Absolute Zero (The Shadow Wars Book 4)

by S. A. Lusher

  Dark Nexus Fiction

  Presents

  ABSOLUTE ZERO

  –a novel of sci-fi action–

  Book #4 in

  The Shadow Wars

  written by

  –S. A. Lusher–

  cover by

  –M. Knepper–

  editing by

  –Tara Roberts & Sarah Lusher–

  Dedicated, again, to my wonderful wife,

  Sarah Lusher, for putting up with all my BS.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 01

  Chapter 02

  Chapter 03

  Chapter 04

  Chapter 05

  Chapter 06

  Chapter 07

  Chapter 08

  Chapter 09

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Ceaseless Sneak Peek

  About the Author

  About Dark Nexus Fiction

  Chapter 01

  –The Job–

  Trent opened his eyes to the haze of a monster hangover. His first thought was that this was the twenty three hundreds, surely they'd have found a way to make alcohol hangover-free. But he knew the simple and, he supposed, happy truth of booze: it hadn't really changed all that much in ten thousand years. It still worked the same way on a space station orbiting a far-flung world as it did when it was being brewed back in the middle ages.

  As he rubbed his eyes and then began to massage his temples, gently encircling his forehead with his forefinger and thumb, he supposed that it was like bullets. You were going to get shot, the only thing you could do was make a better vest. Which they had. He knew the hangover pills were stashed in his pocket...but he had no idea where his pants were.

  A soft sound drew his attention. He glanced over slowly, taking in the bedroom as he did. He hadn't had much chance to see it last night, his attention being filtered through a smoked-glass lens of drunk lust.

  There wasn't much light, for which he was grateful. From what Trent could see, the bedroom wasn't anything special. The walls were bare, no pictures, nothing. A short dresser squatted in the far corner, two drawers open, clothing spilling out of it. There were more clothes spread out across the carpet. Besides a desk, nothing else occupied the room.

  Trent let his gaze settle on the woman beside him. Beneath the blanket, she was nude, long and lean, her muscles small but clearly visible. She was on her side, facing away from him, short red hair in disarray. Trent decided he should probably go. Women like her usually felt more comfortable if you didn't stick around for breakfast.

  Pulling himself from beneath the blankets, Trent sat up, swung his feet onto the carpet and sat hunched for a moment, massaging his temples again. First thing was first, his pants. He needed to dry-swallow a few of those pills. Letting go of his skull, Trent stood and swayed slightly, the hangover making every movement difficult.

  He began shuffling about the room, letting his feet figure out what was what. Finally, his bare toes hooked onto his jeans and he knelt, grabbing them and liberating the narrow tube of pills from his pocket. Popping off the white top with his thumb, he upended the tube and let three of the little yellow beauties fall into his dry mouth.

  Putting a new shine on the phrase dry-swallow, Trent managed to get them down. He capped the tube and shoved it back into his pocket, then went back over the bed, abandoning his jeans, and sat down. The pills would do their job, he just needed to give them time. A shower and some coffee would help, but the headache that was currently ripping through his skull, threatening to burst free at any second, needed to be reduced first.

  “Hey.”

  Trent glanced back, surprised and slightly startled. The redhead had rolled over and was now looking up at him with blue eyes that glowed in the darkness. Neon implants that kept her connected to the Ultranet.

  He wondered if she had a camera built in, wondered if she'd recorded him when he'd been drilling her the night before.

  “Hey,” he said, not caring one way or the other.

  Trent reached out and gently brushed some of the hair back from her face. She smiled up at him, hand slipping out from beneath the blanket and grabbing his wrist. Shifting the blanket made it fall away from her, revealing her pale breasts.

  “Can you stay?” she asked.

  Trent hesitated. “Do you want me to?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I'm off duty today.”

  They'd met at a bar that hosted an uncomfortable blend of Marines and mercenaries. Trent considered it for a moment. What were his plans? How long were they going to stay here? He and Drake had only gotten in yesterday, still riding high from a somewhat successful stint of running protection for a deal between two minor corporations. Both men had hugged, wished each other good luck and then gone in search of one night stands.

  Could this stretch into something else? Trent occasionally dabbled in two-to-three week 'relationships' that was really nothing more than an extended one night stand, both of them agreeing to slam hips every night until one of them got tired of it. The girl, was Marie her name? She was beautiful, and he had a thing for redheads, and she was very good at sex. Her daily regiment of exercise afforded her much flexibility.

  “Let me talk to my partner, first. I don't know if we're hauling out for another station soon or if we're going to hang around,” he said.

  Her face twisted slightly and she let go of his wrist. “Oh.”

  Trent smiled, reached down, rubbed her cheek. “I'm not using this an excuse to just run off and never look back. You're great and it'd be fantastic to spend more time together. But I'm being honest. Whatever plans I make, I run it by my partner. That's just the way it works. Nothing gets between us. But we'll probably stick around.”

  She seemed to consider it for a moment, then her smile returned. “All right, fine. I'll give you a little ration of trust.”

  “Thanks.”

