Taming Chaos (Darkstar Mercenaries Book 1)
Page 1
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
Taming Chaos
Darkstar Mercenaries Book 1
Anna Carven
Copyright © 2018 by Anna Carven
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Also by Anna Carven
Author’s Note
Hi there! Thank you for picking up this copy of Taming Chaos. It’s Book 1 of the Darkstar Mercenaries series, set after Brilliant Starlight, the final book in Dark Planet Warriors.
Darkstar Mercenaries is a spin-off from Dark Planet Warriors (a bit like “season 2” of a TV series). This book can be read as a standalone, however it may contain some spoilers for the previous series.
If you’re not familiar with the Dark Planet Warriors books and wish to read them first, you can find the Amazon series page here. The prequel novella to Darkstar Mercenaries can be found here.
Once again, thank you for supporting my work. I hope you enjoy this latest installment.
xx Anna
Chapter One
Zarhab Groht stank.
Unwashed bodies, chemical fumes, pungent spices. Torin Mardak could smell the putrid air even from behind his protective helm.
Damn inferior tech. The thing probably hadn’t sealed properly. He cursed his stiff, uncomfortable disguise, which had the dubious effect of making him look like a poorly paid Outer Sectors mercenary.
He would have much preferred his nanite exo-armor—an impenetrable obsidian layer that fit him like a second skin—but this was Zarhab Groht, the notorious black market trading station at the edge of Sector Eight, and he couldn’t afford to appear even the slightest bit Kordolian.
After all, he was on a mission, and he didn’t want to scare away his prey.
He sighed as he made his way through the crowd, deftly sidestepping a tri-wheeled robot as it skimmed across the patchy floor. What purpose it served and who it belonged to, he had no idea. It disappeared into the throng of bodies and machines like a bottom-dwelling insect, emitting a faint mechanical whine.
Zarhab Groht was noisy.
High-pitched machinery noises mingled with the roar of thrusters and the incessant buzz of thousands of voices, assaulting Torin’s sensitive ears. He caught snippets of conversation in various languages; Ifkin, Ordoon, Veronian, Ephrenian, Universal… It was as if the entire Universe had come out to play, without the Kordolians.
Torin didn’t want to spoil the party, but he had an objective, and if things didn’t go to plan, he had the all-clear to tear this place apart.
“Retrieve the weapons at all costs. I will not allow our technology to fall into unworthy hands. Find whoever is responsible and bring them to me. I want to have a little talk with them.”
Those were the General’s orders. According to their intel, some moron was offloading Callidum weapons onto the intergalactic black markets, and that was absolutely fucking unacceptable.
Why would anyone want to sell a blade that could cut through almost any known substance in the Universe? Why would any Kordolian in their right minds want to deliver such a thing into enemy hands?
And all for a few miserable credits?
Torin shook his head as he changed direction, avoiding a scuffle that had broken out between two large golden-skinned Bartharran males. They snarled as they circled one another, their lower jaws thrust forward to display vicious looking tusks. A group of onlookers had formed, and people were taking bets.
Zarhab Groht was dangerous.
Full of cutthroats, thieves, murderers, and sociopaths, it was a typical fringe trading station.
Here, only the strong walked alone. The weak moved in groups, because this was the sort of place where just looking at someone the wrong way could get you killed.
Not that any of that bothered Torin. He was First Division, and that made him the most dangerous thing on this floating cesspit.
Well, maybe his offsider was more dangerous, but that was only because Enki was a little bit unhinged.
Well, maybe more than a little bit.
Enki was… in a different place right now. They all crossed over to that dark place now and then, but Enki practically lived there.
Ever since he’d returned from the Ghost Planet, Torin’s longtime battle-partner hadn’t really been the same.
He was a work in progress.
They all were, to some degree.
“Anything interesting over in your patch, Enki?” Torin activated his comm, not entirely sure what to expect from his mission-partner.
Sometimes, Enki could be worse than a fucking Silent One. On a ten-point scale of talkativeness, if Kalan was a three and Kail was a one, then Enki Zakanin was a zero.
Scratch that. He was a negative.
Torin made his way down a narrow alley, passing a row of old freighter-crates that had been repurposed into market stalls. A wizened old Ifkin hawker yelled out to him in broken Universal, waving some sort of blaster-weapon in the air. “You need powerblaster, mercenary? I give discount, just for you. Three for price of two.”
