by Mark Wandrey
“I want to know if you are who I described?”
“Grange, Pearl, USCG, 332339981.”
He grunted. “Good, now tell me what you were doing in the Columbia River a week ago.”
“A week?” her voice croaked. “It’s been week? What about my crew?”
“Answer the question, LTJG.”
Grange’s mind was still buzzing, but more of her memory was returning. The fight at the lighthouse. The trip up river. The attack by the gunships, and the missile exploding. Shock, shattering glass, screaming men and women, then fire and agony. So much agony. Then she felt the slap of water, and darkness followed. Until now.
“Where…is…my…crew?” She spoke slowly and deliberately, as if she was talking to a child.
“What were you doing in the Columbia River? Who’s orders were you following? Who’s in command of this flotilla?” She felt herself slipping into darkness, her vision like a tunnel.
“Go to hell,” she said, the last word a whisper.
Michael sighed, looking from the unconscious form to the life signs monitor. Her pulse was elevated but slowing. She’d survived the brief questioning, but the stimulants the good doctor had administered had worn off. He walked to the door and pulled it open. The doctor spun on him, eyes wide in surprise. “Your patient is still alive,” he said. The doctor gave a little nod. “I want her healed.”
“I’ll take that as your authorization for the supplies?”
“You’ll have it.” He walked out and turned down the hall.
“What then?” the doctor asked. “I said, what then?” he yelled after Michael’s retreating back.
Michael passed through three security doors, all guarded, then down an elevator, getting off at the bottom floor. Two guards waited there. Both checked his identification, despite that fact that nobody on the ship would fail to identify him. Cleared, he walked down the short corridor, turning at the biohazard sign, and into a room. The space was filled from top to bottom with computers and monitors.
“Good afternoon, Michael,” the only person in the room, a woman, said. She had three large screens arrayed in from of her covered in strange symbols. She was quite old, with waist-length hair gone completely white held in a single tie at the back of her head. Despite her advanced age, her eyes were bright blue and spoke of extreme intelligence. Like everyone on the ship, she wore a simple blue coverall, however, like only a few, hers had a seven-sided symbol with a stylized double helix in the center.
“How are you proceeding, Jophiel?”
“Slowly,” she said, shaking her head. “Oh so slowly.”
“Let me see it,” he said, and pointed to the only wall not covered in monitors or computer hardware. Jophiel shrugged and touched a control. The wall became a window. On the other side was a cell the same size as the observation room. Its sole occupant reclined in a small self-supporting hammock in one corner, apparently asleep. As if it knew the wall had been made transparent, tiny black eyes popped open. The pointy snouted head turned slightly to look at him.
“How do we know it can’t understand us?” Michael asked.
“Because aliens only understand English in bad science fiction films. I’m a linguist; it isn’t easy to fool me. She’s had numerous opportunities to respond in a way that would benefit her or give away some truths. Never once.”
“Why do the egg heads always think aliens aren’t smart enough to fool them?” Michael responded. He regarded the alien through the thick plexiglass. The bioseal was perfect, or at least as perfect as mankind was capable of manufacturing. “Why should we trust it?”
“Her.”
“Huh?”
“Her,” Jophiel said and gestured to the alien apparently watching them through the carefully mirrored window. “She is a female.”
“Well,” Michael said, “we’re running out of time and need answers.” The alien hopped gracefully from the hammock and padded to the window. With its stooped posture, reversed knees, reddish snout, and bushy tail, it really did look like a terrestrial fox. It was half his size and looked up to his face. It really must have been able to see though the glass. “The rest of the Septagon will be here in a few hours, and then we’ll have to decide what to do about this flotilla. If LTJG Grange doesn’t give us answers, we’ll have to find them somewhere else.”
On the other side of the glass, the alien fox stared. The two regarded each other, calculating, and considered what to do next.
* * * * *
Find out more about Mark Wandrey and “The Revelations Cycle” at:
http://chriskennedypublishing.com/imprints-authors/mark-wandrey/
The following is an
Excerpt from Book One of the Revelations Cycle:
Cartwright’s Cavaliers
___________________
Mark Wandrey
Now Available from Seventh Seal Press
eBook, Paperback, and Audio
Excerpt from “Cartwright’s Cavaliers:”
The last two operational tanks were trapped on their chosen path. Faced with destroyed vehicles front and back, they cut sideways to the edge of the dry river bed they’d been moving along and found several large boulders to maneuver around that allowed them to present a hull-down defensive position. Their troopers rallied on that position. It was starting to look like they’d dig in when Phoenix 1 screamed over and strafed them with dual streams of railgun rounds. A split second later, Phoenix 2 followed on a parallel path. Jim was just cheering the air attack when he saw it. The sixth damned tank, and it was a heavy.
“I got that last tank,” Jim said over the command net.
“Observe and stand by,” Murdock said.
