Mage Marshal

by Kristoff Chimes

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  Tech Warlock

  Star Coven

  Agi

  Genesis Invasion Trilogy

  Valiant

  The Asteroid Thief

  A note from the author

  Mage Marshal (Star Coven Book 2)

  By

  Kristoff Chimes

  Copyright © 2017 Kristoff Chimes

  All rights reserved by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval without permission in writing from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  CHAPTER 1

  “This is the most dangerous place in the galaxy,” Mage Marshal Malice told his rookie as they cruised on their Mage Master Airbikes along the dark and narrow alleyways. “Watch your back.”

  Rookie Mage Marshal Klop scratched at the blue rash on one wrist. “I think I caught something nasty from those two Sex Magic Hags we busted.”

  “Relax, Rookie, it’s just a harmless side effect from your anti-magic inoculations.”

  “Any other side effects?”

  “Makes you vulnerable to any profanity spell-virus doing the rounds. You’ll get flare ups when you’re stressed.”

  “I never fucking swear. It’s against academy regulations.” Klop scratched his neck ferociously. “I think it’s spreading.”

  Malice sighed. “You listening, Rookie? I said watch your back.”

  Rookie Mage Marshal Klop twisted his body in his saddle and glanced around the warehouse for five miles in every direction. He saw only the giant robotic cranes above. Gliding silently along the seemingly endless rows of steel crates piled a quarter of a mile high. They were obviously alone and Klop resented Malice winding him up about his inexperience.

  Rookie Klop suppressed a sardonic smile and said, “You’re joking, right?”

  Malice yawned. It had been a long shift. He was desperate to get off on time so he could attend his daughter, Charlotte’s tenth birthday party, and pick up a gift on the way. The last thing he needed was wet-nursing this rookie’s punk attitude.

  “When trouble comes, kid,” Malice said, “it comes without warning and wears size fifty ball-crushing spikes.”

  “Come off it, Mage Marshal, the place is fully automated. No one gets in or out without our say-so. Prove I’m wrong.”

  “Think about it, kid,” Malice said. “With over ten million inhabitants, Blue Horizon is the biggest space station in the galaxy. It’s the hub for all off-planet imports and exports. With the anti-magic embargo in effect stamping a billion percent tariff on all Magic Dust tech, any half-brained Black Marketeer, Magic Jacker, Curse Hacker, and Dust Broker is going to be smuggling all manner of magic shit to Earth. And that means on any given shift thousands of smugglers are operating here. And in case they never taught you anything back at the academy, know this: we are all that stands between five hundred billion innocent civilians and the cursed life of total magic chaos.”

  Rookie Klop shook his head in disbelief. “But the place is emptier than the ball sacks of a jitter jacked up on sex magic.”

  “Never heard of cloaking spelltech? Before I wake up the inhabitants of this cesspit, run a rapid-fire weapon and armor diagnostic.”

  Klop sighed as he ordered his street patrol armor’s Artificial Intelligence system to check for faults. A burst of tiny green forked lightning slithered over his armor as the liquid steel nanobots made adjustments. As per regulation, he piloted his Mage Master to give Malice a wide birth and allow his armor to perform a check on the twin dragon shoulder pads.

  The eyes of the dragonheads lit up. Alternate green emerald and crimson rubies of compacted Magic Dust blinked and emitted a succession of defense spells. A rapid burst of green flame twenty feet long. A shower of Magic Dust seeker mini-missiles. A collection of Quarantine Webs.

  The diagnostic ended when the green lightning fizzled out over his helmet’s visor. His armor confirmed it was in full working order.

  Klop performed the same diagnostic on his own Curse Maker handgun. Thankfully, the AI didn’t need to unleash any of the thousands of different variations of spell-bullets.

  “Ten thousand Spelltech bullets in working order,” the Curse Maker announced.

  That left only his Mage Master to confirm its status. It reeled off a list of deadly components.

