The Elderon Chronicles Box Set

by Tarah Benner

  I’m also fighting back against the rapid concentration of wealth and power among a few corporate monoliths. I am making an effort to support local businesses — and the humans who work there — whenever I can. You can do your part by supporting this human (me) in my creative endeavors.

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  Colony War

  Book Two in the Elderon Chronicles

  To my Patreon readers, who took a chance on something new.

  I am so grateful for your support.

  1

  Jonah

  Blood gushes through my fingers like melted butter. It soaks through the wad of blue fabric pressed deep into the gaping wound.

  Callaghan’s body is still beneath my hands. His face is damp, chalky, and pale. His eyes are still slightly open, but there’s no fight left in them. Callaghan has surrendered.

  “We have a problem,” says Maggie.

  She’s kneeling over the hostess’s body — the bot that’s been passing for a human.

  Callaghan must have smashed her head with the edge of the heavy frame he ripped off the wall. She — it — didn’t shed a single drop of blood. All that’s left is a corpse of silicone, plastic, and copper.

  Its eyes look like Callaghan’s — cold and lifeless. There’s not the faintest glimmer of a person left in those eyes, but Callaghan is dead. There’s a difference.

  We could leave the bot here until every human died. It wouldn’t change. It wouldn’t decay.

  Callaghan doesn’t have that luxury. His body is made of flesh and bone. Someone’s going to notice he’s dead.

  “Close the door,” I say to Ping. My voice is different — rough and hoarse.

  He does as he’s told, takes a step toward the bot, and gives it a nudge with his foot. “Is she . . . Is it . . .”

  Maggie nods, looking sick. She turns to me. “Is Callaghan . . .”

  “He’s dead.”

  Her eyes flicker in surprise. Maggie’s never seen a dead body before — at least not freshly dead.

  Ping seems worried. It’s a strange look for him. “What do we do?”

  I shake my head and realize that I’ve still got my hands pressed into Callaghan’s wound. With great effort, I peel them away and experience a sickening tug as the flesh separates from the layer of blood drying in the fabric. The overshirt I’d been using to staunch the flow of blood has become part of him.

  Maggie recoils. At first I’m not sure what caused her reaction, but then I see that I’m covered in blood and that it’s drying under my fingernails.

  “We need to contain this,” I say.

  “Contain it?” Maggie croaks.

  “Nobody can find out about this.”

  Ping glances at Maggie. He thinks I’m losing it. “Uh, sarge . . . I think they’re gonna notice.”

  I shake my head. “We need to move the body.”

  “What?” says Maggie.

  “That thing that killed Callaghan . . . We don’t know how many more there might be. If they’re going after Space Force leadership, we need to get them before they get us.”

  “You think they’re assassinating Space Force officers?” Maggie whispers.

  “Maybe.”

  “And you think we’ve got the element of surprise?” asks Ping.

  “These things aren’t like the security bots,” I say. “They’re smarter — deadlier. If this gets out . . . If the other bots think we might try to shut them down . . .”

  “They could start killing anyone who gets in their way,” Maggie finishes.

  I nod.

  Ping looks panicked. “What do we do?”

  “We need to find the person who’s in charge now that Callaghan’s dead.”

  Ping scrunches his face in disgust. “First Lieutenant Greaves?”

  “That’s the guy.”

  “Greaves?” Ping groans. “Flaccid Greaves? Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “No,” I admit. “But that’s protocol.”

  “I’m sorry,” says Maggie. “Who is this person?”

  I almost forgot. Maggie isn’t Space Force. Maggie’s just a journalist who got in way over her head.

  “He’s next in the chain of command.”

  If Callahan weren’t dead on the floor, Flaccid Greaves would be the absolute last person I’d call. Greaves got to where he is by being a first-rate kiss-ass. He got his nickname because he’s useless. He does everything by the book and is utterly incapable of thinking for himself.

