Edge of the Abyss: A Space Opera Novella (Max Mars Book 4)

by Tripp Ellis

  Max Mars

  Edge of the Abyss

  Tripp Ellis

  Tripp Ellis

  Copyright © 2017 by Tripp Ellis

  All rights reserved. Worldwide.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents, except for incidental references to public figures, products, or services, are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental, and not intended to refer to any living person or to disparage any company’s products or services.

  No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, uploaded, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter devised, without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Thank You!

  Max Mars

  The Galactic Wars Series

  The Tarvaax War Series

  Connect With Me

  Prologue

  Max Mars is a genetically engineered super soldier. Part of the disbanded project SW Ultra. Enhanced speed, strength, and healing ability, are all part of her unique qualities. She can transform her hair and eye color on command, and shift her fingerprints to match anyone she samples. She hates injustice, and searches the galaxy looking for the ruthless Silas Rage—another former member of SW Ultra who is responsible for the death of her creator, and spiritual father, Doctor Tor. But her enhanced genetics come with a price—limited lifespan. No one knows how long she’ll live, but she’s determined to make the most of every second.

  1

  It was imperative that Max get to Hyperion 9 as soon as possible. Lives depended on it. She was barreling through slide-space in a Vantage VXR-10. It was a military style dropship with a cargo area that could hold up to 20 troops. But Max wasn’t hauling a platoon of troops.

  The Vantage had composite armor plating, SX-7 plasma cannons mounted under sub-wing pylons, and a compliment of Hell-Fury II rockets. Powered by 4 Hughes & Kessler engines, it was fast, nimble, and tough as nails. It was well worn, and had the smell of metal, grease, and canvas webbing. The exterior hull was pocked and scarred from years of battle. The surplus ship had changed hands at least a dozen times over the years, and Max was its proud new owner. She had won it fair and square in a poker game, which didn't sit well with its former owner.

  Max’s crystal blue eyes surveyed the orange glow of the control cluster. Another 4 hours to Hyperion 9. Her brunette hair shimmered in the starlight. Of course, the color of her hair was always subject to change. Her enhanced genetics made changing her hair and eye color as easy as changing dresses. It wasn’t just a fashion accessory—it came in handy during special ops. The ability to sample a fingerprint, or alter a retinal pattern, made bypassing biometric security systems easier. Max was a finely engineered weapon of mass destruction. But her military days were behind her. Now she was living off her meager pension and scratching out a living whichever way she could. But her journey to Hyperion 9 wasn't about money—it was about something much more important.

  Felix, a blue haired Antarian cat lounged on the dash. He looked like a lazy emperor. All he needed were concubines feeding him grapes. His green eyes sparkled, and his plush blue fur was majestic. He was truly the master of all he surveyed.

  Hyperion 9 had been hit with a devastating disaster. A CME (coronal mass ejection) from Polava Major unleashed an EMP that had obliterated most of the unshielded electronics on Vega Naku 6. The aurora created in the sky was particularly beautiful, but the effects on the planet were catastrophic. Infrastructure ground to a halt. Communication was non-existent. Food and water became scarce. Chaos ensued as the social order broke down. Bands of roving marauders were taking resources by force. The Planetary Guard had been called in to secure the area, but they were outnumbered, and in some cases, outgunned. There was a lingering debate on whether or not all of these effects resulted from the CME. Conspiracy theories swirled that insurgent terrorists had detonated an EMP blast to coincide with the CME, attempting to cover their tracks. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility. Domestic terror organizations had been growing. Federation ships were commonly hijacked. Government buildings had been targeted for destruction. There were those that wished to overthrow the Federation government and install their own. And it was speculated that many of these terrorists had infiltrated high levels of government. It was hard to tell if there was merit to any of these theories, or if they were just nonsensical ramblings from fringe groups and kooky wackos.

  Max couldn't just sit by and watch the suffering on Vega Naku 6. She wasn't going to be able to do much on her own, but if she could help a few people, that was better than nothing. She was bringing water, packaged food, and medical supplies—the Vantage was packed to the brim.

  Everything was moving along according to plan—until the controls flickered, and the engines stuttered. Max felt the nauseating sensation of exiting slide-space as the quantum field generator failed. It felt like her stomach was twisted and pulled in all directions—an unfortunate side effect of quantum jumps. It only lasted a few seconds. You got used to it, but every now and then it could make you revisit lunch.

  Felix screeched and leapt off the dash in search of surer footing.

  An uncontrolled slide-space exit could have dire consequences. Any number of things could go wrong, resulting in a catastrophic event. But Max and her crew weren't dead yet, so that was a good sign.

  The control terminal went dark. The engines stopped. An eerie silence fell over the Vantage as it drifted through the inky blackness of space.

