The Seryys Chronicles: Steel Alliance

by Joseph Nicholson

  The coordinates the good Prime Minister had given him were actually outside of Maauer’s Harbor, in a clearing within Cove Forest. It was, he thought, a perfect place for an ambush. But, though he hated Puar, he wasn’t the type of man to skulk about and stab Brawl in the back. As he approached the LZ, he saw Puar standing in the center of the clearing. A quick scan of the area revealed that they were alone, save for the local fauna.

  “Brawler,” Brawl called out to his onboard AI.

  “Yes?” a deep, raspy male voice answered.

  “After I get off the ship, go on autopilot and hover at one hundred feet above the tree line.”

  “As you wish,” Brawler called back.

  At thirty feet, Brawl opened the hatch and bounded from ship landing ten feet from Puar.

  Puar looked at him and then looked at the ship hovering high above.

  “Still don’t trust me, huh?”

  “Why should I?” Brawl growled. “You left me for dead!”

  “I thought you were already dead, Burke,” Puar argued. “I lost a lot of good men that day.”

  “Don’t act so surprised, Pual,” Brawl countered. “You knew that was a suicide mission, and then you miraculously survived! Convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I wasn’t the only one who survived, Burke!” Puar pleaded. “I was able to get a handful of men out with me!”

  “Ooh! A handful out of two hundred! Way to go.”

  “Look, Brawl,” Puar growled low. “I did not know it was a suicide mission. That call came from far higher up than me. I was betrayed, too. The only difference is that I was a soldier and could accept the fact that a squad of roughnecks was expendable. It sure as shit doesn’t mean I liked it!”

  “Yeah!” Brawl laughed. “You and your conscience living together in harmony.”

  “You know what your problem is?” Puar asked, his voice rising with frustration. “You can’t let anything go!”

  “Do you have any idea what I went through?”

  “I read the report,” Puar admitted. “Every gory detail brought more guilt than you could ever imagine! I retired not long after that. In fact, I was the one who signed the paperwork for you to get your prosthesis.”

  “Do you have a job for me, or was this just a ploy to try to bury the hatchet?”

  “No, I’m done trying to convince you. I do have a job for you. One that’ll pay well enough,” Puar said sadly.

  “Well, out with it, then. I’m not getting any younger.”

  “I’m offering you five hundred thousand credits to capture a Reaper,” he responded to Brawl’s directness. “But not just any Reaper, one that’s mutated at least once.”

  “Yeah?” Brawl asked, thumbing his chin. “Five hundred grand, you say?”

  “Take it or leave it,” Puar said, straight to business.

  “Oh, I’ll take it all right,” Brawl said, puffing his chest. “I haven’t had a good challenge in quite a while, I reckon.”

  “Good. Give me a list of things you’ll need and I’ll have it delivered to wherever you need it.”

  “I’ll have the list for you by the end of the day. One thing I will need right away, though.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “Any military footage you have of the beasts,” he demanded. “And I need it yesterday.”

  “Let me make a call,” Puar said, tapping the com unit in his ear and stepping away. “Burke, what’s your mini-comp ident?”

  “Two-three-seven-seven-delta-nine-one-eight.”

  “Did you get that?” Puar asked the person on the other end. “Great. Thanks.” He turned to Brawl. “You should be getting it any second.”

  At that moment, Brawl’s miniature computer chirped. He tapped the pad and a status bar crept across the screen.

  “Take whatever time you need and contact me when you’re ready. This is where I’m staying.”

  The address was in Maauer’s Harbor at a small hole-in-the-wall hotel, there was also a room number.

  Brawl looked it up on his mini-comp. “Looks like a dump, hardly the luxuries a Prime Minister would come to expect.”

  “Sometimes you need to just get away from it all,” was all Puar offered. “I’ll be awaiting your call.” He turned and started walking toward the worn-in trail that led back to town.

