Asbaran Solutions (The Revelations Cycle Book 2)

by Chris Kennedy

  “Wait!” the Besquith guard shouted. “How do I know this is real? No one told me live ordnance was coming.”

  “Quiet!” Zzeldar replied in a stage whisper as the other two Tortantulas skittered away from the crate. “Too many loud noises and they’ll detonate!”

  “Well, I want to see them, to make sure they really are mines. Open the crate.”

  The two ‘guard’ Tortantulas jumped away from the crate again. “Not while I’m nearby,” one said.

  “Out here?” Zzeldar asked, overriding her companion. “Are you crazy? With all of the radio transmission going on out here, the entire lot of them will detonate if I open the box out here. It’s probably safe enough inside to open it and show you, but there’s no way I’m doing it out here.”

  The Besquith looked around for help, saw the other guard at the personnel ramp, and waved him over.

  “What’s going on?” the new guard growled.

  The first guard pulled the newcomer away for privacy, but the Tortantula’s microphones were sensitive enough to pick up the conversation.

  “These cargo handlers say they’re delivering a new set of mines for our operation with the humans,” the first guard said.

  “They’re not supposed to know about that.”

  “I know, but somehow they’ve heard. Their leader says the cargo crews always know first, because they see the logistics involved.”

  “We’re going to have to let the captain know.”

  “I agree…but what should we do with the mines? They say there’s special loading instructions for getting them aboard without setting them off.”

  “Are you sure they’re mines?”

  “We can’t open it out here or the radio transmissions will set them off. They’re anti-personnel mines that are armed by radio.”

  The second guard turned to look back at the Tortantulas milling about by the crate for several seconds, before turning back to the first guard.

  “While I wouldn’t put it past the Tortantulas to develop illegal mines or sneak them aboard the station, I’d like to see them before I let them walk away. I also don’t feel like having to do the work of loading them onto the ship. I’ll go aboard with the loader and have him open up the crate inside. You stand guard over the two that are left behind.”

  The Besquith returned to where the Tortantulas waited. All three were shuffling their multitude of feet and edging away from the crate.

  “Okay, we’ll take it,” the second Besquith said. He pointed a rifle at Zzeldar. “You’re going to take it up nice and easy and stow it where I tell you, and then you’re going to open it up. Your friends can wait down here. If everything’s legit you can be on your way.”

  “Fine, fine,” Zzeldar said. “Can we at least get going? I’m now late for my next delivery.”

  The Besquith motioned toward the ramp with his rifle. “Be my guest.”

  With a noise the translation device turned into a “harrumph,” Zzeldar worked her control pad, and the pallet lifted and started toward the ramp into the cargo compartment.

  One of the other Tortantulas moved as if to follow, and the first guard stepped in front, his rifle almost pointing at the giant spider. “You stay here with me,” the Besquith said, and the Tortantula moved back to where she had been.

  The Besquith’s rifle remained pointed near the Tortantula; it wouldn’t take much to bring it into a firing position.

  Nigel looked over to Mason’s position. The trooper was already easing his rifle over the top of the crate he was hiding behind.

  “That’s good right there,” the Besquith in the cargo compartment said. “Now open it up.”

  Two muted shots from a laser pistol could be heard from the cargo compartment. Before the second one was heard, Mason had already fired and dropped the Besquith at the ramp.

  “Let’s go!” Mason ordered, breaking cover to lead the advance. The other Tortantulas were already halfway up the ramp, and they disappeared inside the ship before Mason could take another step. “First Squad, cargo bay! Second Squad up the personnel ramp! Last two people grab the Besquith!”

  Nigel joined in the charge, as additional muted shots could be heard from the interior of the ship. He glanced over his shoulder; the Pendal pilots were just beginning to advance and seemed in no hurry to be part of the action. Screw them.

  Nigel raced over to the personnel ramp but was caught behind the troopers struggling to lug the dead Besquith up the cargo ramp. Reaching the interior, he was faced with whether to go right toward the forward portion of the ship or left toward the cargo compartment.

  “Cargo compartment clear!” Turk reported. “Four tangos down back here.”

  Nigel turned to the right.

  “Clear forward!” Mason transmitted. “Five tangos here.”

  Nigel hesitated, now unsure which way to go. It sounded like the action had already ended.

  “Ship’s clear,” Mason added confirming the assessment. “Everyone assemble in the cargo compartment. Turk, call Second Platoon and have them move up.”

  Nigel moved out of the way to let the troopers coming from the cockpit go past, then fell into trail behind Mason as the two Pendal pilots glided past him going in the opposite direction.

  “Nine enemy down?” Nigel asked. “I thought there were 10 onboard.”

  “Nine plus the one outside is 10,” Mason replied.

  “Is combat always that fast?” Nigel’s eyes swept the corridor, looking for additional enemies. He found he couldn’t keep himself from talking. The adrenaline was flowing, and his body screamed at him to run…to shoot…to do something!

  “That was hardly combat,” Mason said. “Damned spiders had already killed everyone before we made it aboard. You want killing machines; that’s them. Besides, this is a freighter. There aren’t that many places for a Besquith to hide onboard. It’s just engines, a cargo hold, and basic living quarters.”

