The Sentinel: A Military Sci-Fi Series (Hunter's Moon Book 3)

by Walt Robillard

  “Hey Danissa, this drone is acting weird. It's flying over to me. What gives?”

  The little ROSCO drone floated down to the merc, hovering at head height. A beam of light shot from its central eye, building a hologram of the shapely alien.

  “Hey kid. Did you come over to let me know the threat's been handled?” Van asked.

  “Van, I need you to stand down all of your forces. Pull back to the CP at Central.”

  Vanemar brought an interface up in his HUD. He entered a series of codes confirming the signal from the little hovering ball was authentic. ROSCOs were common, and it wasn't out of the ordinary to see them sliced. A good code jockey could get in and piece together a message like this in a Mylosi minute.

  “Danissa, confirm recall order.”

  That's when he saw it. The Nascillian people were pretty good about taking care of their physiological needs when they went off planet. Special environmental myoprene suits were a staple to regulate the exact demands of their bodies. It was rare to see one sweat, but when it happened, it was like they were standing in the rain. Danissa was sweating, even in her enviro-controlled outfit. Something was wrong.

  She stammered when Van opened a parallel channel to the old man. If something was going sour, the company commander would know. He didn't even have time to signal who was calling. The commander got on the line in full-blown typhoon of the mouth. “Agent Van, Danissa is compromised! I'm moving controller ops to my station. Run all ops through my channel, how copy?”

  His horrified face was all the copy the CO was going to get. A blade burst through Danissa's chest. It came away fast, reemerging to plunge through her neck. Ripping open both stacks of gills was sure to end the woman's life. Snapping her neck and tossing her out of the video like a used napkin was overkill. Standing in her place was a woman in military fatigues under plate armor. The T-shaped helmet visor was blacked out except for the glowing eye slits behind it. The face plate resembled a skull he'd seen on a few alien species after he'd stripped the skin off. He had a funny feeling he wouldn't be repeating that performance with this one. The figure raised a pistol in the frame, blowing out the video, dropping the useless drone back to the ground.

  “All units, Danissa's been sliced. Controller ops on the old man. Going hot.” Van had been through too many ops to get taken down by some crazy space wizard on a backwater no one back home has ever heard of. He especially wasn't being done in by a third rate military force with a first rate publicist. He'd read the brief about units active in the sector. That woman was wearing Dreadmarr armor. His unit had faced off against one of the “owl eyed killers,” near the outer boundary. He wasn't impressed. It wasn't that they weren't dangerous. Any outfit that trained their mercs to treat war as a religion was bound to be good at what they do. But he'd seen better. The brief on the marshals said they preferred to work with their own military. Having reports of a Dreadmarr soldier and a Marshals Templar made little sense. Just in case, he dialed in extra power for the Ultra-Frame armor he was wearing back into the combat control matrix. It would be better to have the armor's sensors predict an incoming shot and avoid it rather than hoping all the power going to the skin tight E-shield could take it.

  The men in the street with him huddled near the K-21s. They’d all stopped advancing, instead waiting to see if anyone would throw more bodies out of windows. Van dropped to a knee, locking his rifle stock to his shoulder. Tactical predictive algorithms traced the most probable lines of attack from the entrenched Elysian contingent. They further outlined expected fighting routines with a marshal involved, taking into account that they tended toward the dramatic against conventional forces.

  His men saw him take a knee, bringing his rifle to the ready. They began to copy him, slowly causing more of the mob in the street to resemble a sit-in more than a militia. Heavy servos from the Raging Bull turning at the torso to scan the battle space was the only discernible noise over the din of whispers from the natives.

  Van tapped his com. “Riot Control, you see anything.”

  The combat controller in his HUD brought his attention to a woman running straight at him from behind the overturned vehicle the Elysians were using for cover. She was wearing highly stylized Dreadmarr kit. Her helmet resembled the holos he'd seen of the new enemy commander who took down the ZX-33's. Instead of a brush crest, hers was made of metal and was golden to match the gold and black armor she wore. A dark brown cloak fluttered behind her as she ran with a spear in one hand, opposite a shield in the other.

