The Complete Void Wraith Saga

by Chris Fox

  These warriors are much more skilled than those who pilot the bulky fighters.

  Khar twisted the mech in midair, thumbing the booster’s release. It tumbled free, and Khar swung the mech’s leg around in a wide kick. It flung the booster at the closest Ganog, who tried desperately to avoid the sudden projectile. The booster caught him in the chest, detonating on impact.

  A wave of superheated flame burst in all directions, enveloping both sky cycle and rider. The flames obscured the other two pursuers, and Khar used the opportunity to pop open his missile tubes. He had one volley left, just nine missiles.

  As a Tigris, he’d have used instinct—but his synthetic body provided a better option. He projected the Ganog’s flight path, adjusting for his falling velocity. Khar fired two missiles, adjusted his aim, then fired another two.

  The first Ganog came streaking out of the flames, directly into the path of the pair of missiles. It ended badly.

  The second Ganog darted from beneath the flames, changing his course unexpectedly. The pair of missiles shot harmlessly overhead, and the Ganog zoomed around in a wide arc.

  Khar continued to fall, unable to adjust his flight without his main booster. That made him an un-missable target.

  Khar raised his rifle, firing the particle cannon. It discharged a stream of superheated lightning, tagging the rear of the sky cycle. The vehicle began to spin wildly, and the rider toppled from his seat. The Ganog caught the handlebars, and began struggling back into his seat.

  Khar fired again, this time catching the Ganog in the arm. Everything below the elbow disintegrated, and the Ganog tumbled away from his bike. The bike hit the island below, detonating spectacularly, and the Ganog plummeted out of sight over the edge of the platform. His scream echoed through the cavernous ship.

  “Tigrana protect me,” Khar muttered. He bent the mech’s knees, taking quick breaths as the island rushed up at him. Three, two, one…

  Khar fired his leg thrusters, a full five-second burn. It bled momentum, but not enough. He came down hard, the mech crashing into the ivory-colored metal in a tangle of mechanical limbs.

  A klaxon chimed softly through the cockpit, and everything below the waist on the 3D model of the mech went from yellow, to red, to dark. The viewport spun wildly as the mech tumbled end-over-end toward the edge of the sloped island.

  “No!” Khar roared. The mech’s arm shot out, the fingers drawing lines of sparks as he slid toward the edge. He caught himself, pulling the mech’s legless torso back onto the island.

  Khar knew hesitation meant death. He couldn’t be found here. More Ganog would be coming. He tapped the eject sequence, exhaling the breath he’d been holding when the cockpit groaned reluctantly open—not that he needed to breathe.

  Khar leapt to the ground, rolling quickly to his feet. He scanned the area where he’d landed—some sort of orchard, from the look of it. Strange pink and blue trees grew all around him, ripe purple fruits filling their lower branches. A dozen pairs of eyes peered at him from the branches. They belonged to thin, slow moving creatures that reminded Khar of hiktik bugs back on Tigrana.

  They didn’t seem hostile, so Khar sprinted past them. His internal HUD clocked his speed at 32 KPH, about seventy percent of maximum. Faster than that wasn’t recommended, as sustaining that kind of speed burned an inordinate amount of energy.

  Khar’s battery was already down to 73 percent, and he had no idea when he’d be able to find time to recharge. He pulled up short at the edge of another row of trees. A wide oval pod sat in a clearing, and as he watched, a stick-alien slowly emerged, like it was passing through liquid.

  I hope that’s a transportation device, because I don’t have many other options.

  Khar gave a reluctant look back at his mech. The internal self-destruct would ensure nothing useful could be taken from it, but he wished he had time to be sure.

  Khar charged toward the pod, leaping to cover the last dozen feet. A ripple of ice passed over him as he entered the viscous liquid. It pulled him toward the center of the pod, then hardened into a rubbery gel around him.

  Had Khar needed to breathe, it might have been lethal, and for about the millionth time he was glad he’d chosen to give up his flesh-and-blood body. Many Tigris considered him a fool, while others eagerly awaited the production of more such bodies. Khar knew what he believed: This body was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and losing the ability to sire kits was a small price to pay.