  Trent leaned down, kissed her and then stood. He crossed the room and turned the lights onto their lowest setting. After spending a few moments gathering his discarded clothing and dressing, Trent finally turned and looked at her. The redhead was still lying in bed, staring up at him, wearing that soft, beautiful smile.

  “So...I've got an awkward question,” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “...what's your name?”

  Trent laughed easily. “Trent Stone.”

  “I'm Marie White,” she said.

  Trent lingered for a moment, suddenly taken by the urge to hang around for round two, but overrode it. He needed to confer with Drake. That was their protocol. One night stands, then a meeting the next morning to figure out if the place, (and the people), were worth hanging around for. At least he knew what his vote was going to be.

  “I'll contact you later.”

  He turned and left.

  * * * * *

  Gibson Station was a real junker of a space station. It served as port in the outer rim of civilized space, primarily servicing long-haul cargo crews, passing merchants and local mercenaries or Marines hunting for something beyond the usual r and r. It was a big, ugly station, orbiting a gas giant they extracted certain gases from. Whenever they could get away, the miners would hop a quick flight up to the cheap brothels and cheaper bars.

  Trent walked down corridors of chrome and threadbare carpeting, his boots echoing hollowly. There were rows of doors on either side of him, each one leading to a dirt cheap room to sleep and screw in for anyone who had a few credits. Trent wondered what a Marine was d
oing in a place like this, since they usual hung out into real hotels, and figured maybe Marie preferred to keep her overnight activities to herself.

  Before they'd gone on the hunt, he and Drake had put down credits on a two-bed room. They'd argued briefly over who got the room for the night, and had finally played paper-rock-scissors for it. Trent had lost, and Drake got to bring his date for the night home instead of vice-versa. Trent had been out on his ass, but he knew there was no other way around it.

  That was how it had been for their whole lives.

  Trent rode a graffiti-stained, squalid elevator up three levels and stepped out into an identical corridor, lit only by humming, occasionally flickering light strips. He found their door and hit the buzzer. A long pause went by. Trent stood there, yearning for a long, hot shower, some coffee and a smoke.

  The door opened. A slim man with soft features, short, well-maintained hair and bright green eyes answered the door in his boxers. In the background, Trent could hear a shower running. The man looked Trent up and down and suddenly his face turned ugly.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he asked.

  Trent sighed. Not again. “My name's Trent. I'm Drake's-”

  “What? His boyfriend? His husband? His fuck buddy? Well fuck that, I'm not going through that again!” He shoved Trent back a few steps, his breathing heavy, eyes wide.

  He had to give it to the guy. Trent knew that physically, he was pretty intimidating. In high school, before he'd dropped out, they'd pushed him to play football. He certainly had the frame for it: six foot four, two eighty of solid muscle. Part of his brain was sending reactionary signals to his hands, trying to get them to come up, grab this small man's head and twist. Part of him had a dark urge to hear the sharp snap of his neck.

  But he restrained himself.

  “Listen, I'm not any of that. I'm his brother, okay?”

  The man stared up at him, Trent had almost a full seven inches of height on him, and some of the fire seemed to go out of his eyes.

  “His brother? You don't look anything like him.” But his tone was no longer accusing.

  “Not biologically, but we might as well be. And I'm straight,” Trent replied. “Can I come in? I need to talk to him.”

  The man sighed and stepped out the way. Trent came in and looked around, closing the door behind him. The bedroom was about as crappy as the one he'd just left. Hell, it was even the same size, they'd just shoved an extra bed in. Trent walked over to his bed where he'd tossed his duffel bag and zipped it open.

  Fishing around in it for a moment, he pulled out his a pack of cigarettes and the battered, silver zippo, regretting forgetting them the night before. He pulled out a cigarette, lit up and snapped the metal jaws of the zippo shut.

  Sitting down, he took a deep drag on the cigarette and blew out a formless blue cloud of smoke. Trent turned his attention to the man.

  “The fact that there was another bed didn't tip you off that Drake might not be bunking alone?” he asked.

  The man chuckled awkwardly and sat down on the other bed. “I...it was a passionate night, and I was kind of drunk. I'm Allan, by the way. I'm sorry about earlier, and relieved. About halfway through my sentence I actually realized how massive you are.”

  Trent waved his hand casually. “Not a problem.”

  More silence passed awkwardly, the only sound being the shower running in the background. After a moment, Allan shifted and coughed.

  “So, uh, who are you? You know, to Drake,” he asked.

  “Like I said, I'm Trent. We're mercenaries, partners. We grew up together in a real shit colony. Nothing forms bonds like abuse and poverty. We just got done with a job and decided to kick back and relax. What do you do?”

  “A mercenary...” Allan said. “I didn't know. I thought he was a soldier, maybe, or a just a fit cargo-runner. Uh, I'm a merchant.”

  “What brings you all the way out Gibson way?” Trent took another pull on his cig, then offered the pack to Allan.

  “Um, no, thanks. I don't smoke...I got a good deal on some used power converters. I'd just grabbed them for a great price and I decided to celebrate at the bar. And then Drake found me and we got to talking and...other things.” He seemed embarrassed.