  “So you’re going to tell Greaves . . . what exactly?” asks Ping.

  “I’m going to tell him that Callaghan was murdered and that we could be looking at a bot takeover if we don’t contain it.”

  The one benefit to bringing Greaves into the fold is that he’s highly suggestible. If someone else has a plan and it’s a good one, he’ll steal the idea and take all the credit.

  “All due respect, sarge . . . I think we need to call an emergency briefing.”

  “And say what, exactly?” I snap. “Tell everyone that Callaghan’s dead and that there are a bunch of killer bots loose on the space station that look exactly like people? Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

  “We have no way to tell the bots from humans,” says Maggie. “People could turn on each other.”

  “Or the bots could just decide to kill us all.”

  “Right,” says Ping. He seems to be deep in thought, but we don’t have time for him to process this. I let out a heavy breath and try to keep my shit together.

  “Ping . . . You stay here and make sure no one comes in. Maggie and I will go find Greaves.”

  “What?” he cries, looking panicked. “Why can’t we just ping him?”

  “Because we don’t know who might be listening.”

  Ping still looks as though I just asked him to walk into a burning building.

  “I can stay with him,” Maggie offers.

  “No,” I say quickly. “You’re coming with me. Buford’s still on the loose. He wants you dead. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

  Maggie seems a little thrown off by my reaction, so I add, “With a little luck, we can get Greaves to put out an order to isolate all Hospitality workers until we figure out who’s human and who’s not.”

  “How do we test them?” asks Ping.

  I hesitate. I hadn’t thought about that.

  “We cut them,” says Maggie. “The bots don’t bleed. We cut everyone on Elderon . . . just to be sure.”

  I nod. It’s a little primitive, but I like her style. I can’t think of any better alternative.

  “We’ll start with the Hospitality workers,” I say. “Hopefully Greaves doesn’t fuck it all up. I’d do it myself, but we need to get him up to speed. People from the government are arriving by shuttle. They’re gonna want to speak to Callaghan.”

  We leave Ping in the war room and head straight to Greaves’s quarters. I move fast and walk with my head on a swivel, hoping we don’t encounter anyone along the way.

  Maggie is trailing a few feet behind me, looking as though she might pass out. I’m still covered in Callaghan’s blood, which could raise questions I don’t want to answer.

  I’m not sure what I plan to do if a Hospitality worker crosses our path. “Kill first; ask questions later” is not Space Force protocol, but at the moment it’s what my instincts are telling me to do. It might be different if I were alone, but with Maggie I can’t take chances.

  We reach Greaves’s quarters spooked and out of breath, and I pound on the door with my fist. Nothing.

  I knock again — pounding hard enough to wak
e the officer in the room next to his — but Greaves still doesn’t answer.

  “Shit.”

  “You think the bots got him?” Maggie whispers.

  “I don’t know.”

  She thinks for a moment. “Is there anywhere else he could be?”

  I shrug. Greaves could be anywhere: the fitness center, a girlfriend’s suite, in a meeting . . . Still, it’s getting late, and something feels off.

  Maggie is wearing a look of deep concern, and my anxiety morphs into anger when I remember what she’s been through. Just a few hours ago, she was trapped in an airlock and nearly killed by a rogue maintenance bot that had been infected by malware.

  Buford is the man responsible, and the two-faced lieutenant is still at large. He’s slinking around Elderon with the authority of an officer with no one but Maggie to contradict him. He could be with Greaves right now.

  I shiver. As long as he’s out there, Maggie is still in danger. We all are. No one knows what Buford is capable of, and he has unrestricted access aboard the space station.

  Once it becomes clear that Greaves isn’t going to answer, we hightail it back to Sector R. Our footsteps echo down the long stark hallway, and the lights overhead start to flicker.

  It’s quiet — too quiet. I hold out my arm, and Maggie stops. I don’t turn around, but I feel her standing there, waiting.