  “Starter: Rage Force mode voice activation confirmed. Speed. Zero to six hundred miles an hour in one point four seconds confirmed. Top speed one thousand miles an hour, confirmed. Silent Motion mode enabling top cruise speed confirmed at four hundred miles an hour. Fuel: Kinetic spell batteries confirmed at ninety-eight percent efficiency. Engine efficiency: Spelltech Speed Star engines one and two confirm green friendly output undetectable by all known spell trackers. Maneuverability: Fixed point hover action in category five storms at altitude below ten thousand feet confirmed. Wheels: living-steel stress test confirms resistance to level six Magic Dust ballistics. Tires: One meter diameter full-spectrum width test confirms maximum defense against all non-magic projectiles. Weapons: Twin Hell Burner canons commencing. Ferocity modes engaging. Testing Warning Shot.”

  His Hell Burner launched a single blue rocket which exploded half a mile ahead. Sending out a pulse that sang like a Critter-Hag on a bachelorette party night, jacked up on head-popping Magic Dust. It formed into a giant sparkling blue hammer and performed a smack down like a big fat blue Krittafrak in the Galactic Wrestling Championship.

  “Warning shot mode confirmed,” Klop’s Mage Master said. “Testing Fire-fight mode.”

  Klop gripped the handlebars and tightened his seat belt. He sped up so he could put some distance from the stench of his own repeating bile. Each time a spelltech rocket blasted out of the Twin Hell Burners, Klop suppressed his natural reaction to vomit, piss himself, shit his undersuit or topple out of the saddle. The self-destruct sequence of the spell rockets forced them to explode harmlessly in the air for the tenth time, prompting a silent, but deadly fart train.

  Half mile ahead the alleyway lit up with a lattice of rockets weaving in and out and exploding into the formation of a sparkling red fist performing a one-fingered salute.

  “Fire-fight mode confirmed. Testing Crowd Control mode.”

  A single rocket shot out of each Hell Burner. Each rocket formed into the shape of a giant glittering green tongue of erupting sores. The tongues began licking each other in what seemed to Klop a vile magic-fetish. Exploding green pus dripped from the tongues and the slime that hit the ground instantly solidified.

  “Crowd Control mode confirmed.” The slime-control spell, as Mage Marshals liked to call it, evaporated. “Testing SOS mode.”

  A rocket exploded and formed into a sparkling pair of pink lips that mouthed the letters, SOS and then evaporated.

  “SOS mode confirmed,” Klop’s Mage Master said. “Testing Armageddon mode.”

  A sticky brown follow-through forced Klop to hastily dial up the self-clean facility on his undersuit. He silently ordered the refresh limit to the maximum. Just in time before he was expected to fall into formation alongside Mage Marshall Malice.

  “Holy shit!” Klop said and glanced at Malice in anticipation of what promised to be simply apocalyptic.

  “Failure warning,” Klop’s Mage Master announced. “Inadequate environment for
testing.”

  “Side-winder Mage Seeker missiles operational,” Klop’s Mage Master continued. “Defense: One inch thick Living-steel armor plating integrity achieved. Level six Magic Dust grade defense achievable.”

  Anxious to get on with the action, Klop ordered his Mage Master to skip all non-essential checks.

  With a stomach-rolling frisson of excitement that he might soon experience his first real action, Klop farted away his self-doubt like a band of brass buglers blowing the Mage Marshal Academy anthem and said, “All set, Mage Marshal.”

  Mage Marshall Malice drew his Curse Maker from his side holster and aimed it in the air above them. He ordered his Curse Maker to select the desired spelltech bullet. A smart bullet imbued with a spell and licensed for anti-magic law enforcement purposes only.

  Malice said, “Decloaking flare.”

  The Curse Maker’s speech synthesizer confirmed Malice’s order and he squeezed the trigger.

  A green flare blasted out and spun a web of trailing tentacles across the ceiling. Slowly dropping to the floor it sought out any miscreants using spells to hide.

  Unfortunately for Malice and Klop, death by magic had its own timetable, and they didn’t have long to wait.

  CHAPTER 2

  The webbed tentacles of the decloaking flare created a dome, under which four humanoid figures appeared. The group of four were pushing a steel crate about twenty feet high up the loading ramp of a small hover-freighter.