  A concerned look washed over Max's face. "What happened?"

  "It appears we've had a power failure," Winston said.

  Max shot the robot a sideways glance. "Ya think?”

  "Yes. I do think.” He pondered this for a moment. “At least, I think I think. A complex series of calculations in my neural processor qualifies as thought, doesn’t it?” He was desperately hoping it did.

  Max rolled her eyes at the verbose android.

  Winston was neurotic, but endearing. He was a sleek XR-709 service bot. He stood 5’10” tall, with composite plastic body panels over an alloy skeleton. Designed by the famed sports car designer Zapharini, Winston was the culmination of years of refinement. Precision crafted gears, servos, and joints allowed Winston to have smooth and fluid movement. A composite smart-polymer allowed him to form expressions on his face plate. He was state-of-the-art, and one of the more expensive models. But a few nicks and scratches had put him in the clearance bin, allowing his original owner to purchase him at a discount. Winston, however, never thought of himself as a clearance item.

  “What caused us to lose power?” Max asked.


  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, maybe you should look into it.”

  “Excellent idea.” But without power to the ship there was no way to run diagnostics. Winston looked befuddled. "Just a point of observation. The lack of power means the ship’s environmental system is not working. It's not a problem for me, of course. But for you, it is something to consider. My calculations estimate 11.5 days of breathable atmosphere.”

  "I don't plan on drifting through space for 11.5 days."

  "I don't think either one of us planned on losing power.” Winston shrugged.

  Without an environmental system, Max would freeze to death in the deep abyss of space long before she ran out of oxygen.

  A metallic sound clamored through the hull, like something had latched onto the ship. It made Max’s heart skip a beat. Her eyes darted about the hull as she listened. She knew the sound all too well—they were about to be boarded.

  Her first thought was that the ship had been snared in a trap by pirates or marauders. It wasn't uncommon for thieves to set ambushes on commonly trafficked shipping channels. A quantum disruptor could knock a ship out of slide-space. An electromagnetic pulse could fry the electronics. But Max wasn't traveling on a common shipping route. She liked to stay off the beaten path whenever possible. She always varied her routine. She knew how to make herself a difficult target. Old habits die hard.

  Max reached down and unholstered her Bösch-Hauer P277. It was an old school .45 caliber pistol that fired real bullets—not ionized plasma projectiles. It had a kick, and went bang, and left the delightful smell of gunpowder in the air. It was a hefty weapon and felt good in the hand. With each pull of the trigger, one felt a sense of accomplishment. There was no mistaking it when it went off. Sure, it had its drawbacks. Fire it enough times and your wrist would be sore the next day. Plasma projectiles ultimately did more damage. Plasma magazines held more rounds. And in a pinch, the charge mechanism of a plasma weapon could be set to overload, causing the weapon to explode. But Max preferred her P277.

  She press-checked the weapon, confirming there was a round in the chamber. She unlatched her safety harness, climbed out of the pilot seat, and moved toward the back hatch. She took aim, waiting to blast large holes into anyone who attempted to enter.

  2

  “I’d put the weapon down, if I were you," Finko said.

  Max's blue eyes stared down the barrel, her sights square on Finko’s ugly head. He was a troll-ish man with carrot red hair and boils on his face. He looked greasy, like he hadn't showered in weeks. And he had a smell to match. It was hard to tell where his double chin ended and his torso began. His portly figure was clad in armor. In contrast, he had sky-blue innocent eyes—almost childlike.

  Max was outnumbered. Angry barrels of plasma rifles surrounded her—Finko’s goons ready to incinerate her at the slightest provocation. There were six of them. Max's eyes flicked to each one as she contemplated her options. The Vantage had been retracted by a magnetic arm into the bay of a much larger ship. Max stood in the cargo bay of the Vantage with the rear hatch open, peering at her captors. The Vantage was tiny compared to the cavernous bay that contained it.

  “I suggest you comply with his demands,” Winston whispered in Max's ear. The robot didn't like confrontations.

  Max grimaced. She reluctantly let the pistol go slack. It spun upside down, the trigger-guard dangling from her finger. She kept her hands in the air as she marched down the ramp. One of Finko’s goons snatched the pistol from her as she hit the deck.

  “What do you want?" Max asked, standing toe-to-toe with the troll.

  “I want my ship back,” Finko said.

  “It's not your ship anymore. That's how losing works."

  “Yes, but I don't like to lose.”

  “You should be used to it by now. With a face like that, you lost at birth."

  There were snickers all around.

  Finko’s eyes darted to the laughter, and his men fell silent. His gaze turned back to Max. He snarled. The veins in his forehead bulged. The boils on his face seemed to ooze puss from the strain. He looked like he was about to explode, but he tried to contain himself.

