Books One to Three Omnibus (Armada Wars)

by R. Curtis Venture

  — Armada Wars —

  Books One to Three Omnibus

  R. Curtis Venture

  — Copyright —

  Books 1-3 Omnibus first published June 2016.

  SFTD first published December 2013.

  SFTD 3rd edition published May 2016.

  LOTD first published December 2014.

  TRD first published November 2015.

  Copyright © R. Curtis Venture 2013, all rights reserved. R. Curtis Venture asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work and the owner of the intellectual properties within. Unauthorised copying and/or distribution is prohibited.

  All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or to real events, is purely coincidental.

  ArmadaWars.com

  — By the Author —

  Short Stories

  Kudos

  Novels

  Steal from the Devil

  List of the Dead

  The Ravening Deep

  This is an omnibus of the first three novels in the Armada Wars story.

  — Contents —

  • Copyright

  • By the Author

  • Book One: Steal from the Devil

  • Prologue: The Fall of Guathelia

  • 01: Hammer

  • 02: Captain’s Prerogative

  • 03: A Free Man

  • 04: Quiet as the Grave

  • 05: Gear Adrift

  • 06: The Blank Woman

  • 07: Fresh Meat

  • 08: Fill the Silence

  • 09: An Empty Echo

  • 10: Eyes and Ears

  • 11: Tabula Rasa

  • 12: Operation Seawall

  • 13: Unassuming Aldava

  • 14: In Low Places

  • 15: The Battle of Gousk

  • 16: Ex Caelo

  • 17: Shadows of the Heart

  • 18: The Battle of Woe Tantalum

  • 19: Sabotage

  • 20: Light the Dark

  • Epilogue

  • Book Two: List of the Dead

  • Prologue: Splinters

  • 01: Settling Dust

  • 02: Survivors

  • 03: Disputer

  • 04: The Beast of Blacktree

  • 05: You Don’t Choose

  • 06: Change of Plans

  • 07: The Ashes of Lophrit

  • 08: The Occupation of Mibes

  • 09: Boys Will Be Boys

  • 10: The High Ground

  • 11: Roll Out the Tanks

  • 12: The Natives are Restless

  • 13: The List

  • 14: Your Mother’s Son

  • 15: These Old Scars

  • 16: Tenebrae

  • 17: Shaeld Hratha

  • 18: Compromised

  • 19: A Rock and a Hard Place

  • 20: Fear the Deep

  • Epilogue

  • Book Three: The Ravening Deep

  • Prologue: Into the Pit

  • 01: From the Shadows

  • 02: Scapegoats

  • 03: With Eyes Open

  • 04: Operation Keystone

  • 05: Heaven’s Playground

  • 06: A Pale Horse

  • 07: Downfall

  • 08: Worst Case Scenario

  • 09: Shards and Splinters

  • 10: Poster Child

  • 11: Bruised Egos

  • 12: Dark Pages

  • 13: Deaf and Blind

  • 14: Strange Bedfellows

  • 15: The Long Haul

  • 16: Intervention

  • 17: The Invasion of Herses

  • 18: The Fall of Riishi

  • 19: The Battle of Ramm Stallahad

  • 20: These Worlds are Mine

  • About the Author

  • You may also like: The Calypsis Project

  — Book One —

  Steal from the Devil

  — Prologue —

  The Fall of Guathelia

  Omin pressed his chest into the dirt as hard as he could, flattening his body against the ridge and waiting for his chance to peer safely over the lip of the rubble. He scratched idly and blindly at the Blight marks on his right forearm, trying subconsciously to relieve the constant itching, despite the day’s more pressing matters.

  High above him a squadron of tactical fighters streaked towards the horizon, headed for Guathelia’s capital. Good luck with that. He could see the thick black smoke from here, and the bone-shaking sounds of the distant bombardment had stopped hours ago.

  Ahead, just over the edge of the rubble that screened him from the street, bursts of gunfire were answered in kind by enemy rounds. The fighting had continued throughout the entire morning. He might never get his chance, unless somebody across the way were actually to win some ground.

  A loud whumph came from somewhere up ahead, and Omin felt a shudder pass from the ground through his whole body. Then the clattering sound of stones and pieces of debris raining down on what was left of the street: frag grenade.

  A pause in the gunfire, and he took the chance to rise from his cover. Just a tiny bit, just for a moment. Then flat again.

  “Stay here.”

  Behind him, also flat on the ground, Halfre raised her dirt-streaked face and looked imploringly at her partner through strands of dusty hair. “Please be careful.”

  He winked encouragingly, leapt to his feet, and was off in an instant to sprint for the least-damaged building he could see. He reached it in a few seconds, almost tripping over the cracked white stone of the pavement, and pressed his back to what remained of the wall.

  The street around him was all but demolished. He saw human limbs protruding from piles of rubble, pale and lifeless, scarlet-flecked maroon marks which he instinctively knew were dried blood. He closed his eyes until he had turned his face away.

