The Terminal War: A Carson Mach Space Opera

by A. C. Hadfield

  “I was just eight years old,” Beringer said, “forty years ago when my parents took me off Earth and to Fides Prime during the exodus. It was all so exciting for me then; I didn’t truly understand what was going on with the Century War. Earth was changing on a daily basis, Dad got killed, and then the next minute I know, I’m on a new type of starship, making my very first L-jump to the Fides system.”

  “Probably better for you that you were young,” Mach said. “What about your mother? What happened to her?”

  “Cancer,” he said, the single word dropping like a bum note in a minor key.

  “I’m sorry,” Mach said. And he was. He had known so many of the Earth people to succumb to it before the medical revolution in the Sphere eliminated such diseases. “So this artifact that you’ve discovered… it’s related?”

  Beringer’s eyes widened, pupils dilating due to the Whisper and the gloominess of the room, but there was a fierce hunger there, twitching at the corner of his eyelids.

  “It’s from Earth,” Beringer said, hushing his words so that Mach could barely hear him. He continued, “Before our species evolved to who we are now on Earth, there are some schools of thought that we were the results of not just evolution, but of a helping hand, some grand conductor easing things into place.”

  Mach snorted. Evolution had been proven time and time and again. “I don’t believe in all that mumbo jumbo,” Mach said. “And frankly, I’m surprised you do.”

  Without moving even a scintilla, Beringer said, “I know it to be true. I found a similar item on an expedition back to Earth when I was twenty-three years old and studying for my Ph.D. It was a small object, round. Perfectly round. Unnaturally so. Under high magnification, it displayed no flaw in its surface. Do you realize how impossible that is? A material that even under the most powerful microscopes we have today shows perfect spherical form in every possible essence?”

  “And you think you’ve found another?”

  Beringer sat back for a moment and smiled up at the barwoman, who had brought another couple of drinks over. No Whisper this time, but something a little more potent: Gasmulch.

  “Courtesy of the gracious one,” the fang-toothed woman said, running a fingertip across Mach’s hand, making him shiver with delight—and no little fear. “He asked me to pass on his best wishes to Adira against her opponent tonight.”

  “And that is?” Mach prompted.

  “You’ll see, darling, in good time.”

  She swung away, laughing. Mach didn’t like that one bit. The back of his head burned. He could tell Gracious was staring at him. But fuck him, Mach thought; he wasn’t going to give the manipulative old swine the satisfaction.

  Instead, he grabbed both glasses and shot them one after the other, slamming them down on the table so hard most of the patrons in the bar looked over at him.

  “Do we have to do this?” Beringer asked. Mach noticed the poor man’s hands were shaking worse. But this was good. He needed to be scared. That was the only way this plan would work.

  The last fight played out in the cage over the course of a bitter ten minutes. The two combatants—vestans armed with wooden staffs—beat the living crap out of each other. The larger of the two took a shot to the balls. Vestan balls were even more sensitive and painful than humans’ if played with wrongly.

  A chorus of, “Oooh,” rang around the bar.

  The vestan slumped to his knees and gave the three-finger gesture—fingers close together, palm up. He had quit—and would likely never sire children in his lifetime.

  The bar erupted in cheers as the winner was announced, and the onlookers who had backed the right fighter buzzed around the bookmaker’s desk to collect their winnings. It was no surprise to see that the number of losers far outweighed the winners.

  “Adira’s up,” Mach said. “But before they start, tell me: you found another of these spheres on some distant planet?”

  Beringer simply nodded. “And it predates the one I found on Earth by at least two millennia.”

  “Excuse me if I’m missing something here, but how do you know it’s there, and if you do, why could you not retrieve it with whatever was sending you the data.”

  “No device told me of it,” he said.

  “Then what?”

  “I found reference to it in a data-store—an ancient digital drive from a race long since extinct. It’s taken me fifteen years to break the encryption and understand the data. But when I finally did it, I knew. I knew what it was, and where it was. I just need to get it.”

  “And then what?”

  “That, Mr. Mach, shall remain my business, and my business only.”