  Van pointed. “Riot Control! Lay the hate on that soldier!”

  A snap twang of metal echoed through the street, scaring the local forces on their rumps enough to look up at the Raging Bull. A soldier in gear matching the running woman was on top of the robot fighting vehicle. He slammed something into the cockpit before yanking a machete free from his gear. The blade became a hazy blur, chopping down at the anti-personnel lasers. Two swift cuts harvested the weapons system from the top of the mech. The soldier vaulted from the vehicle, igniting a jump jet to carry him softly into the path of a triple tap from Van's weapon.

  The three shots was all it took to prompt the native forces to shoot in all directions. The ones closest to their objective saw the Dreadmarr woman running at them. Ten militiamen emptied their magazines into her to no effect, the gunfire taking alternate paths after encountering her shield.

  Four more Dreadmarr soldiers landed on either side of her. Striking the ground well past the protection of the K-21s, the troopers unloaded a metric ton of blaster fire into the locals. The heavy kinetic impacts from their bolts showed the weapons were not the standard blasters off the rack. Most blaster bolts struck with a bit of kinetic impact once the focusing chamber wrapped dust molecules with excited particles on their way out of the barrel. These guns were on a whole different level. Each shot punched the target straight into its grave.

  Van put two more bolts into the woman's entourage while she stood still aiming her spear at him from behind the shield. He bounded around the Bull's legs, dodging shots from the protective detail.

  “Riot Control, this is Van! Send two bushmasters into that mess and clean it out.”

  “You'll have to do it from your end, boss. The system in this thing's gone haywire! Something's trying to slice us. I don't have control! I repeat, we've lost the mech!”

  Amateurs! Probably has something to do with whatever the Dreadmarr put on the back of the bot. Firing two more shots into the advancing want to be's, he left them to the frantic mob, trying to shoot anything that moved. He had no doubt some strong-willed Dagoshu fighter would whip them back in line, but he had bigger problems. He had to get the mech back in the fight so they could run the Bushmasters right into the face of those enemy mercs.

  The cyber-strand muscles built into his suit shot him up on to the leg of the Bull, giving him the leverage to push off in a dynamic leap to an arm. Van climbed to the spot where the Dreadmarr trooper had been, grasping for the object that was spiked into its armor. It looked like a segmented rod, similar to the long range antennae he used back in the CORAL. This had to be some sort of remote op device. He gave it a hard pull, taking in the sensor warnings telling him he was exceeding the tolerance of the suit’s muscle strands. That was just great, he thought sarcastically.

  Intensive predictive modeling in the suit's combat matrix involuntarily vaulted him over to the other side of the mech, narrowly avoiding a shot from the wicked carbine the Dreadmarr was carrying. Turns out the guy he'd shot wasn't dead and neither were the four that were protecting the Dreadmarr lady. The first one he'd faced was shooting up at him. When the shots failed and he had no vantage from his point of view, he brought a hand away from the rifle to wiggle his fingers. The Raging Bull began to move.

  “Oh, come on!” Van yelled.

  The mech turned so the trooper had a better vantage from which to shoot him. He was controlling the Raging Bull, and what's worse, he had control of the Bushmasters. They backed up, a
iming their modified ZT-99 rifles at Van.

  He leapt away, landing on the second floor of the closest building. Rolling into a crouch, he shouldered his rifle, scanning the room for threats. Watching instructions from the onboard combat matrix flood his HUD, he diverted power to the shields.

  Two more Dreadmarr troopers kicked their way into the room. Both seemed to know where he was as they splashed him with blaster fire. The rounds struck the panoramic energy shield, punching him hard enough to have ended anyone without an Ultra-Frame. The shots knocked him from the window, back toward the street. At the apex of the fall, he latched onto a dangling clothing line from above him, giving him just enough swing to fly into the room below.

  “Control this is Van. We have Marshals Templar and Dreadmarr forces working in tandem to support the Elysian Security element. Collins is not responding, they poached our Raging Bull, and my terp is down! Local military forces are being cut apart outside. I am evading my way back to friendly, controlled forces. Need an exit!”