“We’ll have these in hand shortly,” Buddha agreed, his transmission interspersed with the thudding of his CASPer firing its magnet accelerator. “We can be there in a few minutes.”
Jim examined his battlespace. The tank was massive. It had to be one of the fusion-powered beasts he’d read about. Which meant shields and energy weapons. It was heading down the same gap the APC had taken, so it was heading right towards that APC and Second Squad, and fast.
“Shit,” he said.
“Jim,” Hargrave said, “we’re in position. What are you doing?”
“Leading,” Jim said as he jumped out from the rock wall.
* * * * *
Get “Cartwright’s Cavaliers” now at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MRZKM95/.
Find out more about Mark Wandrey and “Cartwright’s Cavaliers” at: http://chriskennedypublishing.com/imprints-authors/mark-wandrey/.
The following is an
Excerpt from Book One of the Kin Wars Saga:
Wraithkin
___________________
Jason Cordova
Available Now from Theogony Books
eBook, Paperback, and Audio Book
Excerpt from “Wraithkin:”
Prologue
The lifeless body of his fellow agent on the bed confirmed the undercover operation was thoroughly busted.
“Crap,” Agent Andrew Espinoza, Dominion Intelligence Bureau, said as he stepped fully into the dimly lit room and carefully made his way to the filthy bed in which his fellow agent lay. He turned away from the ruined body of his friend and scanned the room for any sign of danger. Seeing none, he quickly walked back out of the room to where the slaves he had rescued earlier were waiting.
“Okay, let’s keep quiet now,” he reminded them. “I’ll go first, and you follow me. I don’t think there are any more slavers in the warehouse. Understand?”
They all nodded. He offered them a smile of confidence, though he had lied. He knew there was one more slaver in the warehouse, hiding near the side exit they were about to use. He had a plan to deal with that person, however. First he had to get the slaves to safety.
He led the way, his pistol up and ready as he guided the women through the dank and musty halls of the old, rundown building. It had been abandoned years before, and the slaver ring had man
aged to get it for a song. In fact, they had even qualified for a tax-exempt purchase due to the condition of the neighborhood around it. The local constable had wanted the property sold, and the slaver ring had stepped in and offered him a cut if he gave it to them. The constable had readily agreed, and the slavers had turned the warehouse into the processing plant for the sex slaves they sold throughout the Dominion. Andrew knew all this because he had been the one to help set up the purchase in the first place.
Now, though, he wished he had chosen another locale.
He stopped the following slaves as he came to the opening which led into one of the warehouse’s spacious storage areas. Beyond that lay their final destination, and he was dreading the confrontation with the last slaver. He checked his gun and grunted in surprise as he saw he had two fewer rounds left than he had thought. He shook his head and charged the pistol.
“Stay here and wait for my signal,” he told the rescued slaves. They nodded in unison.
He took a deep, calming breath. No matter what happened, he had to get the slaves to safety. He owed them that much. His sworn duty was to protect the Dominion from people like the slavers, and someone along the way had failed these poor women. He exhaled slowly, crossed himself and prayed to God, the Emperor and any other person who might have been paying attention.
He charged into the room, his footsteps loud on the concrete flooring. He had his gun up as he ducked behind a small, empty crate. He peeked over the top and snarled; he had been hoping against hope the slaver was facing the other direction.
Apparently Murphy is still a stronger presence in my life than God, he thought as he locked eyes with the last slaver. The woman’s eyes widened in recognition and shock, and he knew he would only have one chance before she killed them all.
He dove to the right of the crate and rolled, letting his momentum drag him out of the slaver’s immediate line of fire. He struggled to his feet as her gun swung up and began to track him, but he was already moving, sprinting back to the left while closing in on her. She fired twice, both shots ricocheting off the floor and embedding themselves in the wall behind him.
Andrew skid to a stop and took careful aim. It was a race, the slaver bringing her gun around as his own came to bear upon her. The muzzles of both guns flashed simultaneously, and Andrew grunted as pain flared in his shoulder.
A second shot punched him in the gut and he fell, shocked the woman had managed to get him. He lifted his head and saw that while he had hit her, her wound wasn’t nearly as bad as his. He had merely clipped her collarbone and, while it would smart, it was in no way fatal. She took aim on him and smiled coldly.
Andrew swiftly brought his gun up with his working arm and fired one final time. The round struck true, burrowing itself right between the slaver’s eyes. She fell backwards and lay still, dead. He groaned and dropped the gun, pain blossoming in his stomach. He rolled onto his back and stared at the old warehouse’s ceiling.
That sucked, he groused. He closed his eyes and let out a long, painful breath.
* * * * *
Get “Wraithkin” now at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01N0RGYZS.
Find out more about Jason Cordova and “Wraithkin” at:
http://chriskennedypublishing.com/imprints-authors/jason-cordova/
