The Terminal War: A Space Opera Novel (A Carson Mach Adventure)

by A. C. Hadfield

  “Our ground defenses can handle raids at the current level,” Desolt said. “But if they grow, our manufacturing will decline, and we won’t be able to meet your latest orders. Our technology, which the Commonwealth covets so highly, requires many rare and difficult to source materials, the planets of which are under threat from the Axis.”

  “Pass me the coordinates, enemy strength and details of the raids, and I’ll personally deal with it,” Morgan said. It was easier to get the request out of the way and send an envoy to Vesta again to explain how things worked. While there, a strategy could be delegated, and he could turn his attentions to more important things.

  Ferban’s lips curled downward, a vestan version of a smile, and he manipulated his data-bracelet. “You’re a good partner, President. The information will be on your smart-screen presently.”

  Two seconds later, Morgan’s screen beeped. He glanced down at an encrypted message on the display and marked it for transfer to Captain Steros. The previous president’s son had been given a role within a small fleet to prove himself. It would be a good task for him. One that Morgan fully expected him to fail and thus give him the reason he wanted to shift him out to some distant patrol route on the far edges of the Sphere. “Expect the fleet to be in touch within the hour,” Morgan said. “And please, communicate with them as soon as anything like this happens again.”

  “Very well,” Desolt said. “Now, for the main reason we have come here. We have a mission that requires total secrecy—our very existence, and, therefore, the treaty is at stake.”

  Morgan leaned forward, his pulse notching up two extra beats—a sign of heightened excitement he hadn’t experienced for some time. “Please, do tell.”

  Both aliens shuffled their chairs around the conference table and sat to Morgan’s right. He instinctively reached for a pistol that wasn’t on his belt—a reflex from his experiences of previously fighting this species.

  “We require your best agent to complete a discreet mission,” Ferban said. “The details are highly classified.”

  “What kind of mission?”

  Desolt leaned close. Morgan detected an odor of burnt rubber. “We need to know that you understand the complete discretion required here.”

  Morgan sighed and shook his head. “What more do you want me to say? I understand. You either want my help, or you don’t. Now tell me, what kind of mission are we talking about?”

  “There’s a problem on Terminus, our world of remembrance. One of the Guardians is missing.”

  “I don’t see how this concerns the CW. It sounds like an internal matter,” Morgan said, wondering about this planet. There were no records of it in the inventory during the treaty negotiations. He was about to make that point when Desolt continued.

  “The location is a closely guarded secret, even from vestans. Only the Guardians and the dead are permitted.”

  “If you have resources already there, why do you need us?”

  Desolt let out a low croak. “We can’t risk losing another one of the Guardians. They live a thousand of your lifespans and are irreplaceable.”

  “Our greatest minds are at stake,” Ferban added with a hint of panic. “A modern vestan memory would corrupt them. A threat on the planet may destroy them. We need a race that are unable to communicate telepathically to resolve this crisis.”

  “If the Guardians are your greatest minds, why aren’t they better protected?”

  “The secrecy of the location is our best defense,” Desolt said. “But you don’t understand. Our wisdom and the high-level council does not come from the Guardians. It comes from the Saviors of our race who are already dead.”

  Morgan shook his head. “How is that even possible?”

  “We cannot possibly explain that. Any deceased vestan who isn’t damaged by battle or accident is sent to Terminus and stored this way. Let’s not get distracted by detail. Can you help us?”

  Although the vestan race was small in numbers, the thought of a majority of them still being able to communicate beyond the grave blew Morgan’s mind. He wondered if that technology could be of use in the CWDF. For centuries, scientists on Fides Prime had tried to perfect reliable telepathic communications with no result.

  “This isn’t part of our treaty,” Morgan said, playing the role of a politician for a change. “Terminus isn’t named in the extended frontier for protection.”

  “We have an offer that may interest the Commonwealth, and you personally,” Ferban said.

  Morgan turned to him and arched an eyebrow. “Me personally?”

  “Our war records show the destroyer you commanded during the Century War ruined two of our hospitals. This information would be potentially damaging if it were made public, would it not?”

  “After we had become allies I cross-checked your report,” Desolt said. “You claimed the strike destroyed a weapons factory.”

  Anger flared inside Morgan. He stood suddenly and clenched his fists. “Are you trying to blackmail me?”

  “No. We are simply saying that if you send your best resources to help on Terminus, we will amend our records to match your claim—and then there’s the added offer,” Ferban said. “We have certain advanced technology that we’ve recently developed based on theories of those very minds that are in danger. Help us maintain our link to the minds, and we will share this technology willingly.”

  Morgan crooked an eyebrow. “What kind of technology are you talking about?”

  The two vestans did their creepy slow blink in unison. Desolt said, “You have within your possession one of our concept ships. It uses fusion crystals for faster than normal light jumps… the new technology will make L-jumps resemble the horses and carts your kind used to use not so many hundred years ago.”

  Now Morgan was interested.

  Travel speed had always been the biggest issue with securing the Salus Sphere. Their destroyers had to be strategically placed around the Sphere so they could plug any gaps as needed. If they had the technology to move quicker, they could more easily centralize their forces and react in stronger numbers.

