Terra Prime (The Terran Legacy Book 2)

by Rob Dearsley

  He broke into a run. “Slater. Thank the Stars.” He pulled her into a fierce hug, lifting her from the deck. “Don’t do that to me.”

  “I’m okay.” She batted his shoulder. “It’s okay.”

  “Should probably swing by medical though,” the blond said. Lloyd didn’t recognise his voice so he must be Luc.

  He turned to the taller man, Dannage, who was staring into the middle distance, his eyes flicking side to side as though he were looking for something.

  “Captain Dannage.” Lloyd extended his hand to the cargo-ship captain.

  Dannage shook his head, blinking like someone awoken from sleep. “Sorry.”

  “Thank you so much for helping. If there’s anything I can do for you.”

  “It’s…” Dannage trailed off his eyes tracking something over Lloyds shoulder and loosing focus.

  Lloyd frowned. He’d have pegged the man as being drunk, but there was no smell of alcohol on his breath.

  Without warning, Dannage legs crumpled and he slumped into Lloyd’s arms.

  “Medic. Get me a medic!” Lloyd lowered Dannage to the deck. Dannage’s pulse was racing, his breathing fast and shallow. And was he crying?

  He looked a question up at Luc. What the hells was going on?

  Two

  (Granite IV)

  Torrential rain beat a hollow staccato on the tin roof. Commander Shauna Arland looked around at the other members of her strike team. Each of them garbed in black hard-shell and combat harnesses filled with the tools of their trade.

  They were probably over-equipped to deal with one black market bio-engineer, but there’d been suggestions he’d been splicing Turned DNA into his guards.

  Arland could still remember fighting the mutated Terrans, the twisted abominations the Terran ships had created as foot soldiers. Impossibly fast and strong and immune to small arms fire. So overwhelming force it was.

  Fyffe, the team’s young technician, activated the portable holo-display. The glowing orange hologram of their target building bathed their faces in soft light, glinting off their hard-shell.

  Arland liked the young tech. Fyffe’s slight frame and dexterous, nervous fingers reminded Arland of Jax, the Folly’s engineer. She missed the Folly, especially Dannage and his roguish charm.

  She shook the memories off. It wasn’t the time for reminiscing.

  “Good news is, we have good sight-lines on the building. Bad news is the entry is a bit of a nightmare,” said Ellis, the team’s scout and sniper, a rangy man with piercing blue eyes. He moved the holographic map. “Alleyway is tight, single file.”

  Arland could see what he was talking about on the hologram. Barely a crack between two buildings. She tapped a control, zooming the hologram in on the building. “Plans show a single basement entrance, so it doesn’t get better once we’re inside.”

  The team’s final member, Rutter, pushed through the door and slipped his hulking shoulders out of the rain-soaked poncho. “We sure this Craven fellow is in there?”

  Fyffe checked her flex-screen. “Intel says he has a wetware lab set up in the basement. But it’s all hearsay. No hard evidence.”

  Ellis’s eyes flicked over his own flex-screen. “Any luck breaking into his coms?”

  “Not even a little bit.” Frustration filled Fyffe’s voice. “It’s encrypted out the wazoo, and he bounces signals half-way around the damn system.”

  Arland leaned back, letting the conversation continue around her. She’d been working with the team for a couple of months now. Pretty much since she’d re-joined the SDF. It was good to be back in the military.

  As happy as she was with her new group, as well as they gelled, she missed the sense of family on the Folly.

  For a moment she let the drumbeat of the rain wash over her. Cleansing.

  “Sir?” Rutter eyed her suspiciously.

  “Just thinking,” she replied. “What about throw-drones?” The SDF throw-drones were rubberised black spheres equipped with a suit of sensors and a gyroscopic motor.

  Fyffe inspected the ceiling as she thought it over. “Could work. If we can find them a way in. If they’re running a lab down there, they must have air circulators.” She started working her flex.

  Ellis leaned forward, reorienting the holographic plans of the building. “I spotted some HVAC units on the roof while I was scoping out the area.”