  Trent frowned. He hoped this wouldn't turn into something weird and Allan would develop feelings for Drake. His partner was usually pretty good about picking the ones that would screw and split, and so was he, it was a skill you picked up. But sometimes you made a bad judgment call, though, if he were being honest, Trent made more of them than Drake. He considered telling Allan that Drake wasn't on the market when the shower shut off.

  A moment later, Drake walked into the room, dripping wet and naked. Trent sighed and turned his attention to the window, which showed a bleak view of space, stars and a bit of the distant red gas giant they were orbiting.

  “Could do without the show, man,” Trent said, taking another drag on his cig.

  Drake laughed. “Sorry, didn't know you were here. Hold on.”

  He disappeared back into the bathroom for a few minutes, then came back out in his boxers. He sat down on the bed next to Allan and took a cigarette when Trent offered it. Trent lit it up with his zippo and then sat back.

  “I met a girl,” he said. “And I kind of want to hang around, at least for a week. Maybe two.”

  Drake's eyebrows shot up. “A two-weeker? I don't think you've found a screw buddy that's lasted more than five days for the past six months. She must be a redhead.”

  Trent chuckled. “Yep. All we've got nowadays are fuckin' blondes.” He nodded to Allan. “What about him? He any good between the sheets?”

  “One night stand,” Drake replied. He found a half-empty bottle of vodka on the nightstand and took a slug from it. Allan looked horrified.

  “I...just a...was I bad?”

  “Oh, no, not at all. But you said you had to go. I thought this was just a quick kind of deal,” Drake replied.

  “I could stay a few extra days...”

  Trent cleared his throat. “You two sort this out. I need a shower.”

  “Got the pills? I ran out and I've got a killer hangover,” Drake asked.

  Trent reached into his pocket and tossed the tube to Drake, who caught it and thanked him. Trent gathered up a fresh set of clothes and slipped into the bathroom. He turned on the shower, set his clothes on the meager counter space available and stripped. Once the shower warm enough, he stuffed his bulky frame into the stall and let his head soak.

  For a long moment, Trent let the water envelope him, shutting out the rest of the galaxy. He didn't let Drake know, because he didn't think it was relevant, but the last mission had shaken him up a bit. It had gotten dicey. There had been a nasty shootout when one side turned on the other and tried to get away without paying.

  Trent and Drake had managed to recover the merchandise and get out of there, but there had been too many close calls. The corporation hadn't even given them a bonus. When Trent asked, they told him, Drake and the other mercs that their bonus was letting them live, considering it had been a dark operation, under the table, technically illegal.

  So Trent and Drake took their meager creds and had gone off to Gibson Station. Trent didn't know why it was bothering him. Getting shot at was in the job description, close calls didn't even count as overtime when you were a mercenary. Maybe it was just nerves. Maybe he'd stared down the barrel of a pistol one too many times recently.

  Maybe he was afraid of losing Drake. Or maybe it was something else. He was thirty nine now. A few hundred years ago, that was considered approaching middle age, but in an age where a man could comfortable live to see a hundred and fifty thanks to medical advances, he was still practically a teenager.

  And yet, he couldn't help but think that he'd been alive for nearly four decades and he hadn't really done anything significant. The rational part of his brain knew that 'significant' was subjective, but he hadn't been living up to his own standards. He was good at being a me
rcenary. Very good. And he knew that. But it didn't feel like enough.

  So what was?

  With a sigh, Trent ran his hands through the strip of black hair along the top of his head. He'd taken to shaving the sides of his skull, giving himself the mohawk look, only he didn't bother with the hair gel to spike it. There had always been something wild and dangerous and insane about people he'd seen who sported a similar look, and decided the psychological warfare, however subtle, would help him out in his day-to-day life.

  Fewer people messed with him, at least.

  Trent shampooed what little hair he had, then lathered up some soap and cleansed the important parts. After washing it all away, he killed the water and toweled off. Being as big as he was, dressing in a small bathroom proved awkward, but not impossible. He pulled into some black cargo pants and a sleeveless black muscle shirt.

  After stuffing his feet into his combat boots, lacing them up and then transferring the contents of his old pants pockets to his new ones, Trent turned and opened the door. He froze mid-step as he spied two new people in the bedroom. Allan was gone and Drake was sitting on the bed, smoking, staring at the people.

  Trent's pistol was across the room, in his bag. He cursed himself for letting his paranoia slip. He sized up the two people. A man and a woman. The man was short, Hispanic and well-dressed, wearing a flawless black suit. He stared at Trent from beneath a shaved skull with sharp white eyes. The woman was the one that made him nervous.

  She was tall, almost as tall as he was, maybe even same height. And she was bulky. She wore dark body armor over snow pale flesh. Her hair was jet black, cut very short. Her eyes were hidden behind black lenses that, after a moment, Trent realized were surgical insets, sealing her eyes behind black glass.

  Trent tensed. So did she, wearing a nasty grin. She a pistol in a thigh holster but didn't go for it. This was going to be a pain in the ass.

  “Trent, relax,” Drake said. “They're here about a job.”