  The artillery assault on the market town had come in the early morning, when the streets were full of traders setting up their stalls. None of them had stood a chance against the bombardment.

  Quick as a flash, Omin peered around the corner of the ruined building. Nobody was in the adjoining side street, but he saw what he was looking for. He quickly dashed halfway down and dropped to the ground next to the fallen bodies. Three Imperial shock troopers, all that remained of a Mobile Air and Ground Assault fire team, taken out by Them. Nobody had yet had the chance to recover the bodies. Or the equipment.

  He grabbed at an assault rifle first, yanking it from the gloved hands of its late owner. He held it inexpertly, one hand under the barrel, the other on the stock. He found the hand guard and the pistol grip, and touched the trigger.

  “Unauthorised user,” the rifle bellowed.

  Caught by surprise, he dropped the gun. He had not expected that, and in the relatively quiet refuge of the side street the curt voice had sounded dangerously loud. He glanced up and down the way, afraid of the attention he might have inadvertently attracted.

  Nothing.

  He pushed the rifle away, and stayed low as he moved to the next soldier. He saw the woman was lying across a shotgun, her face thankfully pressed against the ground.

  “Sorry.” He pulled the weapon from beneath her. She rolled onto her side as the shotgun tugged her clothing, and he saw her face was flattened where it had been pressed against the stone flags; mottled purple-brown where blood had pooled within the sallow flesh and already started to degrade. Her upper lip had been squashed beneath her nose to reveal a row of neat teeth, and a stiff arm lifted a yellowed, rigid hand from the ground as her bo
dy tilted. The grasping fingers reached for more life.

  “So sorry.”

  He tested the weapon, with the same result. “Worlds damn you,” he growled under his breath. This was not what he had intended when he risked his life — and Halfre’s — coming back to find a weapon.

  A pistol next, taken from a thigh holster. Unauthorised User. He did not waste his time checking the other weapons the corpses possessed.

  He pulled open a pouch on the armour of the nearest trooper and found it contained a grenade. It was perhaps not very practical, but it was better than nothing. He took it, then searched further to find just one more.

  Two grenades. Hardly the arsenal he had anticipated.

  Taking his spoils he ran back to Halfre, as quickly as he could while trying to stay down low. He found her still in the same spot, and dropped to the ground beside her.

  “Did you find one?” She asked.

  “Plenty,” he said. “But they won’t work. I think only the owner can fire them.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Same plan as before, only we will have to be much more careful. I found these.” He held up the grenades.

  “One each?”

  “Um, I guess so. Do you know what to do?”

  “Omin! I have seen the holofilms.”

  “Sorry, it’s just I never really imagined you fighting in a battle.”

  “Neither did I. Pop the cap, press the button, cook it off for a couple of seconds, then throw.”

  “Did you really just say ‘cook it off’?”

  She smiled coyly, and he passed her one of the grenades along with an approving smile. Handling it delicately, as if it might explode at any moment, she placed it carefully in her pocket.

  “There’s still fighting going on in the streets here,” he said. “We may need to find another route. Especially if we’re not going to be properly armed.”

  As if to make his point for him, something tore sharply through the air nearby and collided with one of the few buildings still standing. Not more than a hundred metres away from them, chunks of white stone and dark grey mortar were blasted outward. The entire side of the building tore away, collapsing in pieces across the street, and a wall of dust billowed in all directions.

  “Quick,” he said. “Come on!”

  He grabbed her hand and hauled her to her feet, then sprinted downhill, curving to follow the perimeter of the town. He was so very glad that this side of the market district was verged by a man made embankment; had they been fighters they would have been disadvantaged on the low ground, but as things were they at least had some cover. They would be very unlucky to be caught by stray bullets.

  Behind them, the marketplace and its attendant buildings were pulverised systematically by mortar fire. For a time, the echoing gunshots closest to them stopped.

  They circled the southern edge of the town, stopping to hug the dirt whenever the fighting came too close. Omin found himself wondering how long the battle might go on for; it had been hours already. Surely either side could just vaporise the whole area? Probably best to not think about that.

  “This is it, isn’t it?”

  He stopped and looked to where Halfre was pointing, over the crest of the incline, and saw that she had spotted the familiar twin statues. Headless and scorched they might well be, but they did indeed mark out the entrance to the Bright Way.

  “It can’t be far now,” he said.

  They scrabbled up the banked rubble, which had slid down from the embattled town, but just as they reached even ground both dropped flat immediately.

  In the wide space of the Bright Way, a couple of blocks away from them, several MAGA fire teams were retreating. Three groups were stepping carefully backwards, firing into side streets as they converged on each other. Another group popped smoke, a couple of canisters creating a white screen across the road to cover the retreat. The soldiers finally came together and took up defensive positions. They hunkered down behind stone planters and street furniture, their combat armour skinprinting to mimic the surroundings and obscure the outlines of their bodies.

  After a moment something began to move in the smoke. Omin could see a shadow, the vapour being disturbed and displaced, but the overall shape seemed fluid, difficult to discern. He could barely tell if it was deep inside the cloud, or emerging from it. His eyes told him it was both, but his brain disagreed. Try as he might he could not fill the perceptual gap, and it hurt him to attempt it.