  “Yes. That could work.” Fyffe manipulated the hologram. “We’d need a way to get it in there without being spotted.”

  “I can bounce it over there with a launcher,” Ellis said.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Arland said. “Let’s get to it.”

  By the time they were in position atop the building opposite Craven’s warehouse, the rain had lessened to an incessant drizzle. Arland left the hood of her poncho down but hunkered down against the weather. Beside her, Fyffe loaded the matte-black, spherical throw drone into the launcher. Then she checked something on her flex, adjusted the drone and tapped more controls on her flex.

  “We good?” Ellis asked, impatient.

  “Just another sec.” Fyffe tapped another control on her flex.

  “We only get one shot at this,” Arland said, placing a hand on Ellis’s shoulder. “Besides, marksman like you should be the epitome of patience.”

  Rutter’s voice filtered over their headsets. “You know the drill. Hurry up and wait.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Ellis replied. “You’re not waiting on this damn roof… in the rain.”

  “Sorted,” Fyffe said. “Ready when you are.”

  “I’ve been ready for the last-”

  Arland cut Ellis off, “Get to it then.”

  “Got it, boss.” He took the launcher from Fyffe and lined it up on the opposite roof, peering through the sights.

  Arland dropped into the spotter’s position, crouching by the low parapet and lifting the binoculars to her eyes. The roof of Craven’s building was empty, even the local birds were hiding somewhere away from the bad weather. The two squat HVAC units sat in the centre of the roof, their fans slowly revolving just about visible when she zoomed in.

  “Northern unit range is fifty-seven meters,” Arland said. She tapped a control on the binoculars and more information played out across the lenses. “No wind to speak of.”

  Ellis adjusted his stance and aimed higher with the bulky launcher. Arland could see him going through the steps. Sight up, take a beat, breathe, and squeeze.

  The launcher bucked with a dull thump and the drone sailed through the steely sky toward Craven’s rooftop. The drone landed, just short of the HVAC and bounced. For a moment it looked like it was going to make it as it rocked on the edge of the HVAC about to fall back to the roof. Damn.

  “Fyffe,” Arland snapped. “Go forward.”

  The technician worked her flex as the drone rocked back over the edge. It teetered, the gyro motors fighting against the inexorable pull of gravity as the drone tipped past its balance point. Stars, please, get up there.

  The drone rocked back and rolled toward the vent.

  Arland let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. She gave Ellis an irritated look. He was supposed to be a good marksman. Maybe not as good as her, but he’d gotten top marks training before he’d been selected into the ranger program. It was her own fault really. She should have seen he wasn’t in the right mindset after all his griping and taken the shot herself.

  “Sir, we’re getting good visuals.” Fyffe’s voice broke Arland’s thoughts off.

  She and Ellis crowded around the young tech. The camera feed from the drone filled the middle third of her fully unfolded flex. The low-light visuals painted the vent shaft in shades of green. Arland’s mind provided the soft whirring of gyroscopes as the drone moved forward, the sides of the vent fish-eyeing as they went. It wasn’t long before they reached one of the vertical shafts.

  Fyffe worked the controls, angling the camera downward. “LIDAR says it’s a sixteen-meter drop.”
>
  “Plans say, building’s five stories plus the basement,” Rutter said over the com-link.

  “So, the bottom of the shaft is approximately level with the ceiling in the basement,” Fyffe said. “Should I drop it down?”

  Arland nodded.

  For a split second the screen was a blur of green and grey, then the drone hit the bottom of the vent. Despite the rubberised surface and its small thrusters helping to cushion the impact, the image fractured as it bounced and seesawed drunkenly, before steading. Once it had recovered from the drop, Fyffe guided the drone forward, down the new vent. Regular HVAC walls rolled past. Shafts of light cut across the vent shaft, whiting out the screen for a moment.

  “Go back,” Arland said.

  Fyffe complied, rolling the drone back a pace and flicked the screen to normal light.