  “Pual!” Brawl called out. He stopped, but didn’t turn to face him. “Why me? Why didn’t you just go for one of your spec ops crews?”

  Puar looked over his shoulder and grinned. “Because you’re the only son of a bitch I know that could beat Khai’Xander Khail in a fair fight, one handed.” With that, he continued to walk and disappeared into the forest.

  Horrifying was the word that came to mind when he was watching the footage of the Reapers in action. Catching one was going to be tricky—well, actually, catching was going to be the easy part; catching one and not getting eaten by the swarm of other Reapers was going to be the tricky part. They seemed to hunt in a pack with a pack mentality, but they were far more independent than a pack of hounds, and it appeared, in some cases, they were cannibalistic. He might be able to use that to his advantage. Then he watched one change. Though gruesome, it fascinated him. He wanted to know what caused them to mutate like that. Then he saw the giant Reaper. Perhaps I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, he thought. These big fellas could be problematic, I reckon. The good Prime Minister also supplied as much intel on the monster as they had. One aspect struck him as odd. Apparently these beasties had a higher body temperature than any other creature he knew. That was going to make tracking them far easier than he had anticipated.

  After several hours of gruesome footage of Reapers tearing people apart and eating them, he felt he had ample intel to mount a successful capture of one of these creatures. He knew what he was going to need. He figured the easiest way to get one of the muties was to tranquilize it from the air, then swoop down, drop a zap net on it, land to sync up the net and fly off with it under wing.

  He took the Brawler into town and landed it on one of the designated pads. He walked the streets of the quiet town until he came upon the hotel where Puar was staying. He walked up the stairs to the second floor and knocked on the door. Puar answered immediately.

  “Come in,” Puar offered, stepping out of his way.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” he said, walked in, found a seat and made himself comfy. He leaned back into the chair, slouching. “Here’s my wish list.” He tossed a codepad at Puar.

  Puar snatched it out of the air and started looking over it. Most of it appeared to be the list of someone going on safari, but then he stopped on a particular item.

  “Burke? What the hell do you need with a Mark Four Neutrino Ship Buster?”

  “Why, in case I get in a tight spot while I’m out there doing some mighty dangerous work for the glory of our great nation, of course.”

  “You know I can’t give you that kind of tech,” Puar said sternly.

  “Well, the way I see it,” Brawl explained. “You can either give me one, and know that I have it…”

  “Or?” Puar was afraid to ask.

  “Or, I use the five hundred grand to purchase my own and have it unregistered.”

  “My answer stands. The rest of this I can have to you by the end of the day tomorrow.”

  “Really?” Brawl asked suspiciously, his eyes narrowing. “Even the Mark Six Invisi-suit?”

  “Well, how the hell else are you going to sneak up on the thing?”

  “Very quietly, I reckon—since they don’t have eyes. But if you’re willing to let me take one…”

  “Like I said, stealth is going to be a big part of what you’ll need. The Mark Six Invisi-suit doesn’t just obscure your physical appearance; it creates a ‘stealth bubble’ that dampens the sounds of your footsteps, masks your heat signature and blocks your bio-electric emissions as well. But you already knew that.”

  “Okay,” Brawl said with a nod. “And make sure you get the good hypo rounds, the
ones you use on them big bulls out in the plains. And they have to be compatible with my Gatling rounds.”

  “Is that all?” Puar asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Brawl answered. He got up and headed for the door. “Oh! There is one more stipulation, come to think of it.”

  “And that would be?”

  “I want half up front,” he amended. “Two hundred and fifty in my account by the time my list is delivered.”

  “Okay,” Puar said, stepping forward and offering his hand.

  Brawl looked at the hand, then up at Puar. “Yep, see ya.” He walked out the door.

  Chapter Three

  Vor’l stood on the bridge of his ship with his fleet. The remains of a star system lay before him in ruin. It was the second star system they had destroyed on their way to the Seryys home world. This star system did have life in it. Though not sentient, the fourth planet from the sun had a thriving ecosystem that may have one day turned into a sprawling society full of warriors, scholars, poets, artist, politicians… but the way Vor’l saw it, it was just one less pitiful race to destroy later.

