Rika Outcast: A Tale of Mercenaries, Cyborgs, and Mechanized Infantry (Rika's Marauders Book 1)
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RIKA OUTCAST
RIKA’S MARAUDERS – BOOK 1
BY M. D. COOPER
SPECIAL THANKS
Just in Time (JIT) & Beta Reads
Kristina Able
Alastar Wilson
David Wilson
Lisa L. Richman
Scott Reid
Nick Richard
Joseph Spies
Copyright © 2017 M. D. Cooper
Cover Art by Tek Tan
(Thanks for flawlessly brining my vision of Rika to life)
Editing by Jen McDonnell
(Extra thanks for the care and attention you give Rika)
All rights reserved.
FOREWORD
Rika has a special place in my heart. I don’t know why, but she does.
I think that a part of it comes from her original inspiration, which is the character ‘Clara’ in the TV series Killjoys. Clara was a woman who had her right arm replaced by the bad guys at ‘The Factory’. It wasn’t a voluntary mod, and she’s not happy about it, but ultimately she learns how to live with it and it makes her stronger.
The woman who played Clara in the TV show was very convincing, and I thought, “What would it really be like for someone who had undergone that sort of modification?”
Obviously, for the purposes of a TV series, they can’t afford convincing full-body cyborg alterations, but my (and your) imagination can.
This brings us to Rika. She was born in the Genevian Commonwealth, an interstellar alliance of star systems that fought a desperate war with the Nietzscheans. Her government did not have enough AI to continue to create combat mechs, and NSAI were not effective enough…
So they used humans. Unwilling humans.
Rika was one of those humans.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CITIZEN A71F
MECHANIZED
DEKAR’S DREGS
A DANCE WITH DENNY
P-COG
KRUEGER’S
AUCTION
THEBES
THE CHASE
NIGHT
THE GENERAL
TRUST
THE ROMANY
RESCUE
FLIGHT
DELIBERATION
RESITUATE
REPORT
THE HIT
FORGIVEN
MARAUDER
CRASH
DROP
RESCUE
MOP UP
BASILISK
BOOKS BY M. D. COOPER
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THE AGE OF THE ORION WAR
Humanity has not had an easy time expanding into the stars.
Though no intelligent extra-terrestrials have ever been found, we struggle enough against our selves and our creations. War has forever marred our history, and it continues to do so.
Though conflicts such as the Sentience Wars and the wars of the Sol Dissolution took billions of lives, these wars were contained within a single stellar system, and did not spread across the stars. Without faster-than-light travel, it simply would have taken too long and been too costly to make war on neighboring star systems.
The advent of faster-than-light travel removed that constraint. When the FTL Wars broke out in the late fifth millennia, they devastated humanity.
Wave after wave of dark ages washed human space, and much of the great knowledge of the past was lost.
In the late ninth millennia, a tentative peace has finally emerged. Accords and Alliances have built up a fragile stability that has allowed humanity to crawl back from the brink of complete self-destruction.
Then a ship from the past is found, a ship containing technology long thought lost: the Intrepid.
This one event is the match that lights the powder keg, throwing humanity into the greatest war it has ever seen—a war that spans tens of thousands of star systems across the Orion Arm of the galaxy.
The Orion War
Such a war has many fronts. A conflict spanning hundreds of systems with trillions of deaths is but a skirmish. But to the people fighting those battles, it is not a small event on the edge of space; it is their lives, their families, their very civilizations that are on the line.
The long-running war between the Genevians and the Nietzscheans is one such skirmish. It is here that we find Rika. Her government, desperate to hold back the Nietzscheans, has resorted to barbaric means to achieve victory.
Mechanized humans.
CITIZEN A71F
STELLAR DATE: 09.22.8939 (Adjusted Years)
LOCATION: Tanner City, Kellas
REGION: Caulter System, Genevian Federation
Rika sat behind the grey plas of the defendant’s table and looked around the courtroom. Its walls and ceiling were a colorless off-white, with over-bright lighting, and hard concrete floors. She hadn’t expected it to be welcoming, but she had thought courtrooms were supposed to look more upscale—another thing the vids lied about.
The tan, one-piece jumpsuit she wore was loose, but still managed to bind in the armpits and groin; Rika shifted on her hard chair in an attempt to get more comfortable. The movement made the chains that connected her wrists to the table jingle, and she felt herself flush. The whole situation was a mistake, just a horrible mistake.
The judge would see that, and in an hour she’d be free and clear.
Rika glanced at the public defender sitting beside her. He was flipping through a virtual stack of pages only visible to him. She had no way of knowing if they pertained to her case, or to one of the many others he was likely tasked with.