  Malice’s visor scanners picked up the tallest of the four. A twelve-foot high robot, with a flame red cyclops-eye and rusting, peeling yellow paintwork. Its call-reveal ID chip denied Malice’s identify and desist request. Malice recognized the robot as a rogue G-RUNT unit.

  The decloaking flare infiltrated the rogue G-RUNT’s firewall and revealed it as FUK-U. A wanted fugitive from justice for magic crimes including magical creature smuggling, and murder.

  All punishable by death.

  That was all Malice needed to know. “Engage, detain, arrest and execute,” Malice ordered Klop.

  The decloaking flare revealed a second individual, a young human woman sporting a shaved head, tight-fitting rusting green armor and a penchant for lethal flaming-sword play.

  “Suspect, Elvira Hex,” Malice’s Mage Master announced. “Wanted for crimes of smuggling magical creatures, and murder.”

  The decloaking flare revealed a third individual. A skinny human cyborg with a pencil mustache and an eye patch.

  “I’d like to know what’s behind that eye patch,” Malice said. “Continue decloaking probe.”

  FUK-U raised its huge metallic arms and brought up a pair of canons. It launched a rapid-fire sequence of squelching cluster-fuck spell grenades that burst around the Mage Marshals’ heads. Pinged off their Mage Masters’ armor plating and grew tentacles with thousands of acid-spewing suckers, onto their helmet visors.

  Klop’s response was to drop his guts as his armor’s auto-defense system shocked the cluster-fuck spell with green lightning. Malice and Klop peeled the suckers off their visors.

  The decloaking flare revealed a fourth and final individual. An eight-foot tall blue-skinned fat humanoid with eight muscled arms as wide as a man’s head. He sported a purple Mohican haircut and a thick orange beard. To Klop he looked like some kind of an ancient mutant Viking, jacked up on a a berserker-spell and last seen marauding in a luminous paint factory.

  Klop yelped, “Holy magic shit, that’s a Krittafrak.”

  Malice zoomed up on the Krittafrak’s arm tattoos. Magical runes. He recognized some particularly nasty ones.

  “Relax, kid,” Malice said. “Its tattoos are dormant.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “When they start glowing red, then you can be scared. It’s the Fairy-lice in the blue motherfucker’s beard you got to worry about.”

  “How come?”

  “They’re cannibals.”

  Rookie Klop wanted to drop his guts. Again.

  Malice’s Mage Master identified the Krittafrak as escaped felon, Bannon ‘Snake Arms’ Gulag, leader of the Gulag gang of which the other three were suspected members.

  Klop said, “It doesn’t say why he’s called Snake Arms.”

  Bannon picked at his ass and munched on the head of a squealing Fairy-louse.

  “According to his profile,” Malice said, “Bannon eats his fleas when he’s nervous.”

  “He’s nervous?” Klop said. “What’s he got to be nervous about?”

  “This is what your ten year training’s been all about, Rookie,” Malice said and accelerated. He ordered his Mage Master to engage the Hell Burner canons. “Fire-Fight mode.”

  His Hell Burners launched an exploding fist flinging a fuck-you-too flying finger salute that rammed into FUK-U.

  The robot shuddered, lowered its canons and dropped to its knees.

  Their Mage Masters were almost upon the Gulag gang. Malice ordered his into a power slide and kicked out at FUK-U, sending the head of the robot spinning one thousand and eighty degrees, “Fuck you too, tin-head.”

  Malice leapt off his saddle and landed on FUK-U’s chest. His momentum hurled the G-RUNT backwards to the ground. Malice brought up his Curse Maker and aimed at FUK-U’s cyclops eye.

  “Under the Constitution of the league of anti-magic planets and the anti-magic law of Earth outlawing illegal transportation of magical creatures I sentence you to death. Do you have any last words before you die?”

  “The name’s FUK-U and no one can tell me what—”

  “Curse Maker, Execution!”

  Malice squeezed the trigger. The cyclops eye exploded. An execution spell in the shape of a ferret buried itself in the robot’s eye and gorged on its brain. The robot’s auto reflexes forced its limbs into panicking spasms with an eerie imitation of life reluctantly succumbing to death.