  “Van this is Captain Rogan. Can you get to the intersection of Fifth and Tassen street?”

  “I think so. I'm a few blocks away but I think I can E and E my way there as long as I don't run into any of those marshals.”

  “Right. We're working with General Sorkabi on a way to dig those ticks off this dog. See you on the other side.”

  “On my way, sir.” Van hoped he sounded more confident that he felt at the moment. Things were going stupid, quickly, but he’d salvaged his share of stupid before. They could still win this.

  Van wove his way through the building, finally crawling outside under a partially buried Scorpion tank. Local militia forces were being skewered by the Dreadmarr. The warrior woman with the spear was flitting through the crowd, cutting them down like she was harvesting wheat. Her protective detail was having a hard time keeping up, but were busy death dealing in epic fashion on their own. The K-12s seemed to go the way of the Raging Bull and were working for the Elysians who'd popped back up in their stupid little corner, laying down impressive levels of blaster fire on the intersection.

  The PPC maneuvered around the ruined bed of the truck. Occasional bolts and slugs struck near the beefy weapon from the panicked crowd. Most of them were firing from the hip, their shots going wide. If they did manage to shoulder the rifle, they were doing it at a brisk walk, with none of the techniques taught to soldiers to make for a steady shooting platform. Van thought they resembled people at a traveling fair trying to shoot balloons for a prize. This would have gone much better if the locals had any sort of discipline.

  The Particle Projection Cannon fired its hyper-kinetic, wavering bolt. It blasted into a rush of oncoming locals looking to reinforce the main body. Tiny inferno covered sparks played along the street in a shimmering burn that sounded like crackling fireworks. The explosion shattered bodies as they caught fire, halting the rush. The next shot eviscerated one of the corner buildings, turning the bricks into molten flak that finished the rest of the incoming soldiers, cutting off the avenue in a wall of flame.

  An explosion like a splash of liquid fire lit up the battlefield. Militiamen, caught between the advancing warriors and a flaming barrier, ran in all directions across the intersection, searching for some way to escape the living inferno. The beast that jumped past the overturned truck was easily more impressive than what was in the video feed by a factor of a hundred. Seeing something like this in a holo did nothing for the terror it was inspiring right now.

  Someone had taken a horse and forced it to walk upright on its hind legs, but replaced its torso with that of a man. Its horse’s face was more skeletal, which made the fiery mist seething from behind its teeth all the more terrifying. Ash tinged smoke wafted from glowing seams in its blackened plate armor. Over its shoulder was a spinning caster that splattered another portion of the street with a plasma burst. The blue-ish gob exploded into the fleeing crowd, shredding anyone too close to escape while burning those that almost made it out. It was like a scene out of the entertainment vids where a super popular actor portrayed a tortured soul in the Twin Hells. Only this was real. He felt the heat through his armor.

  Past the hammer carrying demon horse was the golden warrior, also wrapped in fire and mayhem. He jumped from the top of a building with more of the Dreadmarr in tow. They landed in the burning crowd, handing out merciful deaths to anyone who passed them. The two spear carrying warriors locked their shoulders together, forming the tip of a new kind of spear. Dreadmarr filed onto their flanks, assembling a wedge formation nearly as wide as the street. The heavy shield mechs Van thought he'd destroyed were back up, sporting little to no damage as they dished out waves of their own with Tusk-19 offset pulse blasters. The assembled death squad led by the one in the red crest was pushing the thousands of militiamen with only a handful of forces. If Van wasn't responsible for the death of more than a few of the Elysians he might ask to join them.

  Too bad they'd already paid him an advance for this job or he might have tried it. Plus they killed Danissa before he had a chance to make his move. Someone had to pay for that. He'd been looking for a commission since that last job working security on Camulon's Halikos moon. If he brought Rogan the head of this enemy commander, that would more than make up for his losses, maybe even put him on track for a lieutenant spot.