  The pod began to descend, rippling through the bottom of the island. It passed into a shadowed area, with only a few islands between it and the slums below. The pod increased the speed of descent, passing narrowly by each island.

  Khar studied the islands as they passed, noting the similarities to a Tigris or human city. The buildings were roughly the same shape, the materials mostly identifiable. He didn’t know what the white metal was, but it looked similar to the blue metal Primo used in the construction of their ships.

  He passed the final island, and turned his attention to the buildings lining the hull. It was a shantytown, the buildings constructed from whatever debris or garbage these people could find. The buildings radiated chaotically along the entire bottom of the hull, snaking off into the shadows near the prow of the ship.

  A few Saurians glanced up in his direction as the pod descended, but none stared long. People moved quickly down here, keeping their heads lowered. They moved with purpose, in exactly the kind of way Khar had seen back on Ganog 7. This place was lawless, and the people wore apathy and confidence as armor.

  Flimsy armor, but for many it was likely all they had.

  The pod finally slowed, then stopped a few feet above the ground. The gel thinned back to liquid, and Khar felt an invisible force push him from the pod. He dropped agilely to the ground, landing in a crouch.

  He was in the middle of a small clearing, surrounded by what appeared to be shops. The deck, or what should have been the deck, was covered in thick, grimy soil. Khar didn’t want to know what it contained, and was thankful he no longer had the ability to smell. His olfactory sensors conveyed the data, without the unpleasantness.

  Khar picked an alley at random, and started to run. He darted around corners, trying to avoid people wherever possible. He came up short when he reached a squat black bunker with its door standing open. He had no idea what lay inside, but he needed to get out of sight. Quickly.

  Khar darted through the doorway, and into the unknown.

  2

  Fool's Errand

  Nolan resisted the urge to pace, but did adjust the collar of his dress uniform. He and the squad stood in a straight line, facing the top brass from three races. Most were human, but at least a quarter were Tigris. The remaining few were Primo, their multicolored skin and bulbous heads making them easy to spot.

  All that was missing was the president. Part of Nolan loved that Dryker hadn’t changed, even after being elected to the highest office in the Coalition. Always late to everything.

  “I hate all this pomp and circumstance crap,” Nolan muttered, tilting the brim of his hat to shade his eyes. He should have worn sunglasses, but HR had insisted that he would “connect” more if he showed his face.

  Squinting into the sun still seemed stupid.

  “Stop fidgeting, sir,” Hannan said, elbowing him in the ribs. “We’ve dealt with worse. The old man wants to take some holos, so we can be propped up as heroes. After that we’ll get real beef. Beef, Captain. We get to eat a cow.”

  “Not to mention no one is shooting at us,” Burke said. He stood at the far end of the line—next to Nuchik, of course.

  The pair had warmed to Nolan after the Battle of Ganog 7, but the fiery-haired officer was still distant.

  “I take no joy from this either,” Lena growled. She used a claw to pick at the collar of her uniform. “I look ridiculous, like a human. It is patently unfair that the Coalition is based largely on human customs. Though, I will admit I am eager to taste this…cow. Is the b
east ferocious?”

  “The males are.” Nolan couldn’t help but smile.

  “If I could change one thing,” Fizgig interjected, looking miserable in her dress uniform, “it would be adopting human fashion for our military. Discipline I understand, but fighting in these…garments is impractical. They serve no purpose. And they prevent grooming.” Her ears drooped, and her whiskers twitched.

  A sleek black shuttle rumbled by overhead, slowly settling onto the runway near the stage. The engines ran silently, other than a subsonic hum.

  Hannan gave a low whistle, eyeing the shuttle.

  Nolan shared the appreciation. “Kathryn’s handiwork, I’d bet.”

  “A wager I would not take.” Fizgig said.

  The moment it touched down, a ramp extended from the back. A stream of soldiers began to emerge, moving to flank the stage. After the soldiers came a detail of more conventional security—the president’s secret service. They wore fashionable black suits, and had no visible weapons. But Nolan knew they were there, from particle pistols to cybernetic enhancements.