  It was one of Them.

  Three short, tightly controlled bursts of fire from one of the MAGA troops, and the shifting shapeless presence melted silently back into the wall of smoke.

  The world seemed to pause and inhale.

  From Omin’s vantage point, beyond the end of the Bright Way, the attack came without warning. Figures darted from the side streets, dozens of them, leaping recklessly into the Bright Way and fanning out across the wide avenue. They were human, Omin was sure — he could clearly see as much from where he was. Some wore civilian clothing, some overalls, others still what looked like flight suits. Some were armed with guns, some metal bars, others carried lumps of stone; anything they could use to shoot, batter, or pelt.

  And he was sure they were all smiling.

  The horde descended on the MAGA troops with frightening speed. Many fell as they crossed the intervening space, gouts of red bursting from their bodies as they took hits from the soldiers’ weapons. Others jumped over the bodies, paying them no regard, and fearlessly kept running, those with guns of their own firing back at the troops haphazardly.

  Omin saw a middle-aged woman in a yellow dress bring a metal bar down on a soldier’s arm, shattering the bone. The man cried out in pain as his arm snapped and half of it swung uselessly downwards, still holding his rifle. Yellow Dress kicked him in the chest, sending him sprawling backwards, and without a moment’s hesitation she began to club him to death with a horrible vigour.

  Not far from Yellow Dress was a young man with cropped hair and a tattered navy blue jacket. His face was already streaked with what looked like dried blood. Blue Jacket dropped to the ground as his nearest companion reeled backwards with blood bursting from her chest. He ignored her as she crumpled in a dead heap, continued coming forward with a strange animal gallop, one hand and both feet propelling him towards the shooter. In his free hand he held a pistol. He raised it as the trooper reloaded, fired three times, and killed her outright.

  As proficient as they were, the MAGA troopers did not stand much of a chance against the tide of violence. Within moments, the sound of gunshots had stopped.

  Omin sank back down beneath the level of the street, carefully and quietly, desperate to attract no attention. He saw Halfre was lying on her back, facing away from the battle. Tears had sliced through the grime on her face, and she clutched her grenade in both hands.

  He placed a hand over hers, and she looked at him. “Not yet.” He mouthed it silently, and she nodded slowly.

  He risked a very cautious peek back into the Bright Way. The motley gang of attackers were mostly standing where they were, swaying slightly. A few of them dragged three of the soldiers across the ground, and Omin realised — when he saw one struggle feebly — that they were still alive. Then, silently and without discussion, the horde turned as one and disappeared into the nearest side street, taking their captives with them. The dead were left where they had fallen.

  “Is it safe?” Halfre asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Stay down for now.”

  They waited for a few long minutes. The slowly drifting curtain of smoke, which had obscured the far end of the Bright Way, eventually cleared. The sounds of fighting had all but ceased, and Omin guessed that those ill-fated troopers had been among the last Imperial forces in the town.

  They had to escape.

  “It’s as safe now as it’s ever going to be. Let’s go.”

  He took her hand, and they clambered up the embankment to street level. Wastin
g no time whatsoever, Omin half dragged Halfre across the junction and into the shade on the east side of the Bright Way, as close as possible to the building line. Without a word they picked their way quickly across the broken masonry and smashed paving stones, moving with refreshed urgency towards the town centre.

  As they approached the scene of the slaughter, Omin could feel Halfre hanging back. He pulled her on, just as unwilling to linger at the graveyard as she was to enter it.

  Together they peered cautiously into the junction where the inexplicably murderous mob had disappeared, and saw that it was clear. They ran across the intersection and continued on.

  “I didn’t recognise them,” Halfre said.

  “What?”

  “Those people who killed the soldiers; I didn’t recognise any of them.”

  “Why would you?”

  “They were just ordinary people, weren’t they? But not from this town. I know the faces of almost everybody who lives here.”

  “It’s a market town. There are always strangers.”

  “Did they look like traders and shoppers to you?”

  Omin gave no answer.

  “Thought not.”

  Up ahead, the road widened and Omin could see what remained of the circular walls of the formerly domed commerce hall. They were coming to the end of the Bright Way.

  “It’s this right,” Halfre said.

  They entered the side street, and ran as quietly as they could for the next three blocks. The street entered a wide plaza, enclosed on three sides by ruined buildings, open on the far side to an orderly array of roads. The space was filled with the town’s communal vehicle fleet, many of them smoking wrecks.

  “Let’s find one that still works.”

  “Okay.”

  They walked into the abandoned communal transit hub, picking a route through the stands and the ranks of motionless transports, struggling to see any that had escaped the bombardment unscathed. Here and there were craters in the ground, those vehicles which had been nearby now twisted scraps of metal and plasteel, pushed outwards by explosive impacts. Omin tried to ignore the bodies.

  His heart leapt into his mouth when he heard the voice.