  “I’m interested,” Morgan said, half out of eagerness for the tech and half out of necessity to keep his secret under wraps, although he knew they would likely use this against him in the future. That was fine for now, he thought. He could deal with that another time.

  Desolt inched closer, dropping his voice to a husky croak. “The only problem is that this mission is a one-way trip. We can’t risk the location of Terminus getting out. We need your best resources for this—with the knowledge they won’t be coming back.”

  Morgan took a deep breath and quickly played things through his mind. He remembered the strike on the hospital—it was an honest mistake. The serving admiral had swept it under the carpet, as they were at a crucial point of the war. If the information came out now, it would certainly lead to political turmoil in the Sphere, of which the horans and lacterns were sure to take advantage. Once again they were at a crucial point in the Sphere’s safety.

  One man and his crew immediately sprang to Morgan’s mind: freelance experts in carrying out one-way missions—and surviving, despite the odds. A team led by a rogue mercenary known as Bleach for his ability to clean things up.

  This was a job for Carson Mach.

  “I think we have an agreement,” Morgan said.

  *

  Ferban and Desolt hobbled back toward their shuttle. Morgan agreed to their request but vowed to one take responsibility for his action during the war, regardless if they amended their records.

  That day would come once the Sphere was finally safe from Axis aggression.

  Desolt turned and raised a spindly black hand. Morgan returned a glare. The vestans were more cunning than he had expected. He wouldn’t forget this lesson, especially when it came to future negotiations.

  Both vestans climbed the ramp back into their shuttle. Its engines blew hot air across the landing zone. A red transport pod whined around the side of the strip
and stopped in front of the administration building.

  Commander Tralis, an old friend and former fighter pilot, and his second in command, Captain Steros, clambered out in their olive coveralls. Both placed berets on their heads and offered stiff salutes.

  “You wanted to see me, President?” Tralis said.

  “At ease, Commander,” Morgan said. “How long ’til your fleet’s ready for space?”

  Tralis rubbed his gray stubble and glanced back across the landing zone toward the distant hangars. “Tomorrow morning. I’m guessing this is to do with that vestan’s visit?”

  “You guessed right. A small raiding Axis force is hitting their outer planets. I’ll clear it with the admiral if you’re interested?”

  “Kicking Axis ass? You bet I am. Send over the data. I’ll start making plans.”

  Morgan smiled at the expected response. “I thought this might be your kind of thing. Do you want a quick drink tonight for old times’ sake?”

  “Sure. I’ll swing by at eight?”

  Throughout the conversation, Steros glared at Morgan. The young captain always showed outward animosity toward him. His father was the former president, and Morgan had been instrumental in his overthrow, for the good of the Salus Sphere. It was understandable to a certain extent, but Steros junior’s pass had expired and open signs of insubordination could no longer be tolerated.

  “Do you have a problem, Captain?” Morgan asked.

  “No, President,” Steros replied, placing emphasis on the title.

  “Listen, son, I’m sorry about your father, but we all need to move on. It’s a dangerous galaxy out there, and we all need to be working together.”

  Steros narrowed his eyes. “I’m not your son, President.”

  Tralis gave Morgan a knowing nod and grabbed Steros by the arm. “This way, Captain. We need to have words.”

  Both members of the Western Fleet returned to the transport pod. Morgan headed for his office, feeling confident the threat around the vestan planets was under control.

  Tralis would keep Captain Steros in line. He was only a minor distraction compared to the next piece of business on the agenda: recruiting Mach for the mission to Terminus.

  He would have to lie to his old friend, of course, but Mach would understand—if he survived. Morgan had no other choice. Mach would see that.

  Chapter Three

  The lactern wrestler wrapped his muscular black arm around the horan’s head and ripped it off with a single, brutal yank.

  Mach grinned at Beringer’s expression. The archeologist sat opposite him and focussed on at the fighting cage with a mix of horror and disbelief. The pounding beat of the fight music thrummed throughout the dingy downtown club situated in a little-known alley. If Fides Prime security got wind of it, and of all those that dwelled here, Mach had no doubt they’d just nuke the whole place with everyone inside.

  “How can you drink that stuff?” Beringer said.

  Mach slammed another shot of the toxic concoction known as Death’s Whisper on account of its quiet approach. One minute you’d be enjoying the sweet, warming taste as though it were a cough mixture, then bang, you’re tripping balls, not knowing how to work your limbs and having the time of your life for it.

  After so many hard missions, Mach needed to cut loose.

  “Drink up,” Mach said to Beringer. The latter hadn’t touched his Whisper. He sat there, back straight, his hands in his lap, like a kid at church.

  “I’d rather we just conclude my proposition,” Beringer said. He glanced a nervous eye across the bar: exactly what Mach had told him not to do. He was so out of place that if he accidentally made eye contact with the wrong person, he’d not be able to walk out of the place of his own volition.

  “Dude,” Mach said, slamming his glass down on the table and waving a hand in the air to summon one of the many semi-naked bartenders who slithered between the tables like greased snakes. “Drink your damned drink and stop staring around the place. You’re gonna get us both messed up. Besides, relax! We’ve got good booze, great entertainment, and Adira’s fighting in the main event. What a privilege you’re getting.”

