Endless Night (The Guild Wars Book 3)

by Tim C. Taylor

  Luckily for the clownfish, it darted away at the first sign of strangeness, but a cylindrical alien eel with hairy, blue skin investigated the disturbance in the nutrient rich water, darting inside the arno-khu’s ring. Instantly, the ring closed and for a brief moment the watchers could see the fish inside being pulverized by constriction. The camouflage engaged once more, and the arno-khu—consuming its meal—vanished, once more replaced by an unremarkable patch of coral.

  “I hope the dive boss is right that our wonderful seas will attract tourists one day,” said Skuilher-Dour, “but that’s not what the coral’s for. Rather, it’s a refuge and a breeding ground, the foundation and booster stage for food chains from seven worlds.”

  “You farm the fish?” Sun pointed at the yellow tang who had dispersed to their individual tasks after the arno-khu’s attack. “They’re very pretty, but not much meat on them.”

  “They support predators,” said Branco. “And I bet there are young fish here in the reefs and atolls who will push on into deeper waters when mature.”

  “Who, in turn, support still larger predators,” said Skuilher-Dour. “Good. So you do understand. You Humans have come at an important time. Our first off world shipment of fish is due to go out this week. Fifty tons of yellowfin tuna and thirty tons of copper tip oohobo, another predator from our home world.”

  “No wonder everyone seems so buoyant back in the town,” said Branco.

  “And that’s why the Scythe’s here,” said Sun.

  “Yes.” Skuilher-Dour emitted a piercing shriek that made Branco clap hands to his ears. “Always, the entropy-cursed Scythe keeps us down. Makes us weak. Poor. Whenever anyone in the Spine Nebula lifts their head up to the heavens and reaches out for a better future, they come to stomp those heads back down into the mud. Why? Nobody knows. They were so good at keeping to the shadows, we didn’t know of their existence for centuries, until a trader called Olvanjie pieced it together. Countless generations thought the Spine Nebula was forever cursed to be unlucky.” He growled. “Now we have learned the truth. Luck was never a factor.”

  A sensation of cold, tingling slime smeared up Branco’s spine. The color leeched out of the coral scene and the heat left his wetsuit.

  Dark ops running over centuries, in which the puppet masters never reveal themselves to the wider galaxy…

  Gloriana had said the Goltar had a critical secret operation running in the Spine Nebula that had recently gone off the rails. It could be a coincidence, of course, and when Branco had probed Jenkins, the man said he had no knowledge of the secretive race that owned the Midnighters.

  Were the Scythe being run by the Goltar?

  He glanced across at Sun. She’d gone rigid and was staring right back at him. Yup, she was thinking the exact same thought.

  “Have you ever captured one of the Scythe?” Branco asked, dreading what Skuilher-Dour might say.

  “Yeah,” the Selroth replied. “We’ve had a few skirmishes in recent months, but we only capture foot soldiers. Most of them know nothing. And on the rare occasion we get ahold of somebody who does, they activate suicide implants. Whoever runs them must have a lot of money and a lot of leverage.”

  For the Devil! What had they stumbled upon?

  Skuilher-Dour swam beneath Branco. “Maybe this time we’ll find out who the Scythe really are. They landed last week on Stromsay, an island just thirty miles from here, and began attacking the fishing fleet. This time, we’ll fight back.” He clapped his webbed hands together. “Show’s over. Time to hit airside, Humans. The others will be ready for us now.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Dusk was approaching by the time they swam back to the dive shack. Already, the party was in full swing with sizzling food and crowds mingling between firepits spread across the pier.

  There were watchers, too, with binocs trained on the seas. Partially hidden under flapping pennants and sailcloth at either end of the pier, a pair of crew-served coil guns waited for targets.

  Sun followed Branco as he drove his chair into the excitement; it energized him. She hadn’t seen him like this since the Raknar job. Beer, peppery pan-fried grains, whiskey, deep-fried fish, fruit-infused demi-gin, curried shellfish, and fermented seaweed wraps: he helped himself to a little of everything, and the Patriots…not only did they let him, but they all seemed to regard him as a hero.