  I take a deep breath. My heart is pounding in my chest. Sweat is beading up under my arms, and a horrible sense of déjà vu swamps me.

  Callaghan wasn’t in his quarters. If he had been, he might have been able to postpone such a gruesome and violent death. If he was summoned to the war room shortly after dinner, maybe Greaves was summoned, too.

  A dozen horrible thoughts flash through my mind, but I try to push them away. Greaves can’t be dead — not Greaves and Callaghan. With both of them gone, the chain of command would dictate that the next senior lieutenant take command of the Space Force.

  I rack my brain, trying to remember who that is. It can’t be Buford. It makes me sick just thinking about it. But I can’t remember if Buford served longer than Crispin or not.

  I start walking again, and Maggie follows. We round the corner, and my chest tightens as if it’s being crushed by a giant fist.

  Two figures are standing at the end of the hall looking into the war room. It’s Greaves and another man I can’t make out. Light is spilling into the hallway from the open door, and Greaves is standing just outside the room. The second man is standing in the doorway and has his back to me.

  Greaves is a tall guy — clean cut with broad shoulders and oversized biceps. He clearly lifts weights but spends too much time on his upper body. The second man is of average height with mousy brown hair growing thin on top.

  When Greaves sees me and Maggie coming toward him, his grim expression darkens. I know how we must look. I’m half out of uniform and covered in blood. Maggie is in civilian clothes — bruised and bloody with a bandaged neck.

  The man standing next to Greaves pivots, and I feel a surge of bile rise up in my throat. It has the heat of anger and the gag of disgust. The man has a baby-smooth face and a mouth that’s usually stretched in a smile. It’s a fake salesy smile that’s always set me on edge, and now I know I was right to distrust him.

  The man isn’t smiling now. His eyes are twinkling with a smug expression, and I have the urge to grab him by the throat.

  It’s Buford.

  2

  Maggie

  At the sight of Buford, all the blood seems to pool at my feet. I feel a sick chill roll through my body, leaving my extremities numb.

  Buford doesn’t look surprised to find me out of the airlock. He’s got this demented glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes — as though he finds my presence exciting.

  The man standing behind Buford is extremely good-looking. He’s built like an action figure and has a short crop of sandy-blond hair. The insignia on his uniform says he’s a first lieutenant, and I’m a little surprised that this is the one they call Flaccid Greaves.

  “Sergeant, this isn’t a good time,” says Greaves, eyeing Jonah’s bloody clothes. “This entire sector is on lockdown ’til morning. Get back to the barracks and clean yourself up.”

  “It’s all right, Lieutenant,” says Jonah, leveling his gaze at Buford. “We’ve already seen him.”

  Greaves frowns.

  “We’re the ones who found him,” Jonah adds. “We came to look for the captain after —”

  “Of course,” says Buford, cutting in smoothly.

  My body recoils at the sound of his voice.

  “Lieutenant, this is the woman I was telling you about.”

  The sick feeling in my stomach intensifies, and I shoot Buford a glare.

  “This is the woman who has been posing as a Space Force operative to divulge the inner workings of the organization in her filthy magazine.”

  Fury and dread stir inside me, each competing for dominance. My blood is boiling. I can’t think straight. But it’s Jonah who speaks first.

  “You fucking piece of shit,” he growls.

  “Sergeant!” Greaves snaps, taken aback by Jonah’s outburst. His mouth tightens in frustration, and he glances down the hallway behind us. “Inside. All of you. Now!”

  Jonah hesitates. I can tell that being in the same room with Buford offends him to the core. He holds Greaves’s gaze for a long moment and seems to decide that we don’t have a choice. He sighs and glances at me, and we all pile inside the war room.

  Ping is still exactly where we left him, standing between Callaghan’s body and the decimated bot in his Orlando Magic jersey. He looks horrified.

  As soon as the door snaps shut behind us, Jonah turns and faces Greaves. “Lieutenant, I came here forty minutes ago to find Captain Callaghan.”

