The Warlord’s Path
Samair in Argos: Book the Sixth
By: Michael Kotcher
Copyright 2017 by Michael Kotcher
All rights reserved.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental. All events and characters depicted herein are the results of my imagination.
Proofread by Maureen Nealon (thank you as always!)
Cover art by gugo78 on deviantart.com. Used with permission.
Acknowledgments
Big shout out to Mike Horne for his notes and ideas for TrinaMarie and Shotgun Bob. Without your input and ideas, they would not exist. Thank you for letting me include them in this (and subsequent) stories! Caleb, Josh, Chris, and Mo thanks for the brainstorm sessions about pirate activities and various other problems. Amber, I’m honored and flattered that you considered my words good enough to get that tattoo. (She posted a pic on my FB fan page, Samair in Argos. If you haven’t seen it, go and check it out!)
Want to thank the usual suspects, friends and family, for your support while making this book.
Once again, I want to thank all of you, the fans, for whom without your support, this would not be possible.
Table of Contents
The Republic War Report
The Warlord’s Fist
Prologue
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
Epilogue
The Fat Prize
Author’s Notes
Afterward
The Republic War Report
Republic Navy security file, KB11620Y-99N242
Subject: Federation Task force 1074
Task Force 1074, alternatively known as the Kingslayer squadron, deployed to the Argos Cluster in the last six months of the war to attempt to flank Republic assets in the area in a last ditch effort to attack Republic worlds. The plan was doomed to failure from the start, as Task Force 1074’s numbers proved insufficient to the mission.
TF 1074 breakdown by numbers:
11 Shrike-class destroyers
9 Regea-class light cruisers
5 Warhammer-class heavy cruisers
3 Tigre-class battlecruisers
1 Goliath-class battleship
Post battle analysis showed that a large portion of TF 1074 was obliterated by the remaining Republic forces during the final battle. Republic Cruiser Squadron 578, led by Commodore Telsedore on flagship, Battlecruiser Swift Strike, managed to defeat and destroy TF 1074, including the flagship, the Kingslayer. Other ships in the task force were smashed into clouds of debris, but five of the destroyers, one light cruiser and the Kingslayer itself remained mauled but largely intact. Republic Ordnance, Supply and Salvage have determined that sending out additional ships to bring in the hulks is not cost-effective, considering the damage. Power cores and ordnance were removed from the hulls and destroyed; further damage was deemed unnecessary.
Republic Naval Intelligence believes the discovery and salvage of these ships by locals in the Argos Cluster to be a possibility, but remote.
The Warlord’s Fist
Warlord Verrikoth is no longer a pirate, out looking for loot. Those days are behind him. No, he means to rule the Argos Cluster and to do that, he needs ships, and he needs soldiers and sailors. He also needs the worlds under his banner to be safe and productive, and perhaps a tour of those worlds is warranted. His banner must be shown and if necessary, the saber rattled… or blooded.
Prologue
There should be clear understandings in this world. Affirmative or negative. Up or down. Happy or sad. Life was a series of binary decisions; it was when people tried to complicate that with emotions, double talk and what-ifs that things fell apart.
Robert Darling leaned against the operations console aboard the cargo ship TrinaMarie’s bridge, taking in a slow lungful of acrid-smelling air and then let it out. Until eight months ago, life was a simple binary choice: obey orders or die. It made life safe, secure and clear.
He was navigator aboard the independent tradeship TrinaMarie. She was big, over three hundred meters in length at the keel, with four large cargo holds and with a crew of sixty-two. Her best hyperspeed was top of the Yellow of the hyperspace rainbow, and she even spouted a pair of laser turrets on the dorsal and ventral sides.
Many moons and years had passed since then, as his grandmother had been wont to say, though she was light years behind him now, both literally and figuratively speaking. He tried to stomp the memories down, but they rushed to the surface, uncaring about his wishes.
The settlement on the moon of Pollux 2. The raid by pirates and his subsequent capture. Then his being brought to the bridge of this ship, his new home and prison for the next nineteen years. In fact, he’d been confined to the bridge, to this compartment for all that time, more than he’d occupied any other in his life. A shackle connected his ankle to the navigation console by a long steel chain, a shackle that was as much a part of him now as the limb it was attached to. The chain was long enough to reach the refresher station just off the bridge and his bedroll on the deck off to the starboard side of the bridge.
Captain Demarbiex, a glossy-carapaced hak’ruk male, commanded the TrinaMarie with equal measures of discipline and rage. No one in the crew was safe from those rages, except for perhaps Zezisz, the zheen environmental specialist, who somehow managed to keep the enviro plant in good order and the algae matrices scrubbing. The environmental section of the ship (compared to all the others) was clean and in good repair. The vents and ducts throughout the ship, however, could all use a good cleaning, so while the air was pure when it left environmental, it was considerably less so when it got elsewhere within the ship.