  Mason sighed. “This was the easy part,” he added. “The real combat comes next.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Seventeen

  Captain’s Cabin, Besquith Ship Beheader, Approaching Bestald

  Zzeldar appeared in the doorway but didn’t enter the crowded compartment. She couldn’t. Nigel and Mason sat on the bed, one of the Pendals sat in the desk chair, Breetar stretched out across the desk, and several other members of the platoon’s staff filled the remaining floor space of the tiny cabin.

  “I take it you called us here to tell us how you’re going to get into the Blood Drinkers’ base?” Zzeldar asked.

  “Yeah,” Nigel replied. “It’s really pretty simple, though. We fly in disguised as a routine transport ship, land at the Blood Drinkers’ base, kill everyone there so there aren’t any witnesses, download their files, and fly back out again.”

  “And?” Zzeldar asked from the doorway.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Can we get a little more detail?”

  “That’s pretty much it. We fly in, destroy everything, then fly out again.”

  Groans and expressions of disapproval filled the cabin.

  “Surely you had some sort of plan when you vouched for him, right?” Zzeldar asked, turning her body toward Breetar to indicate to whom she was speaking. “If this is some kind of joke to piss off the Tortantula, I remain unamused. I was promised wholesale slaughter, not getting killed in transit. How are we supposed to get past their planetary defenses?”

  Defenses? Nigel wondered how they expected him to know what the defenses would be. He could feel the tension in the air and see the combat veterans shaking their heads. As his eyes darted around the room, looking for assistance, he caught the look Mason gave Breetar. Based on Mason’s expression, Nigel had erred. Badly.

  “Well?” Zzeldar asked. Even through the translator, the alien sounded pissed.

  Nigel leaned forward into Mason’s line of sight and gave the mercenary commander a panicked look, silently begging for assistance.

  After a secon
d, Mason jumped and then nodded. “Okay,” he said; “it looks like the joke has gone on long enough. Want me to brief the plan like we discussed?”

  “Yes,” Nigel replied, trying not to show the relief he felt. “Please go ahead.”

  Mason stood and scanned the room, meeting everyone’s eyes in turn. “The biggest problem we have,” he said, “is getting on and off the planet. Generally, they don’t let foreigners onto Bestald, so we don’t know what planetary defenses they have. We can probably talk our way down to the planet; the hard part is going to be getting back up to space again.”

  “Bioweapons,” the Pendal said, his voice nothing more than a harsh whisper. Nigel realized with a shock it was the first time he had heard either of the Pendals speak. It was hard to see his mouth moving in the interior of the hood…but what he could see didn’t appear to be in synch with the way the mouth was moving.

  “What was that?” Mason asked.

  “Bioweapons,” the Pendal repeated in the same whisper. “If we claim a bioweapons accident, they will be very happy to get us off the planet.”

  “I don’t know if they’ll allow us to leave if there’s an accident,” Breetar disagreed. “Won’t they want us to stay there until blame is assigned, and all fines paid in full?”

  “Not if we have the accident on the way in,” the Pendal whispered. “I have an idea.”

  The alien spoke for another five minutes, then the meeting broke up, with everyone much happier than they had been a few minutes previously.

  “Thanks for the help,” Nigel said when only Mason remained. “I had no idea what Zzeldar expected me to do about the planetary defenses.”

  “Happy to help,” Mason said, “but most of the plan was the pilot’s.”

  “Yeah, but he might not have spoken up if you hadn’t said something first.”

  “Of course…but you did ask for help.”

  “What?”

  “You stopped talking for a second, and I distinctly heard you say, ‘Help.’”

  “Well, I certainly wanted and needed help, but I didn’t ask for it out loud.”

  “Huh, well, I don’t know. I’m pretty sure I heard you ask me for help.” He paused and then asked, “You’re not psychic or something, are you, sir?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.” Nigel shrugged. “So, do you think the plan will work?”

  “It depends on how paranoid the Besquith are.”

  “And how paranoid are they normally?”

  “As a race? Probably more than any other.”

  “Damn.”

  Cockpit, Besquith Ship Beheader, Approaching Bestald

  “How much longer?” Nigel asked, his eyes locked on the forward view screen. He had asked to watch the approach from the cockpit, and the Pendals had allowed him to sit in the jump seat at the back of the tiny compartment. Bestald’s planetscape filled the screen, the dark green band around the planet’s equator at the center.

  “Soon,” the copilot said without looking up from his instruments.

  This was worse than his first combat, Nigel decided. Their conquest of the Beheader had happened quickly; there was almost no delay from inception to assault. Here, though, he had been forced to endure two long days of waiting while the planet slowly grew in the viewer…days where he had questioned everything they were about to do and his readiness to lead the mission.

  Listening to his grandfather’s stories as a young teenager, assaults on the enemy seemed so exciting. Death was something that happened, but usually only to the enemy. Of course he knew people died—there were plenty of stories about Uncle Jimmy’s dropship failure, and the size of the crater it had made—but even that story was told from the perspective of how he had spectacularly accomplished the mission…not that he had perished doing it.