  What had Captain Jenkins been telling these people?

  It wasn’t just good food and drink that had changed the attitude of the forty-odd Unlikely Regret crew members who arrived after another shuttle run. Like most of the people partying on the pier, they wore four-inch diameter badges on their breasts bearing the 15-star circle of the Spine Patriots. The darkening skies above them reflected the same glorious cloudscape of the nebula that was the backdrop for the Patriot emblem.

  Minute by minute, the Unlikely Regret’s crew merged with the locals and the crews of a dozen other ships who’d thrown in their lot with the Patriots. When she asked them why they were here, most of the spacers made it plain that it was out of self-interest. A commercially vibrant Spine Nebula would provide rich trading routes, and while they hadn’t been given official merc contracts or anything like merc pay rates, the Patriots were enriching them with generous “expenses.”

  They might have convinced themselves they were in it for the money, but Sun wasn’t buying it. They were just as fired up by their cause. Bloodied by skirmishes that had already been fought against the Scythe, they were eager to strike a serious blow against the elusive enemy here on Thananya.

  “They’re good people,” boomed the captain’s voice as he crouched down to drop an arm around Sun and Branco, “but they need all the help they can get.”

  She regarded the big face whose scars and craggy lines told of a long life, richly lived. From the padded shoulders of his red greatcoat, through the silver running through the beard jutting from his chin, to his nine-barreled volley gun he’d left on an upturned oil drum next to his plate of food, Captain Jenkins oozed character. Here was a man who inspired people to follow him, many of those people being aliens.

  Sun herself was a leader, but she was renowned for cool calculation. Respected, not revered.

  Was she jealous?

  She mulled the question for a moment before deciding she didn’t give a shit. She got good results with the Midnighters, and that was all that counted. What Jenkins had done building the Spine Patriots, she could never have done.

  “We would have hired the Midnight Sun Free Company to rid us of the Scythe, if we had the credits,” said Jenkins. “But since you’re here for the moment, we would at least appreciate a little advice and resupply. At mate’s rates, naturally.”

  “We’ll offer advice where we can,” Sun replied. “It is a fight with purpose that my mercs would—”

  She took a deep breath of the smoky night air. For a moment, she’d forgotten that they weren’t her mercs anymore. Other than the Goltar, there weren’t enough of them left to be much of anything. “Regrettably, we need urgent resupply and reorganization ourselves.”

  The captain’s face deepened into a frown.

  “We have funds,” Sun said hastily, “and a well-supplied base, but it’s several jumps away from the Nebula.”

  “And we’re only here to recover our missing Jeha,” said Branco. “Let’s not forget that, Sun.”

  Sun joined forces with her former captain in scowling at Branco. What was wrong with him?

  He regarded her coolly and then drove off into the shadows.

  Sun tried to ignore him. “Do you have CASPers for us?” she asked her former captain.

  “Not as such. There are three Mk 6s on Unlikely Regret. None are operational. Parts supply has been too expensive since the Mercenary Guild decided to help itself to Earth and its manufacturers. We have parts on order, but for now we do things the old-fashioned way, with flesh and bullets.”

  She looked behind her, but Branco had been swall
owed by the shadows.

  Jenkins chuckled. It was the sound of an old man. “Your lad seems easily offended. Go to him, Sun.”

  Now she was really worried. Branco wasn’t the sort to storm off. Not unless the drugs were screwing with his head again.

  She followed him to the back yard of a domestic fuel store with signs in many languages guaranteeing all its products were fit for use both above and below water.

  “It’s not our problem,” he hissed. “Your old boss, and these patriots with their flags and their hard luck story—it sucks for them. We both know it does. I hope they win, but it isn’t our fight. You’re a major in a merc company, Sun. We got cut off from our unit, but now we need to find our way back.”