The rest of the ship was not kept the same standard. A layer of grime and corrosion coated every surface. The power conduits throughout the ship were patched and repatched, but were still festooned with pinhole leaks, and whole sections that were sheathed in poorly insulated fibercrete. There were badly patched holes in the hull, the reactor (operating at between eighteen and twenty percent) barely managed to pump out enough juice to run the shields, navigation, life support and hyperdrives all at the same time and just to add insult to injury, the main exterior bay doors for cargo bay three were jammed shut.
Captain Demarbiex never seemed concerned with that, so long as his ship kept moving which brought them to that fateful day, eight months ago. Demarbiex had spotted a nice-looking transport transiting through the Marvano Star System and had moved to intercept. It was a passenger liner, making the run between the heavily populated and industrial center on the second planet (also called Marvano) to Vellicote, a mineral-rich moon and habitat in orbit of a frozen rock out on the edge of the system. Marvano was one of Demarbiex’s favorite haunts, due to a large amount of in-system traffic but low level of defense ships. What few there were tended to stay on patrol near the planet Marvano itself.
The captain was fond of relieving those who couldn’t stand up to him of their possessions, in addition to hauling some legitimate cargoes between nearby worlds. The lightly armed freighter wasn’t really suited for taking on any serious opposition, but Demarbiex had a plan for that. At a salvage dump on the planet Volarus, he got his glossy black talons on a pair of junked starfighters, registered as condemned. This didn�
��t bother the hak’ruk, as the small ships weren’t meant to fly. Two hard suited engineers went EVA and welded the starfighters to either side of the bow, pointed forward. Control runs and power lines were run from the small ships through TrinaMarie’s hull to two improvised gunnery stations just inside. The new armament of six laser cannons, even if they were starfighter scale, gave a huge boost to the cargo ship’s firepower.
Things went smoothly enough on approach. TrinaMarie fired off a few shots, and the transport cut her engines. Robert smoothly plotted an intercept course to bring them alongside. Megan Tremere, the beautiful yet emotionally broken human pilot, engaged the ship’s engines without comment, easily matching the plot. Two years passed since the poor woman had spoken aloud, after the near continual brutalizations she’d received at the hands of some of the crew, humans and aliens alike. Robert couldn’t blame her. He was beaten on more than one occasion (per week) often for the slightest (perceived) provocation, but based on some of the screams that used to echo through the corridors of this Hell-vessel, he could imagine quite well what she’d been through.
When her shift would end, she would numbly walk off the bridge, heading off to the mess hall and berthing spaces, to her waiting tormentors. She couldn’t hide. She’d tried to fight at the beginning, but they’d overwhelmed her time and again, now she simply accepted it and went to them. Being meek and submissive spared her from the worst of the hurt. Robert watched her go every time, noting how unresponsive her face and eyes were as she walked past his station. He would reach out, as he always did, brushing his fingertips against the back of her hand, trying to offer what small comfort he could. He couldn’t help. He couldn’t save her. Robert Darling was as much a useless prisoner as Megan Tremere.
She didn’t so much as flinch in acknowledgment, bat an eyelash, nor slow her shuffle out of the command compartment. On that day, he let out a tiny sigh, as he always did and then went back to his console, slaving helm controls to his navigation station. With Megan gone, piloting duties fell to him, and Robert smoothly kept the cargo vessel in docking position.
“Send the boarding team,” Demarbiex said in his high-pitched, almost simpering voice. Without checking security feeds or even being able to hear, Robert knew that the dozen heavily armed thugs charged through the boarding tube into the transport’s airlock. The Severite Sashek, the comms specialist, nodded in acknowledgment of the order.
Demarbiex began emitting a series of harsh, almost guttural tones, his equivalent of an evil chuckle while internal sensors showed the boarding team crossing over into the other ship. In a few minutes, the other ship would be under his control, any valuables and other pretties would start making their way over to TrinaMarie.
A sensor icon flashed urgent and red on Robert’s display for a moment. He started to check it but then the whole ship rocked, and then it bucked hard, inertial dampeners screaming as they attempted to compensate. Alarms shrieked as every bridge display suddenly started flashing red warnings.
“What just happened?” Demarbiex demanded, his voice painful in its intensity.
Robert picked himself up off the deck and immediately checked his displays. “The transport blew their fuel cells on our side of the ship. We’ve taken damage, and we’ve been broken loose. Heavy damage on our port side. Both cargo bays breached, we are venting air.”
His head rocked to the side as the hak’ruk backhanded him. The captain rushed out of his command seat to come forward to see for himself. Robert slumped against the navigation console. Picking himself up, he saw the captain standing beside him. “Then get the breaches sealed up!” the creature growled at him.
Robert nodded dully, his head throbbing and ears ringing from the blow. “Yes, Captain,” he said, typing commands. He could hear the captain shouting orders over the comms, but Robert tuned him out, only really listening for anything aimed at him. Anything automatic that could be closed or sealed, he directed it to do so. For the ones he couldn’t, Robert got on the comms to find crewmen who could close hatches or slap a patch plate over a hole.
