
“Don’t ma’am me! Don’t you know how long I’ve been waiting?!” The woman’s shrill tone made him cringe.
Paul let out a quick sigh. Yup, another day in paradise. With some effort, he forced his best customer service smile onto his face.
“I’m sorry for your wait. This cup is on us. Now, what would you like?”