  Mach shrugged. It was of no concern to him—as long as the plan worked and Beringer got him his 200k fee from Gracious Sinju. He just hoped Adira would live up to her side of the bargain and drive her odds up. The fee would easily cover any reconstructive surgery she would need.

  “Ladies and Gentleman,” a suited man said from the center of the cage. The lights in the bar dimmed to almost complete darkness, including the individual lamps on the tables. Only a single spotlight shone down on the announcer, glistening off his slick black hair and so-white-as-to-be-almost-neon teeth. “I present to you, on behalf of Sinju Enterprises, the main event of the evening!”

  Despite the effects of the drink numbing him, Mach still felt nervous. He had grown to care a great deal for Adira, and despite her undoubted skills, he still hated to see her get hurt.

  The announcer called her out, giving the patrons the rundown on her long list of assassinations and triumphant activities as part of Mach’s crew on the Intrepid.

  She wore her standard cloth outfit: black, formfitting without being too tight, and elasticated to allow her to perform her most balletic of attacks. Her face was hidden behind a mask so that only her eyes peered out.

  She didn’t look at Mach or Beringer. Just paced the cage like a panther, waiting for her opponent.

  Mach tensed, his hands gripping the arms of his chair with anticipation.

  “And her opponent,” the announcer said, “hails from the Calinus moon Ephrania. He has a fight record of fifty-three wins, no draws, no losses, all wins by way of first-round deaths. I present to you, the one, the only... Ballis Bardoom!”

  No one cheered.

  Mach certainly as hell didn’t cheer.

  The spotlight moved from the center of the ring to the far left side of the bar—the direction Mach was sitting. From a large doorway it came, lumbering, sweating, and frothing. The drinkers nearest to the path that led to the cage scattered, as all three meters of Ephranian-born killing machine swaggered toward the arena.

  The only voice Mach could hear was the high-pitched snigger of Gracious Sinju. It made Mach want to pull his Stinger—his exotic and highly efficient firearm—and slot the bastard right there, and then Bardoom.

  “Fuck,” Beringer said. It was the first time Mach had heard him swear, and in this instance it was fully justified.

  Mach darted his attention to Adira in the cage. She stretched her arms casually above her shoulders, completely oblivious to Bardoom opening the door to the cage and stepping his greatly muscled legs into the fighting area.

  “That’s no human,” Beringer said, shaking his head in disbelief. “It can’t be.”

  “It was human once,” Mach said. “But this thing is the result of millions of eros of genetic modification and upgrades. It’s outrageous. Adira would never have agreed to this if she knew Sinju was going to pull some shit like this. I swear if she… I’ll kill the bastard with my bare hands.”

  Beringer shrank in his chair and looked on with terror in his face. The announcer quickly finished his preamble and left the cage.

  Bardoom was on the left of the ring, Adira on the right. The fight was scheduled for three six-minute rounds—or for as long as the two combatants lived, whichever came first. Bardoom wore a pair of old-fashioned boxing shorts. Black, like his boots. Naturally, he wore no gloves.
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br />   His head was buzzed close, showing all the scars from his surgeries—as did the network of scars across his gigantic back and chest. His biceps looked like weather balloons. Mach hated to think how strong this freak was.

  Opposite him, Adira looked like a piece of nanothread.

  Mach’s throat dried, but he forced himself to look over at Sinju’s personal bookmaker’s desk to see the odds. Adira was currently up at 5s, meaning a five-fold return. That wouldn’t be enough for Beringer, even with his entire 20k stake. Adira had said she would only do this for 100s.

  Not for the first time, Mach wished he had never agreed to this job. He reached his left hand down to his left pants pocket and felt for the detonator—the backup plan. If it all went wrong, there was only one way out of it.

  The bell sounded, and the fight got underway.

  Chapter 4

  Bardoom took two strides forward and threw a stiff jab. Adira crossed her forearms over her face and parried the blow. The force of it sent her stumbling back. Six fidian punters, dressed in filthy gray coveralls, rushed past Mach toward Sinju’s bookmaker, temporarily blocking his view of the fighting cage.