  The demons of Dagoshu pushed the militia back around the corner while Van scowled at the scene. He was going to win the day, and he would make them pay or die trying, possibly walking away with that LT spot. His commander, Rogan, was a pretty vicious guy. If he had a plan, it was bound to be nasty. Van let the sneer slip into a smile as he worked his way through the rubble and tried not to focus on all the screaming.

  Eleven

  Captain Morreau was glad for a full helmet as she walked through the destruction that was the inlet road to the supply depot. Bodies were everywhere in various states of bleeding, burning, or broken. Craters dotted the once flat street, not to mention that there was a Raging Bull medium assault robot vehicle in the middle of it.

  The newly minted Sergeant Corvin took to her role, securing the scene and even processing a small stack of prisoners from the mech. She noted the captain slowly approaching, the shock on her face visible through the clear face shield. “Captain Morreau, ma'am. Not exactly what we hoped for but, the corner is ours.”

  The company commander didn't hear her. She was lost in the sea of armored troops standing as silent sentinels around the corner. The Dreadmarr was as terrible and magnificent as she'd heard. The mystery surrounding them made it hard to believe half of what she'd been told, but seeing them in action could almost convince her they were the bastard children of ancient space ghouls who fed on the fear of their enemies.

  One of their number walked from behind the captain, treading across to meet the spear wielder who'd joined her shield to the lion. It was then Captain Morreau noticed the emblem on their shoulders. The woman who'd coordinated the counter-assault, Hera, had the symbol she'd associated with the Dreadmarr. It was a set of owl eyes wrapped in wings with what looked like feathers or teeth beneath. The other woman had a lion's head with open jaws, a scorpion tail for a tongue, and its mane becoming wings. Were they different factions? Was it like Elysium in that they were all Dreadmarr but assigned to different units? While the unknown was fascinating, out in the Frontier, it could also be dangerous.

  Out of the smoke and desolation came the golden marshal with the red crest. Marco Sorrin. Captain Morreau couldn't believe it was him. And if it was, what part of his soul did he have to sacrifice to buy the ability to fight like this after all this time?

  “Captain Morreau, it's good to meet you face to face. I'm sorry I co-opted Latisha Corvin with what was left of her squad, but her contribution was essential to the battle. Once she got the PPC running again, we routed the ground forces and took the intersection. Do you have a pilot that can run that?” Marco asked, pointing his lance to the Bull.

  “I can run it. So can Wilson
,” said Lieutenant Marlan, her executive officer.

  “There ya go.” Marco agreed. “That should give you enough leverage over this position to protect the depot.”

  “You knew my grandfather,” the captain blurted out. She sounded like an impatient little girl, but she didn't care. She'd heard all the stories since she was old enough to understand them. Some of them seemed so fantastic she couldn't believe them but seeing him in action, along side the mighty warhorse warrior, Ajax, nothing seemed impossible.

  “How is Frank?”

  She laughed, trying to find some version of reality where he allowed someone to call him Frank. “He was well, the last time I talked to him. Always getting into trouble with the sexy nurses he keeps hiring.”

  The lion marshal smiled. Despite the scars, the eye patch and the blood smeared across his face, it was a kind smile.“Captain Morreau. We've taken the street all the way to...” A pair of Dreadmarr caught his attention. Two burly warriors escorted a man and a woman to the impromptu officer meeting. They were walking cautiously around the carnage but neither seemed fearful.

  Marco allowed the sun to light the smile on his face as they approached. One of the Dreadmarr troopers handed over a belt with a pistol and a knife attached. Marco studied it for a moment, before respectfully handing it to the man they clearly took it from.“Yaneesa. It's good to see you again. Are the kids safe?”

  “Yes, sir. They are safe with my sister. I hope you don't mind, but I would like to introduce you to my uncle.”

  The street was silent as everyone waited for the marshal's response. It was Brand who broke it. “Marshal Sorrin, those forces are regrouping. We don't have time for this.”

  “We make time for this, Marshal.” His tone wasn't condescending or harsh. It was educational, almost paternal. He switched over to their language. “How may I help you?”