  The cloud of reporters along the edge of the fence began snapping holos, their attention all on the man emerging from the shuttle. President Dryker gave the crowd a single wave, then turned toward the stage. He removed a wide-brimmed hat, tucking it under the arm of his dress uniform as he approached. His beard was as unruly as ever, white tendrils snaking in all directions.

  It was an interesting choice, wearing that uniform. Dryker had served in the old UFC fleet, and Nolan supposed wearing it reminded the press of that fact. He’d been made an honorary admiral in the Coalition navy when the charter had been signed, though he’d never served in the new military.

  “Welcome home, soldiers.” Dryker approached Fizgig, shaking her paw. He moved down the line, shaking each hand as he murmured more welcome homes. He smiled at Nolan, speaking through a clenched smile. “God, I hate this shit.”

  Nolan only partially succeeded in holding in his laugh. It was damned good to see the old man. Nolan maintained his plastic smile while they said the words and pinned the medals. He knew all this ceremony wasn’t for them. He didn’t care about medals, and neither did anyone else in the squad. Hell, Hannan was probably offended by the notion. Burke was the only one who seemed to enjoy being there.

  Reporters snapped an endless slew of photos, and when it was over, the guards escorted them off the runway. The brass slowly filed after them, until they were finally alone.

  “Thanks for putting up with that,” Dryker said, rolling his eyes. “I never had the stomach for Fleet politics, and government is even more petty. Every inch of ground costs political capital, and this ceremony gave me a pretty good chunk. I’m going to spend it getting you the resources you need, Fizgig.”

  “Then suffering through this may be worth it,” Fizgig allowed. She scratched at the back of her neck. “Will you not be joining us for the ritual consumption of this…cow?”

  “I will, but we’ll be surrounded by cameras. We aren’t likely to have another opportunity like this, outside Fleet communications. This is probably the only place we can be frank with each other,” Dryker said. He glanced at the Ganog cruiser parked near the planetstrider, then at the planetstrider itself. “Edwards is really in that thing?”

  “Yeah, he’s made a new friend.” Hannan smiled broadly. “He calls the critter ‘Rex’. I’ve never seen Edwards this happy. Annie’s up there, too. She wanted to be here, but HR said she didn’t really fit the image they wanted to convey.”

  “You should have told me.” Dryker’s face darkened, snowy eyebrows knitting together. “She should be honored, just the same as the rest of you.”

  “Yes, but it would cost you some of that hard-earned political capital,” Nolan pointed out. “She wouldn’t want to be here anyway. Trust me, she’s having more fun than we are. So, have you started working on the planetstrider yet?” He badly wanted to ask about the connection to Primo tech, but held the question in.

  “We’ve got a delegation from the Birthplace eager to study it, but they haven’t started yet. I’ll make sure they don’t put Edwards through too much poking and prodding.” Dryker turned to Fizgig. “So give it to me straight: How long do we have before these Ganog launch their next offensive?”

  “Nolan?” Fizgig asked, shifting her feline eyes to him.

  “I’ve spent time with T’kon, the Ganog who defected. He believes that Takkar, the enemy clan leader, will retreat to their home world, where he’ll be judged by their empress. After she learns about us and our technology, she’ll send her fleets in search of our manufacturing base. She’ll want our cores and our scientists. The Ganog are a slave-taking race. T’kon guesses two months before they invade, but it could be sooner.”

  “How much time before the 4th Fleet is outfitted?” Fizgig demanded. She still managed that thinly veiled Tigris savagery, even in her dress uniform.

  A couple of the secret servicemen stepped closer, but Dryker waved them off.

  “Six weeks. We can’t shave any more than that,” Dryker admitted. He heaved a sigh. “The good news is that the 5th and 9th will be outfitted two weeks later.”

  “That will not be enough to overcome this enemy.” Fizgig folded her arms; her tail lashed behind her. “They will come at us with everything they have—every ship and every planetstrider. I know this commander. I have seen him fight. He is aggressive. He will not wait long.”