  He was there—or more accurately, his forefather of four hundred generations was there—approximately forty thousand cycles earlier when they snuffed out the Humans at Alpha Centauri once and for all. The F’Rosians had—or rather adopted—the technology to transfer their memories to anyone they chose. In virtually all cases, it was a rite of passage for young F’Rosians to receive the memories of their ancestors. The age of ascension was thirty cycles. He remembered when his father, on his deathbed from a rare, but incurable disease that attacks the mind, told him that he was to receive his ancestors’ memories. Though his father died a dishonorable death, weak and feeble-minded, he was a great man during his prime years. Vor’l had no siblings, it was forbidden to have more than one pup per family so that infighting never occurred within the family over who would receive the memory transfer. This, of course, was learned from experience as small civil wars broke out within families. In some rare and tragic cases, entire families would eradicate each other.

  He knew that the Humans were a formidable foe and had won many battles against them over the millennium-long war, but it was the ability to transfer memories that allowed them to develop and manufacture the weapon of ultimate destruction that destroyed star systems in one fell swoop. Research would take twice as long if one was to catch up to their ancestors’ work through reading their journals. The Humans had put up quite a fight, they were worthy adversaries, but in the end, there could really only be one victor. Thusly, the weapon was deployed and the Humans of Alpha Centauri were scattered into the solar winds. It was appear, though, that “humanity,” as they called it, always found a way; in this case, the Seryysans.

  Vor’l made it a personal mission to rid the galaxy of this scourge ever since the “Great Ones” came and “changed” their lives forever. Forty-five thousand cycles prior, the F’Rosians were nothing more than four-legged canine-like animals. The “Great Ones” were Humans who came to their planet looking to colonize it. For several hundred years, they hunted and killed entire packs of them for food, clothing, whatever. Then, hundreds of years later, they started doing testing on them. It wasn’t long until the technology became sophisticated enough that they were able to force an evolution of the whole species. Their plan was to make an ultimate weapon, shock troopers that were stronger, faster and more deadly than any human.

  That was when the memory transfers began. To reduce degradation between generations of test subjects, they found that transferring the memories from one test subject to its offspring or clone gave the next generation a leg up. This went on for centuries. The F’Rosians became the Humans’ frontline soldiers in countless intergalactic battles from Alpha Centauri to far-reaching edges of the known galaxy.

  But, as the history of slavery goes, there came a time when the F’Rosians saw their future as more than just servants to a higher power. A century later, they were free, having won their independence from a race of people who turned them into monsters and then whipped them into submission. That’s when the war escalated. Outgunned and outnumbered, the F’Rosians didn’t stand a chance. They had old ships, outdated weapons and only a handful of warriors. But they had one thing the humans did not; superior strength, speed and intelligence. With those three advantages they won campaign after campaign. It wasn’t until almost a thousand years into the war that the Humans went to nuclear warfare. Their reluctance to nuke one of their colonies from orbit was overridden by their despair. Millions of F’Rosians died that day along with the memories of billions.

  That was when the F’Rosians’ war strategy changed completely.

  Instead of outright killing Humans, they turned to capturing them and using their own technology against them. It took no time at all to start building advanced ships of their own once they starting transferring the Humans’ memories into those of the F’Rosians who chose to receive them. Being of superior intellect, they assimilated the information quickly and began producing weapons, ships and vehicles comparable to that of their human enemies. In the last leg of the war, the F’Rosians developed their final End Game weapon: a weapon of such unimaginable power, that for almost twenty cycles, the governing body of the F’Rosians debated its use. It took two assassinations—one of the Supreme Alpha and then the Sub Alpha—and a complete overhaul of the governmental system to get permission to use this weapon. Once it was used, the war was over and they were victorious.