He looked sharp in his black court-suit, and the grey wig complimented his heavy brow—beneath which were sharp, blue eyes. His lips were full, just the way she liked them, and Rika imagined what it would feel like to brush hers against them. To press her nose into his cheek and—
Her daydream was interrupted by a voice calling out, “All rise for the Notable Judge Pliskin.”
Rika leapt to her feet, eager to show her respect for the judge, and completely forgot about the chains holding her wrists to the table. The cuffs jerked her arms to a stop and she slipped, slamming her face against the table.
“Stupid girl,” she heard her defender mutter as he bent over to help her to her feet.
Rika’s eyes filled with tears, and she felt a trickle of blood run down her face as she stood and stared at the table, too embarrassed to look up at the judge as he took his seat.
Behind her, a few snickers could be heard from the gallery, and Rika did her best to ignore them, chanting ‘back on the street in an hour’ over and over in her head.
Once the judge settled in his seat, the rest of the court followed suit, and Rika carefully lowered herself back to her hard plas chair. Her defender hadn’t even acknowledged the blood on her face. Rika bent down and tried to wipe it off, but was certain she’d only smeared it around.
“Case number 823.3234.A433,” the court clerk read out. “The commonwealth versus citizen 4C399EB2-76AB-4CB1-AD9D-9F01B69EA71F, who also goes by the name ‘Rika’. The charge is theft of a valuable worth over fifty thousand credits.”
“What?” Rika tried to rise, but her defender placed a hand on her shoulder, keeping her seated.
“Quiet,” he whispered, and glanced at the judge who was giving them a disapproving glare.
Rika was stunned by his response. She had opened the crate; it had been filled with food. There had to be some sort of mistake.
“Seems open and shut,” the judge was saying. “You were caught on surveillance stealing the crate, and it was found in your possession. How do you plead, citizen Rika?”
“Plead?” Rika asked, bewildered by the speed at which her fate was being sealed. “I plead innocent of what you’re accusing me of. I stole a crate of food, there was no scan suite inside.”
“Innocent?” the judge leaned over his high desk. “This is a capital crime, citizen Rika. We are at war with the Nietzscheans, and you have committed a crime against the war effort. The maximum punishment is death. If you plead innocent, this will go to trial and it will be swift—that I can promise you.”
“But…but…” Rika stuttered.
This is impossible! I’m only nineteen; there’s no way my life—miserable though it’s been—can end like this.
“May I have a moment?” her defender asked the judge.
“Very well,” the judge replied.
Rika slumped in her seat. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It was a nightmare. All she had tried to do was get some food, and now she faced death or military service? Which, given how the war was going, was probably also a death sentence.
Rika didn’t respond, and after a moment he spoke up. “My client pleads guilty, and begs the court’s mercy. She will gladly accept a military sentence.”
“Will she, now?” the judge asked. “I need your affirmation, citizen Rika.”
The judge’s words sounded to her like they were coming from underwater, all garbled and warbly—but she understood their meaning, and nodded slowly.
“Very well,” the judge replied. “A military sentence of five years is issued. You are to be remanded at once to the Genevian Military Police for processing.”
Rika lowered her face into her hands. She wouldn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to anyone. Not that many people cared what happened to her. None of her so-called friends had shown up to court today.
She didn’t even see the defender approach the judge’s high desk and receive an envelope, as rough hands seized her wrists and disconnected her shackles from the table, and reconnected her wrists behind her back.
“This way,” a gruff voice said, and she felt a shove on her shoulder.
Rika barely paid attention as she was marched down a long corridor lined with holding cells. She was pushed into one, and the door slammed behind her. Barring a mat on the floor, the cell was completely empty. Rika fell to the mat, curled up in a fetal position, and cried herself to sleep.
Some time later—she was uncertain how long, as her Link access had been severed upon her guilty sentence—her cell door opened, and a stern voice ordered, “Get up, girl. Time to go to processing.”
Rika assumed ‘processing’ was some sort of procedure where the police handed her over to the military, but when her eyes focused on the speaker, she saw that the woman who spoke to her was in a military uniform. Clearly that form of processing had already occurred.
The woman led her through the long hall of holding cells, all empty now. Had they been filled when she came? Rika couldn’t remember. Once beyond the cells, they passed through a cold, dark corridor that led to a solitary door.
Her escort grunted softly as she opened the door to reveal dim evening light; as Rika’s eyes adjusted, she saw an unadorned bus waiting in an empty parking lot.
The bus was half-full of men and women, and the military woman led Rika to its door. A man with a sheet of plas stood beside the yawning portal and looked up at her, his eyes narrowing with distaste.
“Conscript A71F,” her escort said, using just the last four digits of Rika’s identity.
“So it seems,” the man said with a nod. “Good haul today, eh, Jenna?”
“Decent enough,” the woman, who Rika now had a name for, replied. “This one’s a bit scrawny, though. Wonder what they’ll do with her.”