  Bardoom’s appearance and starting price had naturally sparked a flood of bets in his favor, despite the extremely thin margins available. The odds, displayed in red digits above the bookie’s desk, tumbled to mere fractions for the big Ephranian.

  Adira’s rose to 8s.

  On the face of it, everything was going according to plan, but Mach never figured Sinju would put up his undefeated champion. The lumbering genetic freak hunched down and charged like a bull across the arena.

  Adira shifted nimbly away, maintaining a safe distance from his scarred and tattooed knuckles. A classic match of brain versus brawn that Mach had seen Adira win a hundred times, although never under these circumstances.

  A chair scraped against the plastic floor behind Mach. Hot breath brushed against his ear. He could smell Sinju’s mix of body odor and booze a mile away but kept his focus on the cage.

  From the corner of his eye, he noticed Beringer pale a shade lighter.

  “You look worried, my friend,” Sinju said in his usual fake jovial tone. “You thought I’d what? Put up an easy fight for your crossbreed bitch?”

  “You’ve lost none of your old charm,” Mach said, staying his hand. He so much wanted to ram it in Sinju’s ugly mouth. “Adira had two options. Fight here and win her place back on my crew, or return to prison where I’d collect the bounty.”

  Sinju laughed. “You? Return somebody to prison? The Summanus bounty on her head is no more. I checked out your story.”

  “Who said anything about Summanus?” Mach replied, thinking on his feet with his thin cover blown. Thankfully he hadn’t been too specific when arranging the contest. “She’s wanted in Feronia Prime.”

  That much was true, but then so was Mach. They had carried out a raid a few months ago in exchange for a ship. Although the casualties were only stunned, the local gang lords’ pride had been dented, and they were desperate to introduce Mach to a world of pain using some of their retro torture tools.

  Sinju grunted and rested a hand on Mach’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “It doesn’t matter. In a minute, you’ll likely need to find another crew member.”

  Bardoom leaped forward and roared after circling his quarry and forcing Adira into a corner.

  Adira ducked under his swinging arm. His fist crashed against the cage’s sturdy wall. She retreated to the opposite side, crouched in anticipation of his next move and waved him toward her.

  “She can’t avoid him forever,” Sinju said. “As soon—”

  Mach turned to face him. “Why don’t you talk to someone who cares? Leave us to enjoy the fight and our drinks.”

  Sinju glanced at Beringer, who immediately looked away. “Who’s your pale friend?”

  “None of your business.”

  “In this club, everything’s my business,” Sinju growled. “I haven’t seen him around before. That makes me a suspicious man, especially when you’re involved.”

  Mach shrugged. “He works at the museum, if you must know, we’re old friends.”

  Aliens and humans alike, sitting at the tables around the cage, roared with delight. Sinju’s face transformed from a scowl to a smile. Mach spun back to face the fighting area. Adira had taken another hit and staggered to her left. She planted her hand against the side of her head and narrowed her eyes.

  The odds on her winning flicked to 50s. Enough for Beringer to place a bet and earn the money for his mission, but not enough to give Adira and Mach a decent bonus for their troubles.

  “I’ll leave you gentlemen to it,” Sinju said, changing back to his smug self. “Enjoy the destruction.”

  Adira’s movement had slowed.

  Bardoom stomped after her with continued purpose, probably keen to protect his perfect record of first-round kills. He gritted his yellow teeth and threw a left hook. It connected with Adira’s shoulder, throwing her back against the cage. Her shoulder cracked against the metal.

  Mach winced and took another mouthful of Gasmulch.

  Beringer pulled his seat closer to Mach’s side. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “You’re underestimating Adira too, eh? Good. More people think like you, the higher the odds. Don’t discount her so easily.”

  Bardoom connected again with a backhand swipe, sending Adira skidding across the ground. The howls around the cage increased.

  A few patrons rushed across to the bookie’s desk to squeeze out tiny profits from the big Ephranian’s shrinking odds. Adira’s price flicked to 80s.