  “I have an idea which might buy us some time,” Nolan suggested. All eyes turned to him. “T’kon has told me a lot about his culture. The Ganog survive by invading new territory and plundering everything. For lack of a better term, they’re space vikings. They conquer new worlds to plunder their resources. They’re most interested in science, and in taking slaves who understand that science.”

  “Your reports have already explained that.” Dryker stroked his snowy beard. “Get to the point, son. What do you have in mind?”

  “What if we leaked intel about the largest Coalition factory in our space—the Void Wraith factory we captured, just before the end of the war? Fizgig fortifies the planet with her fleets, and we move the planetstrider there as well. We pull in the Tigris orbital defense platforms, and see if we can talk the Primo into moving one of their surviving carriers there.”

  They seemed interested, so Nolan continued.

  “We convince the Ganog that this is the hub of our manufacturing. We get them to invade in force, and we ambush them with everything we have. We hit and run, picking off every unit we can. They take damage; we melt away—and they wipe out a worthless factory, one we strip before they arrive.”

  “Hmm, this plan is audacious,” Fizgig allowed. “It might be workable. It will certainly buy us time, while weakening our foes.” Her tail stopped lashing. “I see a major problem: How will you leak word to these Ganog? How can we be certain they will come to this world?”

  “T’kon has volunteered to help us,” Nolan said. “He wants to make it back to his clan, to bring them the core we gave him. Give me the Ganog cruiser, and let us escort T’kon back to his people. In exchange, he’ll help us get word to the empress.”

  It wasn’t a perfect plan, but what first draft was?

  “And, conveniently, you and your squad get to accompany him, right?” Dryker asked, rather dryly. “You’re in the bad habit of operating outside the command structure, Nolan.”

  “Yeah, he is,” Burke muttered. He wore a half-smile, though.

  “I know,” Nolan said, “but you and I both know my squad gets things done, and this is something you need done. Can you think of someone better to send?”

  “No, I can’t,” Dryker said. “Fizgig, where do you weigh in on this?”

  “I do not like the idea of sending operatives into unknown territory, but it seems we have an opportunity. We should take advantage of it. I will begin formulating a defense plan, while we wait for the Birthplace to finish their work.”

  “What about Alpha Company? Someone ne
eds to rebuild it,” Dryker pointed out. He folded his arms. “You’re the most likely candidate, and there’s a promotion in it for you.”

  “I’m not the right choice, sir,” Nolan protested.

  “Oh?” Dryker raised an eyebrow.

  Nolan nodded down at Burke. “Make Burke do it. He’s got the experience and the skills. And he was in Alpha since day one.”

  “Burke, how do you feel about that?” Dryker asked, sizing Burke up.

  “Sir, I’ll do the job if you need it done.” Burke stated the words simply. Professionally.

  “Then consider yourself promoted, Major Burke. I’ll push through the paperwork, and start getting you the men and material you need. Your entire goal will be to prepare for the Ganog assault. Think you can handle that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Burke replied, confidently. “You give me the men and material, and we’ll give you dead Ganog.” Burke turned to Nuchik. “So what do you say—you want to help me rebuild Alpha?”

  “I’m sorry, Burke,” Nuchik replied, quietly as always. She avoided looking at Burke. “I always thought I was meant to be part of an outfit like Alpha, but after Ganog 7, I realize I’m a lot more valuable helping Nolan.”

  There was a tense moment of silence. Burke clenched a fist, and Nolan was positive he was on the verge of saying something. The major closed his eyes, opening them a second later.

  “I understand.” Burke gave Nuchik a warm smile, and squeezed her shoulder. “Keep him alive, and see if you can make them shower once in a while. Alpha will miss you.”

  Dryker gave an approving smile. He turned to Nolan, clapping him on the shoulder. “Sounds like your plan is a go, son. I can’t say I like it, but I’ll give you what you need. The cruiser is yours. I’d say be careful, but we both know you won’t.”

  “Careful, my ass,” Hannan said. She glared accusingly at Dryker. “Sir, you detonated a titan-class gauss cannon inside your own ship. By all rights you should be dead. You’re the most reckless officer I’ve ever met. Sir.”