Torin ignored the Ifkin. “Any sign of our cargo, Enki?”
Silence.
In the background, Torin heard a soft wheezing sound, as if someone were being choked to death.
“No,” Enki said at last, sounding a little preoccupied. “I will search the upper level.”
Click. The comm went dead.
That was Enki. He and Torin got along pretty well, all things considered.
“You look like you could use some loving, big boy.” A Veronian female waved her tail at him, her golden eyes narrowing suggestively. She pulled aside a silken red curtain and gestured inside her stall. A faint pink glow came from within. “I have all kinds of solo-use pleasure devices. You’re welcome to try…”
Torin quickened his pace, leaving the crate-sellers and their strange wares behind. He passed into a small docking area where various alien shuttlecraft were parked far too close to one another. At one end, a noisy worker-bot was pushing rubbish into an ejection-chute.
He froze.
“The meeting point’s down at the large-vessel docks. Let’s go. The Ephrenians aren’t going to wait if we miss this window.”
The softly spoken words cut through the worker bot’s irritating drone like an ice-pick. Torin recognized the language—English.
An Earth language. He’d taught himself basic English on the long trip back from Kythia to Earth, so he understood the words well enough.
The speaker was definitely human, and definitely female.
What in Kaiin’s Hells were humans doing on Zarhab Groht? They would be eaten alive if they weren’t careful.
That bothered him a little.
Part of him felt drawn to humans. After spending time on Earth, he’d become quite fond of the contrary, soft-skinned beings. Somehow, they knew how to live in a way that was completely flawed and utterly glorious.
The human approach to life was so un-Kordolian, and Torin liked that.
He couldn’t deny that they fascinated him. He even envied them a little, and deep down, he longed to find that most elusive of prizes—a mate.
He slowed his pace as a group of armed humans emerged from between two battered, blunt-nosed shuttlecraft.
Torin counted them. Twenty-four males, wearing identical combat armor and protective helms. Each of the guards carried identical short-barreled bolt-guns.
A small army. Were they enforcers? Paid mercenaries? Official soldiers?
They strode right past Torin, paying him little attention. He didn’t blame them. Why would they be bothered about him when he appeared to be nothing more than a common merc?
Anonymity could be a wonderful thing.
Twenty-four males, and…
For a heartbeat, they parted ranks, revealing their closely protected secret.
A female.
The one who had spoken earlier.
She wore a long black cloak with a hood that concealed her hair and eyes. It draped over her body, swishing back-and-forth as she walked, offering Torin barely a hint of the form that lay beneath.
Sensible flat-soled boots hugged her calves, extending up beneath the folds of her cloak. The only part of her that was actually visible was her lower face. Torin caught a glimpse of pink lips and pale skin decorated with small brown spots.
Just as he’d thought. This one was human, female, and totally out of her element on this cursed death-trap of a trading station.
Two dark-suited humans walked on either side of her; one female, the other male. They scanned the area through reflective datalenses, their faces impassive.
What sort of humans were ballsy—or foolish—enough to travel to a shit heap like Zarhab Groht, and why would they be meeting with those dangerous, elusive Ephrenians?
Down at the large-vessel docks.
That’s where they were headed. Torin looked the other way as they passed, not wanting to draw attention to himself.
He waited until the humans were almost out of earshot.
Then he sighed, turned, and followed.
Chapter Two
This place gave Seph the creeps. The farther they walked, the more and more she felt like they’d gone past the point of no return. Even though she was surrounded by two dozen of the Federation’s most elite guards, nothing could diminish the growing sense of unease welling in the pit of her stomach.
She’d never seen so many aliens gathered in a single place in her life. It wasn’t necessarily the presence of aliens that bothered her so much, it was more the looks they received—as if they were fresh fucking meat.
“Let’s step up the pace, Agent Markov,” she said softly. “I don’t want to be late.”
Agent Markov stared straight ahead, scanning the area through his datalenses. “We can march as fast as you like, Miss Winters. I just wouldn’t want to tire you out before we reach our destination.”
Jerk. What exactly are you implying? For most of the long journey from Earth to Zarhab Groht, she’d avoided Markov like the plague. Whenever he used that patronizing tone of voice on her, Seph got the sudden irrational urge to claw his eyes out.