  Sinju, now standing at the bar, folded his four arms across his wide chest and grinned. Mach imagined the eros signs flashing in the old bastard’s eyes as he calculated the epic windfall from this fight.

  Mach’s smart-screen flashed: a message from Morgan. The old dog always had a bad way with timing that stretched back to their time together on a destroyer. He had a skill for inconvenience only matched by genital warts.

  I need you for an immediate and confidential task. The price meets your expectations. Meet me at the Vesta star port in forty-eight hours. This mission is a high priority, so I require immediate acknowledgment. It’s not possible to provide further details. I’ll do that in person.

  Morgan knew the money would be too much to resist.

  Whenever the president needed an off-the-books mission completed, Mach had a habit of picking up fines before the offer came. Yesterday, a new one appeared on the Salus System, accusing him of causing building damage on Retsina. He did blow a vault there, in search of a rumored treasure, but it was years ago in a centuries-old derelict temple. Morgan was one of the few people who knew about it, and Mach didn’t believe in coincidences.

  Bardoom thrust his fist against Adira’s chest and pinned her against the cage’s wall. Members of the crowd bayed for a kill. The luminous green electric timer above both fighters displayed fifty seconds. It was time to execute the final part of the plan.

  The odds for Adira flicked to 110s—more than they strictly needed. But who doesn’t love a little extra?

  “Go now,” Mach said to Beringer. “Put the full amount on Adira.”

  Beringer raised a few inches from his chair and paused. “Are you sure?”

  “If you say that again…” Mach took a deep breath. The older man was way out of his depth and had a look of fear in his eyes. “Do you want your artifact or not?”

  The old archeologist gave a resigned nod and snaked between the tables to the bookie’s desk. Adira remained at 110s and would go no higher—even Sinju wasn’t that risky; he’d hedge his odds against a freak outcome.

  Adira stumbled around the inner edge of the cage, attempting to avoid the bone-crushing blows.

  Mach acknowledged Morgan’s message, confirming his acceptance—they would have to set off immediately after the fight to reach Vesta in time, but it was doable. Beringer’s mission dropped a pl
ace down the pecking order, but Mach was sure the archeologist could live with it, considering they had helped to finance his trip.

  As expected, the odds above the bookie’s desk changed after Beringer placed his bet. Adira dropped to 50s because of the hefty sum.

  At the bar, Sinju noticed and peered at Mach, his smarmy grin no longer visible. He crashed between the tables and headed straight for the bookie. It was too late, though. The biggest sin in the underworld was going back on a bet. Sinju was probably already coming to the realization that all was not what it appeared to be.

  At least Mach hoped it wasn’t. Blood dripped from Adira’s left eye, and she looked worse for wear.

  Mach set his smart-screen to record, stood and stretched, giving Adira the signal to strike. She didn’t notice at first, too busy avoiding the increasingly frenetic swings as Bardoom went for his customary final-minute finish.

  Eventually, she glanced up with only fifteen seconds left in the round. The big Ephranian had her cornered, one fist clutching her throat, pinning her in place. He pulled his free fists back for his signature move: the double strike at the heart.

  No human or fidian had ever survived the blow.

  Adira twisted her body with such ferocity it would have snapped the spine of a lesser fighter. The sudden movement broke Bardoom’s grip.

  She threw an uppercut at lightning speed, catching the bigger opponent off guard. Bardoom’s head snapped back, and he wobbled on his heels. The humans in the crowd collectively inhaled—the fidians whined.

  The light green vestan nanogloves, colored perfectly to match her skin, were an amazing and powerful piece of equipment. Tulula, a vestan engineer in Mach’s crew, had acquired them last week from her home world. Mach fell in love with them the moment he tried one on and punched a hole in the Intrepid’s mess wall.

  Reactive nanosteel thread had more kinetic energy stored in it than most nukes when compared particle to particle.

  Only a single raised voice could be heard in the club. Sinju held the bookie by the throat in a two-handed grip and shouted in his face. Beringer edged away from the desk and slipped behind a thick black roof-supporting column. Sinju shoved the bookie to one side and focused on the cage.