  “It’s late,” says Greaves. “Why did you need to speak to the captain?”

  Jonah’s gaze flickers to Buford. His face is a mask of rage and disgust. “I came here to report Lieutenant Buford, sir.”

  “You were going to report me?” says Buford, looking shocked.

  A muscle is working in Jonah’s jaw. I can tell he wants to strangle Buford right here and now, but Greaves’s presence is holding him back.

  “Buford kidnapped Private Jones, sir. He stole classified data from Space Force servers and used it to help his accomplice program the bots that carried out the attacks on Earth. He held Private Jones captive in an airlock. He would have killed her, except —”

  “Except that this entire story is absolutely ridiculous,” Buford cuts in. “The fact that Ms. Barnes concocted such an elaborate story may be evidence that she is a gifted writer of tabloid fiction, but her past deeds hardly speak to her credibility.”

  “So you deny the accusations?” says Greaves, raising one eyebrow. I can tell that he wishes he didn’t have to referee this dispute with Callaghan’s body rotting on the floor.

  “Of course!” says Buford, as though he finds the whole situation ludicrous. “Sergeant Wyatt has obviously been bamboozled by this young woman’s story, but I assure you that I have never so much as laid eyes on her before.”

  “He’s lying!” Jonah yells.

  Buford lets out a breathy little laugh and turns to Greaves. “Forgive me, sir, but Sergeant Wyatt hardly seems fit for duty. This is understandable, given his history of” — he cringes — “mental illness, but I’m not sure what I’ve done to earn this treatment.”

  “You asshole,” Jonah snarls.

  I feel sick. Greaves looks completely derailed by this turn of events, while Buford seems buoyant. He knows how Jonah’s accusations must sound to Greaves. He knows that his position in the Space Force makes him practically untouchable, and he knows that my true identity will only support his claims.

  “Wyatt, I’m assuming you’re not in the habit of making baseless accusations against your superiors,” says Greaves.

  “No, sir.”

  “I have to ask . . . What led you to believe
that Lieutenant Buford would be involved in something like this?”

  “He kidnapped her!” Jonah cries. “I was the one who pulled her out of the airlock!”

  “But you did not see Lieutenant Buford force Private Jones —”

  “Ms. Barnes,” Buford corrects.

  Greaves glances from Buford to Jonah and back to Buford. “— this woman into the airlock?”

  Jonah lets out a defeated breath. “No, sir.”

  “We saw it on the security footage!” Ping breaks in.

  I’d almost forgotten Ping was in the room, but I’m instantly grateful for his help.

  “You saw it?” Greaves repeats. “How?”

  Ping opens his mouth and closes it again. He doesn’t want to say that he hacked the security feed, so he says nothing.

  Greaves shakes his head. “Wyatt, I appreciate your concern, but I would caution you not to ruin your already precarious reputation by disparaging a fellow officer until we have all the facts.”

  “What more facts do you need?” Jonah growls. “We saw him carrying Jones into the restricted area — unconscious. When I came to find her, she’d been beaten and forced into the airlock.” He steps aside and gestures up and down my body. “Look at her!”

  “I’m guessing those are self-inflicted wounds,” says Buford lazily, his mouth flickering into a smile. “Sergeant, your private had us all fooled. I think if you check her credentials, you’ll find that Maggie Jones is just an alias. Her real name is Magnolia Barnes. She works for the press corps and has a following with a publication called Topfold . . . under the name Layla Jones. Maggie Barnes is a woman with three names who could not stumble upon the truth if her life depended on it.”

  At those words, my body tightens into a coil of rage, and all eyes in the room snap on to me.

  “Is this true?” Greaves asks.

  I take a deep breath. Now is not the time to lose my shit. “Partially,” I say in a slow voice. “My real name is Maggie Barnes. I do work for the galactic press corps, and I do have a column on Topfold. But —”