She tried not to let her irritation show, but it was difficult to keep it out of her voice. “Do I look tired to you, Markov?” Seph would never admit it, but she was tired. The long trip to Zarhab Groht had been an endless grind of cramped cabin-sleep, hours spent dictating to her holoscreen as she tried to finish her offworld reports, and terrible spaceflight food.
Markov shot her a skeptical look. “That’s not for me to say, Miss Winters, but if you insist, we can speed it up.” As per usual, Markov’s reply was tinged with an almost imperceptible hint of sarcasm. He turned to the guards. “We’re not on a sightseeing tour, lads. Let’s pick up the pace.”
Seph glared at him. I know what you’re trying to do, asshole.
She knew what a spook like Markov would be thinking. He probably expected a full-figured girl like her to be slow and unfit. He was trying to make her understand, in that subtle, insidious way of his, that he didn’t respect Seph or her station.
Agents didn’t like analysts. Never had, never would. Analysts like Seph were responsible for the research, the groundwork, the diplomacy. Because most of them were former academics who specialized in alien cultures, they generally advocated for a tactful approach.
Agents, on the other hand, preferred to shoot first and ask questions later. To them, a successful mission was one with a high body count.
Seph suppressed an aggravated sigh as she quickened her pace, moving to the front of the group. Forced to adjust their speed, the guards muttered to each other through their comms as they struggled to maintain formation.
They were testy; irritable. The tension radiating from the group was palpable.
Just like the agents, the elite guards of the Federation forces didn’t have much time for academics, and an analyst like Seph didn’t have much patience for their anti-alien mentality. She was a xenologist, and her entire existence revolved around embracing the weird and wonderful. In contrast, the guards and agents and enforcers just wanted to fight.
To make matters worse, these two pain-in-the-ass agents from Nonhuman Affairs thought they could do everything their way, without consulting her.
It was obvious that Markov and his partner, Agent Davis, didn’t like her. They thought her presence here was unnecessary, and they took great pains to make that clear.
Screw the lot of you.
Seph gritted her teeth as she marched on, her irritation growing.
She was the one who’d made the connect with the Ephrenians back on Earth. She’d gained their trust and convinced them to do business with the Federation, and now, for the first time in human history, they were on the verge of obtaining something that would change Earth’s standing in the Universe.
Plasma weapons.
The Kordolians weren’t the only race that had access to plasma guns. Granted, Kordolian weapons were far superior to Ephrenian tech—well, to anything else out there—but plasma was plasma, and the human race badly needed some of that power.
Seph tapped her link-band, drawing forth an intricate holo-projection. “According to my protomap, there’s an elevator slipway just beyond here.” Damn thing had better be accurate. The stupid map hadn’t offered up any data to indica
te just how fucking busy this place was.
It wasn’t a good kind of busy. This was a seething, frantic, violent, dangerous sort of busy, the kind that could eat you up, strip the meat off your bones, and spit you out in a heartbeat.
Seph shuddered as a group of five crimson-skinned Plutharan males came up beside them. Naked from the waist up, the imposing creatures wore elaborate necklaces of polished ivory. One might almost be inclined to think their adornments were made out of bones.
The Plutharans hissed to each other, their milky blue eyes flicking back-and-forth. They moved closer to the guards, looking in on the center of the formation.
“Point your weapons at them and shout something threatening,” Seph whispered, urgency creeping into her voice. “The only thing they respect is aggression.”
“You sure about that, Winters?” Markov looked skeptical until the Plutharans focused their attention on Seph and Agent Davis.
Growls reverberated from deep within their throats. Impossibly, their eyes began to emit a faint bluish glow.
“What the fuck?” Davis sidestepped as a three-fingered hand shot between the marching guards.
He stroked her. The red creature actually stroked the agent with his long, claw-tipped fingers.
“Get your fucking hands off me!” Davis’s high-pitched shout drew a few curious stares. Someone swore. A dozen guns pointed toward the Plutharans. The hand disappeared.
Seph didn’t know enough about Plutharan culture to understand exactly what the hell was going on, but it was obvious that the Plutharans were only interested in her and Davis.
Aaand… they just so happened to be the only women in the group.