  There it was. A small grill on the right. Arland’s lips curled into a small smile as the drone pushed in closer, giving them a good view over the basement.

  Stars. Arland recoiled from the screen.

  “Boss?” Ellis’s voice stayed low.

  “I’m good.” Arland focussed on the details of the basement – at least as far as they could see. It was a large, open space – maybe the full width of the building above – broken by crete columns. A row of benches marked the place as a wetware lab. Stringy flesh stretched between electrodes, convulsing in time with the current. Tanks of orange nutrient fluid bubbled. And other things Arland didn’t want to think about.

  “Can you zoom in on that?” Ellis asked, pointing toward a series of tables toward the middle of the room.

  At Fyffe’s touch, the view zoomed in on one of the tables. A shrouded shape took up most of the table-top. Even beneath the covering, Arland instantly recognised the flared head of a Turned. Was he autopsying the Turned? No. He couldn’t be that stupid. Why would anyone want to do anything with the Turned?

  For a moment, Arland was back in the Terran X-Ship’s engine room. Flanked by marines, she held the line against the charging Turned, their feral screams loud enough to feel through the deck. Their sandstone-like claws ripping through her armour, ripping into her flesh.

  “This is all the evidence we need. We should move in.” Ellis’s voice brought Arland back to reality.

  Arland’s had strayed to her side. The wound was long healed, but she still had the memory of the Turned’s claws digging into her.

  “Maybe,” Fyffe said, her dexterous fingers dancing over her flex. “I mean there’s plenty of evidence, but where are the people?”

  “We can still shut down the lab,” Ellis said.

  Arland shook her head. “SDF wants Craven in custody more than they want the lab shut down. We watch and wait. Someone’s got to show up at some point. Rutter, Fyffe and I are heading back to base. Ellis stay put and monitor the building. I’ll swap out with you at eighteen-hundred hours local.”

  Leaving Ellis to settle into the sniper’s nest, Arland and Fyffe started down from the roof.

  ◊◊

  Michael Dannage floated in space – No not him, a Terran ship. He– They drifted through the wreckage of a system. Smashed stations and habitats. Abandoned after its destruction, it was a good place to hide. The Terran ship darted past one of the larger moons. Above the moon, debris tumbled in geosynchronous orbit – the remnants of a spacescraper. Dannage knew the system. Gypsum. Grief washed over him. This was where Sam, his sister, had died. Where the Terran ships and their Turned had killed her. He could still feel her slipping through his fingers, falling away from him, the Turned washing over her.

  “Medic. Get me a medic!” Captain Lloyd’s voice seemed to come from very far away.

  Dannage blinked his eyes open into the stabbing brilliance of the overhead lights. He threw up a hand to shield his eyes. This wasn’t the Folly’s medical cabin. It was too big for a start. So, where was he? Off to his right were another couple of beds – both with neatly folded sheets, both empty.

  Luc’s voice came from his other side. “Cap’n, you’re awake.”

  “I hope so,” Dannage replied sitting up and raking his hands through his dark curls.

  A medic in a loose-fitting, green tunic marched over, a flex rolled in her right hand.

  “What happened?” Dannage asked, hoping to head her off before she started running tests.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” She unrolled her flex, tapping at its screen.

  “We were talking to Captain Lloyd on the flight deck.” He’d be damned if he was going to tell her about the Terran voices or the visions that still clawed at the periphery of his awareness.

  “You collapsed,” the medic informed them. “Scans don’t show anything untoward. And your vitals are good now. I’d like to do more tests.”

  Dannage cut her off. “No. I’m fine now. You said it yourself.” He swung his legs off the bed, glad they hadn’t had time to get him out of his clothes. But where was his coat?

  “Cap’n, are you sure?” Luc said from behind him. “Maybe they can help.”

  “No.” There it was. His coat hung from a rail behind the medic. He reached past her to grab it. “I’m okay. Let’s just get gone.”

  He didn’t want them poking around inside his head.

  Dannage swept out into the hallway, Luc trailing behind him. He took a right aiming for the station’s outer ring.