  “I’ve given everything to my sister, and then to the company, for years.” Sun was surprised at the bitterness in her own voice. “They can survive without me—”

  She had been about to finish with “for a little while”’ but wasn’t sure whether or not that was true. Blue was forging her own destiny now, with no need for her big sister. And between Jex, Albali, and the disciplined ranks of Goltar…

  Her mind settled on this maddening man in the motorized chair. He was the only one who truly needed her. And with her search for the apocryphal Wrogul healers drawing blanks, he hadn’t much time left. Damn, but his face looked so haggard in the gloom.

  “Then there’s the Oogar in the room.” Branco opened his hands to emphasize his point, but she only saw the shake in them. “Who’s really behind the Scythe? What if it’s the Goltar?”

  “Maybe they are,” she soothed, “and maybe not. But Gloriana’s people won’t be here in person. We, on the other hand, are.” She grabbed him behind the back of his ears and bent down to place her face in front of his. “It will be a fun vacation. Just what we both need.”

  “You’re mad.” Branco grinned, despite his words. “A holiday war? Really?”

  Sun pressed her head against his, relishing the warmth flowing between them. For the first time since she was a little girl, the tears ran freely down her cheeks. “Branco, I think we should make the most of every moment. I’ve never enjoyed beach world vacations, theater, or sitting on my couch watching Tri-V. I don’t want to blow my credits on fine dining or art. I’d far rather pilot a CASPer into a nest of murderers and perform a pro bono community killing service. Skipper said he might have a Mk 6 for me.”

  They held each other tight.

  “Don’t say another word,” said Branco.

  “Why? Do you think I’m wrong?”

  “No, you silly muffin. I think if you say another word, I’d love you so much my heart would burst. Let’s do it. Let’s kick these Scythe asses. Fight for a cause I can understand in my belly for once, and then earn our passage back to Station 5 before our friends give up on us.”

  Movement!

  Sun whipped her head around and saw a nine-barreled rifle poking around the back wall of the yard, followed by a large man in a red greatcoat.

  “Oh, it’s you,” said Jenkins. He did a double-take and burst into laughter. “Nice to see you all loved up, Sun. I guess I’m not the only one who can change.”

  Sun ignored his words. “We made a decision; we’re joining the Spine Patriots.”

  “Temporarily,” Branco insisted.

  Sun grinned back at him, but her good mood died when she saw his hollow eyes.

  Temporarily was all Branco had left.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Kobbister Atoll, Bazenn Sea, Thananya

  Over the neighboring atolls, delta-winged birds swooped over warm seas painted a thousand perfect shades of turquoise. Through her binocs, Sun could see fish thrashing in the aerial hunters’ talons as they were borne aloft.

  They weren’t really birds, of course. These local equivalents were poresano, hollow-boned reptiles that looked like a cross between bats and pterosaurs, but their preferred prey were genuine tropical Terran fish, and the warm seas that offered crystal-clear views of vibrant coral gardens were perfect vacation islands that could have been the Maldives in their heyday.

  This, though, was a vacation with guns.

  Which suited Sun very nicely.

  Not that it looked as if she were going to fire any. She had a C-Tech GP-90 pistol and a pair of throwing knives. She didn’t think any of them were going to leave her belt today. While the Spine Patriots assaulted the Scythe base at Stromsay, she and Branco were stuck here as advisers, ten miles away on a little atoll called Kobbister.

  It was an artificially constructed island paradise, the former pleasure home of an Endless Night lieutenant before the Battle of Station 5 in which she and her sister had given the pirates a thrashing. She didn’t want to think what the minor Bakulu crime lord had gotten up to in his abandoned palace. Despite being largely stripped out by looters, it still retained excellent connectivity and made a good spot for their command post.

  After the battle, she could relax in a hammock stretched between the trunks of the coconut palms or dip her toes in the warm lagoon water. You couldn’t do that in space! She told herself to make damned sure she took plenty of photos to show off to her sister stuck at Station 5.

  “Captain Yendel reports he’s in position and moving to assault.” Branco looked up at Jenkins from his comm station. “Do you want me to put it on the speakers?”