  Finko took a deep breath. "Because I am kind and generous, I'm going to take my ship and let you and your companion go about your way.”

  Max scowled at him. “I'll make you a deal.”

  “You are in no position to bargain.”

  “Let me take the cargo to Hyperion, then the ship is yours. Fair enough?"

  “If I let you go, then I’ll have to track you down again. And I might not be so lucky next time.” Finko held up a remote device. “Now that you know I can cut the ship’s engines by remote, I'm sure you’ll look for, and deactivate, the anti-theft device.”

  “You have my word. People need the supplies on Hyperion.”

  “I couldn’t give two shits about the people on Hyperion. Besides, think of the cargo as a surcharge. A pain in the ass tax.”

  “Let me get this straight… I win that ship fair and square, you track me down and steal it back from me, and I'm the pain in the ass?” Max looked incredulous.

  “Yeah. Pretty much.”

  Ugh. Finko was infuriating.

  Felix hissed at the ogre.

  Finko gave the kitty the evil eye.

  Winston scooped Felix off the deck, cradling him in his arms. It wouldn’t be uncharacteristic of Felix to claw at the troll. That could end badly for everyone involved. Felix definitely had a mind of his own. It was said that Antarian cats were telepathic, but Max had never directly communicated with the kitty. At least, she didn't think so. But who could be sure that an idea that popped into your head wasn't planted there by a domineering cat? Max scratched Felix’s chin whenever he wanted, and was generally at his beck and call. Perhaps all cats are telepathic, exerting control over their humans?

  “Escort our guests to the exit," Finko said with a diabolical grin.

  Max clenched her jaw, furious. “You said you were going to let us go.”

  “And I am… I'm going to let you go in space."

  One of the goons shoved Max forward and jammed the barrel of his weapon between her shoulder blades. The squad of goons marched them out of the main bay, through a maze of dingy corridors.

  Winston looked like he was about to have a nervous breakdown. "They're not really going to shove us out of the airlock, are they?"

  “I’m afraid so,” Max replied.

  “That’s absolutely dreadful. I'll float through the cosmos for all eternity. Or, at least, until my power supply runs out. The isolation. The loneliness. The boredom,” he wailed.

  Max rolled her eyes. “Glad you are so concerned for my well-being."

  “I am heartbroken. The thought of your impending demise makes me shiver with dread. But at least the end will be quick for you. The lack of atmospheric pressure will cause gas bubbles to form in your bloodstream. Your lungs will rupture from expansion. You’ll freeze to death long before the cosmic radiation has a chance to affect you.”

  “Thanks for painting such a clear picture. I'm looking forward to it already.” Her tone was dry and thick with sarcasm.

  “Shut up,” one of the goons barked. He used the barrel of his weapon to shove Max forward again. It was a mistake.

  3

  Max turned aside, removing herself from in front of the barrel that was jabbed into her back. She spun around, grabbing the barrel jacket. With her other hand, she grabbed the butt stock, stripping the weapon, flipping it upside down. She squeezed off two plasma bolts that tore through the thug’s torso. He flopped to the deck, the holes in his chest sizzling. Smoke wafted from the charred flesh.

  Max unleashed a flurry of weapons fire down the corridor as she stepped aside. She planted her shoulder into a button on the bulkhead that triggered the hatch to slam shut. Metal clamored as the hatch sealed off this section of the passageway, separating Max from the goons. Everything happened in a split second. A brilliant exchange of plasma bo
lts, sparks, and smoke filled the hallway. Max moved with blistering speed. Years of special ops training manifesting itself in swift and precise action.

  Max flipped the weapon right-side up and took aim, knowing it was only a matter of time before the goons reopened the hatch. She ducked into a recessed area against the bulkhead, taking cover behind a support brace.

  Winston didn't know what the hell to do. His eyes were wide, and panic filled his plastic face.

  The hatch slid open again.

  Blistering bolts of plasma whizzed down the passageway, streaking past the skittish robot. He turned around and shielded Felix from the onslaught.

  The sharp smell of plasma ions filled the air.

  Max unleashed a furious display of firepower. She moved the reticle of her sights from target to target with speed and accuracy, putting holes in skulls. Pink-grey goo splattered the bulkheads. Within a matter of seconds, she had dropped the four remaining goons. Their carcasses lay on the deck, smoldering. Their burned flesh sounded like bacon sizzling in a pan. It gave off a putrid stench that, though unpleasant, smelled like victory.

  “Is it over?” Winston asked, still huddled in the middle of the corridor.

  “Yes, it’s over.”

  “Oh, thank heavens!”

  Max pushed down the hallway with her weapon in the firing position. She stepped over the fallen bodies.