  Had the robot’s Artificial Intelligence attained consciousness to the level of a universally recognized life form status, Malice neither knew nor cared. He gave it no more thought.

  Malice glanced around at Klop. The rookie straddled his Mage Master as he covered the remaining Gulag gang with his Curse Maker.

  The Gulags seemed to be taking their sweet time on deciding how exactly they were to respond to their own imminent deaths. Malice considered they were overwhelmed with the situation of being confronted by Mage Marshals. But he wondered how a brutal battle hardened leader like Bannon would simply be biding his time. It puzzled Malice, who was always the cautious type when it came to trusting anyone. Whatever was going through their minds, he didn’t like the smile on Bannon’s face. Not one little bit.

  Malice glanced at the stolen crates and sighed, “Let’s see what you scumbags have been smuggling today, shall we?”

  Klop leapt out of his saddle and ran to the crate. He tapped on the console to override the security lock. A large panel began to slide away.

  “Easy does it, Rookie,” Malice said as the Gulag gang watched in silence. “Stand back and let it—”

  Klop, buoyed by the success of his first action ran into the crate as a rolling cloud of dry ice engulfed him. He stopped abruptly.

  As the fog began to evaporate, Klop shouted, “Holy magic shit. Dragon eggs!”

  The panel slid away completely revealing eggs ten-feet tall and almost as wide.

  Malice felt his stomach backflip, “What’s the ambient temperature in there?”

  “Chilly,” Klop shouted back. “Maybe a bit warmer at the back. Why?”

  “I want to make sure there’s no chance of them hatching anytime soon,” Malice said and turned to Bannon. “Is there?”

  Bannon raised one of his eight arms, made a fist he held aloft and slowly unfurled an erect middle finger.

  “Let the record show,” Malice said and aimed his Curse Maker directly at Bannon, “that the defendant refused to offer assistance that might make it possible to mitigate his death penalty to a lesser sentence. For the last time of asking, what’s the condition of tho
se—”

  Bannon’s second arm sprang up and he grabbed Malice’s gun hand, squeezing so hard Malice thought his wrist would snap. He felt his Curse Maker tumble from his grasp.

  The skinny cyborg with the pencil mustache grabbed at the Curse Maker.

  Malice brought his other hand down in a violent arc, but Bannon anticipated this. In the blur of an eye, Bannon brought all his arms up. His second hand grabbed Malice’s free hand. His third and fourth shot out and gripped Malice by the throat, crushing his larynx, making it impossible to speak as Bannon lifted him off the ground.

  Malice’s Dragonhead's turned to face Bannon. He felt them power up a defensive spell. Bannon reached out with his fifth and sixth arms, grabbed each of the Dragonhead's and violently snapped them off Malice’s shoulder pads. He crushed them together and rammed them into Malice’s visor.

  Bannon’s seventh hand reached into his own jacket and retrieved an ultra-heat flare. His eighth hand twisted the nozzle. He threw it over his shoulder and into the crate.

  An explosion of heat and fire consumed Klop. His armor began to suffocate the flames with a cloud of fire extinguishing gas. Disorientated, he staggered out of the crate to the top of the freighter’s ramp.

  “I’m OK,” Klop shouted and unsteadily aimed his Curse Maker at the back of Bannon’s head. “Unhand the Mage Marshal or die.”

  Bannon released his fourth hand from Malice’s throat.

  “And the other hand,” Klop said.

  Bannon released his third hand. Malice shouted out, “Klop get out there.”

  “I’m OK, Mage Marshal.”

  “You’re not. The heat flare its—”

  A shadow rose up out of the back of the crate. It unfurled wings and leapt at Klop. The rookie screamed as a pair of jaws engulfed his head and snapped close, severing his head from his shoulders.

  The newborn dragon spat out Klop’s head and let it bounce down the ramp. It leapt up into the air and with a huge downbeat of its forty-feet wide wings soared away.

  The skinny cyborg held Malice’s Curse Maker on the Mage Marshal.