  Now, it was a new mission, new enemy, but somehow the same. These Seryysans were definitely offshoots from the humans they fought so long ago. How they got away was no concern of his, only finding them and killing them mattered. From what he had seen of them so far, they were far feebler than their predecessors. An entire fleet of theirs fell at the might of only a handful of his ships. Clearly they were superior, but if he’d learned anything from his ancestors’ memories, it was that the Humans—or Seryysans, in this case—were very resourceful and highly unpredictable. Even their short encounter proved that they were clever enough to use their environment to destroy one of his ships.

  Whatever the outcome, when they finally tracked the transmissions to their sources, it would be a glorious battle worthy of stories passed on through memory transfers for millennia…

  Prime Minister Puar had enjoyed his time in Maauer’s Harbor, but now it was back to business. He strode onto the command deck of the Orbital Base III, nursing a strong hangover. His last night home was filled with laughter, old friends and booze. OB III was a floating fortress that circled one of Seryys’ moons. Bristling with weapons and boasting powerful shields, not to mention retractable solar panels that could be “sucked in” during a firefight, it was a self-sustaining command center with the ability to produce oxygen via a massive hydroponics level which also produced enough food for a crew of a thousand. Whereas the Presidential Bunk in Kal’Hoom Karr Canyon was the safest place on Seryys, OB III was the safest place in the solar system.

  From the command deck, Puar could see the “Ring of Death,” as it was coined, being constructed. That “Ring of Death” was the massive defense platform that had never been put into production until just a week earlier. When finished, it would reach all the way around the sun, creating a ring of gun emplacements that would target and destroy any projectiles destined for the sun.

  The new Vyysarri liaison, Braac, sent to “work with” him—though anyone with an ounce of common sense knew it was actually to keep tabs on him—was standing on the command deck staring out at the defense platform, his hands clasped behind his back. Puar had kept him in the dark as long as he could and now it was time to fess up.

  “This new platform is impressive, Prime Minister,” he rumbled. “However, I am curious as to what a platform like this is doing here during a time of peace between our people.”

  “I’m about to show you,” Puar said, point blank. “Follow me to my office.”

  They sat down on a stiff, sterile-colored co
uch as a holographic image of a sun materialized in the center of the room. Without a word, Puar started the slideshow. Braac watched wide-eyed as a torpedo struck the sun and then tore apart the whole solar system. Without a pause, it went to the second one. The same scenario played out for him. Puar watched Braac out of the corner of his eye and tried to imagine what he was feeling. Something very similar happened to his home world and they were forced to leave. He was hoping that this, coupled with the slideshow would soften him up for the next set of bad news that was surely going to end in raised voices.

  After the hologram dissipated and the light level in the room returned to normal, there was a long pause. Braac was still stunned.

  After the pause, he spoke. “I am afraid that your answer has raised even more questions, Prime Minister. Perhaps you should start from the beginning.

  “I agree,” Puar stood and walked over to the small bar to pour himself a drink. “Can I offer you something, Braac? Perhaps some blood?” It was weird, in his opinion, and a little morbid keeping blood on hand, but Puar was truly interested in making the Vyysarri in his company feel as welcome as possible.

  “In light of what I’ve seen, maybe a drink would be good idea.”

  “Especially when you hear the whole thing,” Puar said as he sat back down, handing Braac his glass of chilled blood. “Four weeks ago—”

  “Before or after the destruction of both the Hellfire and the Vyysarri?” Braac interrupted with the question.

  “Directly after. General Khail, Admiral Sibrex and company stumbled upon a discovery of epic proportions. Shortly after the sabotage of both their ships, during their escape in fact, they came across this…”

  Puar clicked a small device and another image materialized before them. It was a picture of the wayward planet that they found floating out in the middle of space after escaping the destruction of both their ships at the hands of saboteurs trying to escalate tension between the Vyysarri and Seryysans.