  Jenkins grabbed at the lapels of his coat and loomed over Branco. “Are you able to perform competently?” He spoke as if delivering an accusation. Did he know about the pain meds?

  Branco didn’t hesitate. “Yes, Skipper.”

  “Then I rely upon your analysis. Update us through the screen.”

  With a cheeky grin on his face that Sun hadn’t seen since they’d broken into Crazy Notion, he activated the Tri-V battle map. Sun’s heart leapt. He was using his pinplants again without pain. Maybe his meds were for the best after all.

  The display came to life over the portable emitter on the bare floor. It showed the island of Stromsay, from its mountainous peaks down to the underwater village that now housed six Scythe submersibles. They were colored red to indicate they were hostile and hatched to show their placement was based on the previous day’s recon mission and not live data.

  Stromsay had been a fishing island until the Scythe had shown up in their dropships. About two miles across, it was the largest of a chain of impact craters from an ancient war. Within a horseshoe of obsidian ridges, wide beaches of fine, white sand had formed, and it was at the farthest end from the narrow inlet that the Scythe had made their base.

  The Spine Patriot assault advanced through the shallow waters of that inlet. The Zuul commander, Captain Yendel, was in overall command and would personally lead the land forces. The underwater team was led by Lieutenant Pegnodella, a chef in her regular life. She was a Cartar, a member of an aquatic race that resembled a Goltar stripped of its natural bone armor with a recessed toothy anus for a mouth rather than the Goltar red beak. Sun found it hard not to stare whenever Pegnodella spoke.

  Jenkins turned his attention to Sun. “Can you record and replay everything with your pins?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, because I want you to observe, learn, and then tell us what we can do better next time. We’ve harried the Scythe across the nebula, but this is our first real stand up fight, and it won’t be the last. We need to up our game.”

  “Roger that.” Sun itched to be in command—to do this right. But she bit her lip and held her advice. It would do no good to be a remote back seat commander from afar. If Jenkins trusted his frontline commanders, so must she.

  This time.

  She brushed away her frustrations and observed the events as they unfolded.

  To avoid detection, the air breathers had swum in just above the seabed or been dragged underwater to their assembly zones by Pegnodella’s aquatic Patriots.

  Branco’s battle map showed the first Patriots to emerge from the water were a dozen Vaga, brilliantly
jeweled beetle-like aliens the size of manatees, whose prodigious strength gave them employment throughout the nebula as heavy manual laborers.

  At the beachhead, observation drones were thrown into the air, allowing Branco to augment his map with real-time windows onto the battle.

  The polished head mantels of the Vaga were always impressive, but dripping wet under the clear skies, the brilliance of their iridescent yellow and green carapaces was a marvel of the galaxy.

  Their watery sheen soon flashed to steam as Scythe sentries in the obsidian hills fired down on them with lasers.

  Vaga mantles were not merely beautiful, but they made excellent reflective armor. The laser volleys achieved only light pitting.

  The Vaga stood tall and advanced up the beach.

  An assault team of humanoids commando-crawled beneath the bellies of the Vaga, ducking out to fire at the sentries on the hills.

  The Vaga themselves were unarmed, marching bravely on in their role as living armor.

  The Patriot recon mission had spotted the Scythe position guarding the inlet and noted their laser rifles, but the Scythe had other weapons, too. Grenades rained down from the hillside.

  Branco’s Tri-V panels were obscured by the spray of sand thrown up by multiple explosions. When the air cleared, it revealed the ruined corpses of one Vaga and the Human who had sheltered beneath. The other Vaga still survived, but one was swaying on its feet, its head armor cracked.

  A laser beam made visible by the sand hanging in the air lanced through the crack in the alien’s armor and sliced into its insides. It wrought a terrible carnage on the alien, but the laser beam was like a finger pointing back to the firer. A fusillade of Patriot weapons retaliated, silencing this, the last of the Scythe guards.

  Steam boiled out from the dead Vaga who collapsed to the sand. Just in time, the Blevin sheltering beneath rolled sideways to safety.