  “Captain Dannage.” Lloyd’s voice was followed by running footfalls, then the captain’s strong hand clamped on his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re up and about. You were out for the count.”

  “Thanks.” Dannage kept walking.

  “No worries. I owe you one for Slater.”

  Dannage turned left through an intersection looking for some damn signage.

  “You know the flight deck is back the other way?”

  Dannage stopped, dropping his head and sighing. He couldn’t help but laugh. “Lead on.” He and Luc fell in behind Lloyd.

  Before long they were back in the bustle of the flight deck. Lloyd’s fighter had been moved to storage, but the Folly still rested on her landing pad, waiting patiently for him. Always there. Ready and waiting.

  After bidding farewell to Lloyd and enduring a bone-crushing hug – of course, he was a hugger – Dannage climbed the ramp into the comforting artificial freefall of the Folly’s hold. Dannage pushed off toward the bridge.

  “Cap’n.” Luc caught the handrail on the opposite side of the bridge door and positioned himself to block Dannage’s entry. “What’s goin’ on? You haven’t been yourself for months and now this. I know you’re not sleeping.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” He didn’t even want to think about it.

  System jump four-five-one, the damn whispering started up again.

  “Cap’n. Michael. It’s just you and me, so talk to me, damn-it.”

  Saying it would make it real. He barged past Luc and onto the bridge.

  “Fine.” Luc followed him into the bridge’s gravity. “But keepin’ it to your self won’t make it go away.”

  A chirp from the com system saved Dannage from having to answer. “Folly, this is Liberty flight control, you are cleared for departure.”

  “Copy that, Liberty,” Dannage said, slipping into his chair and starting the pre-flight.

  “Are you safe to fly?” Luc asked from behind him.

  System jump complete. Scanning…

  No! Stars damn-it. Dannage pushed the voices down. He’d be damned if he the bloody voices take the last of the joy from his life. The Terrans had already taken so much, but not this, never the Folly. He punched the thrusters and the Folly shot forward, fast enough to make Luc stumble. There was a flicker as they passed through the static field and into the vacuum of space. Flying, surrounded by endless night. It felt right.

  The voice pressed in again. The Terran cruiser Vanir. Ships detected. Minimal threat. Flight path plotted.

  For a moment he was floating through endless night, local SDF fighters on the periphery
of his senses. He was the Vanir, or so close it made little difference.

  “Cap’n?” Luc’s voice echoed through the back of his mind, unimportant.

  Dannage recognised SDF installations and human habitats orbiting the inner planets.

  Fifteen SDF ships disconnected from their moorings on stations and habitats across the system, falling into formation as they bore along arching engagement tracks. Log-range scanners pinged off the Terran ship’s – the Vanir’s hull.

  A warning alarm buzzed. The Folly’s proximity alarm. Dannage pushed the visions down, struggling to hold his scattered mind together. The proximity alarm sounded again as a gas haulier loomed large through the cupola.

  Stars. Dannage hauled on the flight controls pulling them up away from the curved tanks of the haulier. Liberty flight control and the haulier’s captain yelled through the coms but they were lost to the voices inside Dannage’s own head.

  Targets incoming…

  The Vanir’s threat detection systems painted the ships analysing their weapon’s capability. They presented a minimal threat to the massive warship. The Vanir’s effective weapons range was twice theirs.

  Reports of other ships being torn apart by SDF super cruisers flooded active memory. Pain, fire.

  Threat profiles were modified. New assessment. Disengage, effect a retreat. Run! Effective retreat vectors plotted across the system glowing lines shooting through space. The Vanir diverted power to engines.

  “Cap’n? Cap’n?” Luc’s eyes were filled with concern. “It happened again didn’t it? You need to get some help. We should go back to Liberty and get them to check you over properly.”

  “Damn-it, no. I don’t want them poking around in my head.”

  “If not them, then someone.” Luc pulled Dannage from the pilot’s chair. “Maybe we can find the Doc?”