  Nigel had relinquished command for this part of the mission to Mason. If he didn’t know about something as basic as planetary defenses, what else didn’t he know? Nigel had decided to follow the company into the command building. He was also taping every aspect of the attack so he could replay it later and hopefully learn something that would make him a better commander.

  But that didn’t help now, nor did it make the time pass any more quickly.

  “Approach, this is the Beheader,” the copilot transmitted. The Pendal’s whispering voice sounded closer to normal on the radio. “We are beginning our initial approach.”

  “Understood, Beheader,” the approach controller confirmed. “You are cleared to proceed to the Alpha-32 landing area.”

  “Roger, we are proceeding to the Alpha-32 landing area.” Having found a schematic in the cockpit of the planet’s landing areas, the pilots knew where it was.

  “Alpha-32?” Nigel asked, his mind suddenly drawing a blank. “Is that the one we wanted?”

  “No, we asked for -17,” the pilot said. “-32 puts us several hundred miles away from where we want to be.”

  “So what are we going to do? What can we do?”

  “We have a backup plan,” the copilot said.

  “What is it?”

  “No time to discuss it,” the copilot replied, “and it would help us if you didn’t interrupt.” All four hands were a blur of motion, throwing levers, pushing buttons and inputting data into the ship’s system.

  “Um, okay,” Nigel said. He sat back in his seat and tried to relax. Taking a few deep breaths didn’t help; he found himself sitting at the edge of his seat again within moments.

  The ship continued its approach to the target, marked with a triangle on the view screen. They were now close enough for Nigel to see the bare area of the Blood Drinkers’ base, where it had been carved out of the jungle.

  “It’s time.” The copilot noted.

  “Agreed,” the pilot said. “Proceed.”

  The copilot’s hands stilled, and a single hand reached out to push a button on the right side of the control panel. Within seconds, a series of red lights illuminated on the instrument panel.

  “Mayday, mayday, mayday,” the copilot transmitted. “Beheader is declaring an emergency.”

  “State the nature of your emergency,” the approach controller replied.

  “Our engines are losing power, and we are unable to brake our descent. This is going to be messy.”

  “Messy?” Nigel asked from the jump seat in the back of the cockpit. “Is that some sort of aviation technical term?”

  “It means we’re going to crash,” the pilot replied, turning slightly to look at Nigel with one eye. “Now please be quiet, sir. With the motors throttled back this far, we really are in danger of crashing the ship, and we need to concentrate.” He turned back to his instruments and Nigel suppressed a shudder. He had no doubt that everything would work out if the Pendals were as good at piloting as they were at creeping him out.

  “Beheader, our system shows you impacting—I mean landing—near the Blood Drinkers’ base. Can you confirm?”

  “Roger, Approach, we’re hoping to put it down there. Our cargo is headed there, anyway. We have some…uh, special weapons for them.”

  “Beheader, please state the nature of the special weapons.”

  “Uh, I’m not sure what they are exactly. We’re carrying five large canisters that the suppliers treated very carefully.”

  “What’s in the canisters?”

  “They are unmarked, so I don’t know, but we were paid an awful lot of money to bring them here. If I were you, I’d evacuate the area surrounding the base; when we hit, it’s going to contaminate a large part of the surroundings.”

  “Beheader, your clearance to land has been revoked. I say again, do NOT land on the planet. Return to orbit and await further instructions.”

  “Return to orbit!” the copilot exclaimed, his voice louder than Nigel had heard before. “Haven’t you been listening? We don’t have enough power to land safely; how in the Great Rift do you expect us to abort?”

  There was a long pause before a new voice answered. “Beheader, this is General Al-Kar. Do wha
tever you must, but do NOT land on the planet. You are cleared to jettison any other cargo you have or take whatever action you deem prudent, but do not land on Bestald. Do you understand?”

  “We understand, General, and will do our best to comply.” The copilot reached out with a lower hand and pushed a button. Nigel caught movement and a flash of fire from one of the monitors.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  “We just lost the dropships,” the copilot replied.

  “What? I’m going to need them!”

  “You need them now more,” the pilot said. “It is necessary for us to survive this in order for you to need them later.”

  “Are they going to be recoverable?”

  “No,” the copilot said. “A missile system activated at the field, but it doesn’t exist anymore. Nor does the starport tower at the base. Their command and control just became a lot more challenging.”

  “But what am I going to do for dropships?”

  “You’ll have to figure something else—darn it!”

  The ship swayed alarmingly.

  “What’s going on?” Nigel asked, a note of fear in his voice.

  “The engines aren’t used to being used like this,” the copilot said. He switched to the ship’s intercom system. “Everyone strap in. This is going to be messy!”

  “Wait!” Nigel said, his voice bordering on a panicked scream. “You said messy was bad!”

  “It is, now shut up!”

  Nigel watched the pilots try to save the ship, alternately amazed and scared out of his mind. Their hands flew across the instrument panel, flipping switches and pushing levers as warning and caution lights illuminated across its length. The noise from one of the engines rose alarmingly in a high-pitch shriek and then went quiet, along with the illumination of five or six more red lights on the panel. The copilot made a noise that was somewhere between a whimper and a growl.