  The gray-haired archeologist slumped forward to the table, resting his elbows on the edge. It was better, but he still looked so out of place, which was part of Mach’s plan—to an extent. Risky, but it would pay off if Beringer didn’t get stabbed in the kidneys before he had a chance to put the bet on.

  “Okay,” Mach said, leaning forward. “Tell me more about your job.”

  A leather-clad human barwoman approached and placed two more glasses of Whisper in front of the two men. She smiled. Her metal-tipped fangs reflected the neon light of the dingy bar.

  Damn, Mach thought, they looked great—expensive too.

  It was a good sign. Despite the dark, underworld atmosphere, there was an epic weight of loot swimming about.

  The woman ran a hand over Mach’s head, the sharp, poisoned-tipped nails gently scratching his scalp—a little reminder to tip well.

  “No fear, my sweetheart,” Mach said to the woman. “By the end of the night, you’ll get the biggest tip you’ve ever seen.”

  “Why thank you kindly, Bleach,” she drawled with a southern Fides Prime accent. “That would be a wise decision on your part.”

  She spun on her stiletto heel and slithered between more tables, catching the glances of everyone as she went, including the kingpin of the establishment and one of the biggest criminal enterprises in the whole of the Sphere: Gracious Sinju.

  It would be generous to call him a man: the beast had two extra prosthetic arms under his original pair, powered by a vestan exoskeleton. Both of his eyes had been swapped out for IR units, and he had a murder rap sheet that would put the military of a small empire to shame. His head was completely bald and capped with a plate made from Summanun jet: one of the hardest substances known in the Sphere and more expensive than most precious metals.

  Gracious, however, he was not. The grizzled old bastard seemed to enjoy the irony of being anything but. He caught Mach’s gaze and inclined his head a few millimeters. One would be mistaken to think this was a greeting or recognition of respect. It was no such gesture; it was Gracious saying: “I see you, motherfucker.”

  Mach just grinned and saluted him with two fingers before turning back to his table.

  Beringer’s hand shook as he picked up his glass of Whisper. He sipped at it, like a nervous bird.

  “That’s him, isn’t it?” Beringer said, keeping his eyes down.

  “Yup.”

  “I can’t believe we’re going to do this.”

  “We? You’re the one who wants the money for your little expedition.”

  “Only because you’re demanding so damned much.”

  Behind them, another two fighters were going hell for leather inside the cage. They were fighting a bare-knuckle fight to the death, and the two human men took that quite seriously. The crowd bayed and roared with each direct hit and spurt of blood.

  Mach leaned closer into Beringer and grabbed his wrist. “Tell me,” Mach said. “How badly do you want to go to this shitty little planet to get this artifact of yours?”

  The archeologist tried to pull away.

  Mach held firm.

  Beringer slammed his other hand down on the table. “As badly as I’ve ever wanted anything, damn it! You don’t understand the significance of this find. I have to have it; it could change our perception of the Sphere and those that inhabited it before us. Don’t you understand how important that is?”

  Mach let go and smiled. “That’s all I wanted to know. My crew and ship don’t come cheap.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I? I don’t understand why it has to be so expensive. It’s just a routine task.”

  Mach leaned back in his chair and sunk the rest of the Whisper. “It’s not just the danger of going to some unknown rim world beyond the noncombat zone; it’s the opportunity cost. If I take your job, we’ll be gone for two weeks. I could ea
rn more money than you have in a few days. I’m sorry, Beringer, but I ain’t in this game for anything other than cold hard cash. So if you want us to ferry you out there, you need to pay up, and that means…”

  “I know,” he said, staring down at his half-empty shot glass. “I just think it’s unnecessarily dangerous.”

  The crowd roared as one of the human combatants stood over a bloody pulp of an opponent, his hands raised in victory. Two bodyguards entered the steel cage and escorted the man out. He could barely walk.

  A group of cleaning droids dragged away the body of the loser and then dashed back inside to clean the blood and assorted fluids from the fighting arena.

  Mach could see Beringer trying not to look at Gracious.

  “Just drink,” Mach said. “Keep your eyes on the cage. Did you bring the stake money?”

  Beringer tapped his wrist-mounted smart-screen. “Twenty thousand eros. It’s everything I have. If anything goes wrong, this will ruin me. You understand that, right?”

  “Sure, but the thing is, it’s not just my fee you’re covering, you’re also getting one helluva favor from Adira, and she will insist on collecting the favor at some point.”

  “I know this too,” Beringer said, resignation drawing his words out with a sigh. “I have no other option. I can’t go through official channels; they’d just lock the artifact away, hiding the truth. And no other freelancer has the skill or a ship like yours.”

  Mach checked the time on the large display above the cage. They still had another ten Standard Salus minutes to go before Adira’s headlining fight. Her opponent hadn’t yet been announced.

  That, however, shouldn’t be a problem. Adira was out in the back room preparing with her usual deathly still meditation. Mach had offered to sit with her, but she gave him the eyes. And one does not simply defy the eyes.