“Who knows,” the man grunted. “Can always use meat for the grinder, no matter what it looks like when it starts.”
Rika didn’t like the sound of that, and she looked at the man, who gave a smile that did not reach his eyes.
“Your new life awaits you A71F, get on the bus.”
Rika walked carefully up the stairs. She didn’t want to slip again—one smear of dried blood on her face was enough. At the top of the bus’s steps she saw an empty row, and slid into the seat by the window. Rain started to fall outside, and she closed her eyes, desperately wishing that someone would walk onto the bus, call out her name, and announce that there had been a mistake and that she was free to go.
Nothing even remotely close occurred.
A moment later, the man who had been outside the bus climbed the stairs and took a seat at the operator’s controls. The door slammed shut, and the vehicle began to move.
Rika fell asleep again, and when she woke it was still night. The bus had stopped at a gate, and the operator was talking with a guard outside his window. The door opened, and two soldiers stepped onto the bus. One stayed at the front, rifle held up, stock against his shoulder, while the other walked down the aisle, examining the human cargo.
“All clear,” he announced when he got to the back.
The soldier with the rifle nodded, but his weapon remained trained on the conscripts. Only when the first solider passed him did he lower his weapon and walk off the bus.
The door closed, and the operator set the bus in motion once more. It only drove for five minutes before stopping at a large nondescript building. A group of soldiers stood out front. When the operator opened the doors, another pair of soldiers walked onto the bus.
These two didn’t carry rifles—rather, they swung stun batons, slapping them in their hands. One soldier stayed up front, while the other began walking down the aisle.
“Get up, you lazy scum. Your glorious future in the Genevian Armed Forces awaits you. First row, out!” the soldier walking the aisle hollered.
One of the men in the first row didn’t rise fast enough, and the woman hit him across the shoulders with her baton, causing him to cry out in pain.
“I said, Get! Up!” She screamed right in his face, then grabbed his jumpsuit, lifting him bodily from his seat, and tossed him into the aisle. “Now mooove!”
The man scrambled to his feet and promptly fell down the stairs. Rika stood, ready to get off the bus the moment the woman passed her row. She noted that the stairs would be slippery from the rain-soaked boots of the guards.
“Fucking moron,” the solider grunted. “Not that it matters; you scum will make a proper contribution to the commonwealth soon enough.”
Given the other man’s reference to meat for the grinder, and this soldier’s choice of words, Rika’s level of concern about what lay in her future intensified.
Once out of the bus, she joined the other conscripts in a long double-row. The rain had lessened, but it was still enough of a drizzle to make them miserable. She saw the first man who had fallen down the stairs standing at the head of the line next to hers. His nose was broken, and blood poured down his face; but no one made a move to help him as he sniffled and wiped the blood from around his mouth.
As the bus emptied out, Rika looked over the others. They all wore the bulky jumpsuits, and the least disheveled of them still looked as bad as she felt. She was surprised to see that only half looked like street-rats; the rest o
f the men and women appeared to have seen baths and good food in recent days. The clean hair and trimmed fingernails were also dead giveaways of a better life.
She did a quick sum as the last woman stepped from the bus, followed by the soldier and her swinging baton. There were thirty-two of them. Thirty-two miserable souls unwillingly added to the Genevian war machine.
The other soldiers formed up around the conscripts, and the baton-wielding woman yelled into the rain-soaked gloom, “Move it, you fucking filth! We don’t have all night!”
They marched into the building, and were led down a long corridor to a wide foyer. At the end of the foyer stood a man at a small podium. Behind him were three numbered doors. The man looked the shivering conscripts over for a moment before turning his gaze to a sheet of plas on the podium.
“Conscript B43E, door 1,” he announced, and one of the cleaner, though no less miserable, men shambled forward, and stepped through the door as a guard opened it.
The man at the podium carried on, announcing the conscripts’ codes and a corresponding door. Rika noticed that there was a clear class preference. The most fit were sent to door one, and the street rats, like her, all ended up going through door three.
It came as no surprise to her when her name was called.
“Conscript A71F, door 3!”
She walked on unsteady feet toward the door, doing her best to hold back the tears that threatened to spill down her face. If she started crying now, she knew stopping would be impossible. Once through the door, she found herself in another long hall, and slowly walked until she came to a bright white room.
Eleven other unwashed scum like her were waiting there, all shivering with cold. After she entered, one more girl joined their number, and there they stood: an unlucky thirteen.
Rika noted that the room was tiled, and drains were set in the floor. Above, there were sprinklers, and along one wall were several large wire baskets on wheels.
A pair of guards entered the room—one with a rifle trained on the conscripts, and the other with a decoupler for their shackles. As he freed each person, the guard with the decoupler gestured for them to stand along the wall near the baskets. Once the last unfortunate soul stood in a ragged line in front of the baskets, he barked one word.