Long, frightening moments passed while he watched the ship’s available atmo tick ever lower. After the reserve dropped just below seventy percent, they leveled off, and he saw the red alarm icons switch to yellow or gray as the hull breaches were sealed. Tight as a drum, TrinaMarie was not, but no longer was she venting O2.
“Integrity holding, Captain,” he reported, wincing as the glossy black figure whirled to face him. The captain did not strike him again, much to his relief.
The hak’ruk emitted a discordant, almost trilling hum. “Level us out. Bring us back around. Tactical!” the captain screeched. “Train the guns on that ship!” He was raving now, constantly humming, his arms flailing wildly. Robert began the turn, but the damage and the non-responding thrusters were telling him it would be a half hour before he would be able to get the ship back to docking position.
“Captain, our boarding party is still over there!” the Severite at comms stated, his eyes on the deck.
“Fire! Fire!” the hak’ruk demanded, whirling and rushing over to the tactical station, one flailing limb striking Robert across the chest as he went past. Caught completely flat-footed, Robert fell backward, his arms pinwheeling. He careened back and slammed hard against the operations console. “They will pay! Fire!”
And another of those binary decisions. Demarbiex was distracted by his focus on his own rage, and his sharpened talons cut red furrows in the Severite’s chest as he barreled past the cat to tactical. It wasn’t a serious wound, but enough to draw blood and to make him drop to the deck and yowl in pain. Robert looked to his right, seeing the emergency arms locker. Without a moment’s hesitation, Robert Darling made his choice. He rolled off the console, reached out one hand and the weight of an assault shotgun was in his arms.
A shot exploded through the bridge and Robert flinched involuntarily. Another one rang through the metal bulkheads just as an ear-splitting keening noise ripped through the bridge. The noise abruptly stopped, and Demarbiex dropped to the deck, twitching.
Robert was breathing heavily; he wasn’t sure why. He was also pushed up against the ops console, but he didn’t remember stepping back. His ears were ringing, a solid, persistent tone. He worked his jaw and swallowed a few times, and his ears popped. He pushed off the console with his hip and moved forward to inspect the scene.
What was left was a gooey, ichor covered mess. Robert blinked in surprise and disgust. He wasn’t sure what kind of ammo load the weapon used, but it was obviously some sort of military grade shot. Demarbiex’s glossy black carapace was riddled with holes. Those holes had blasted apart the carapace, showering the bulkhead, the deck and the tactical console with obsidian shards and green ichor.
“You, you killed him,” Sashek said, clutching his wounded chest.
Robert suddenly found his arms swiveling the heavy assault weapon to point at the brown cat. He yowled again this time in fear. “No, no! No shoot!” Realizing what he was doing, Robert lowered the business end of the weapon to point at the deck, but he didn’t release it.
“Now what do we do?” Sashek asked, blinking furiously.
“Wipe off that console,” Robert told him, flicking his chin at the tactical console. “Then call the transport. Tell them we need to work together if we want to survive. Or they die. Binary decision.” Of course, they were still within a planetary star system, so it was possible that the locals might be able to send a ship out to help. Of course, that would first presuppose that they had a ship out this way and it looked as though the very transport TrinaMarie had just attacked was the only starship this far out. Short range shuttles flew up and around the moon, but they didn’t have the range even to reach the two ships now, much less get back.
“What in shades did you… do?” a voice came from the bridge hatch. Robert turned to see Truelove, a burly, scarred face human standing in the hatchway; a man who usually acted as Demarbiex’s below decks enforcer. His scarred face was tw
isted into a mask of grief and hate.
“He was going to murder our men on the other ship,” Robert said, his voice devoid of emotion, unable to stop his left eye from twitching. “I stopped him.”
Truelove’s skin went puce and his fists clenched. “You little… you…!” the big man’s voice had degenerated to growls.
He is a dangerous man, Robert mused. A threat. Truelove barely took one step when the shotgun roared. The buckshot tore through the man’s shipsuit at the meaty part of the left thigh. His eye twitched again as blood sprayed the bulkhead. Truelove’s face contorted in pain as his thigh was shredded.
Robert raised the weapon to his shoulder and fired again. The man’s chest all but vaporized in a cloud of blood, and he crashed noisily to the deck and lay still, blood pooling rapidly around him. Without a single whit of emotion, Robert stepped up to the body and fired another shot into Truelove’s head. He looked away as it exploded like a melon.
He sighed in disgust at the gore that lightly spattered his shipsuit. Stepping past the corpse, Robert walked over to the captain’s chair and pressed a control on the arm. The shipwide PA sounded. “Pilot Tremere to the bridge,” he stated calmly, just as he had countless times before. “Pilot Tremere to the bridge.” Calling her to the bridge meant that the captain wanted her there, which meant that the games below decks would stop. Demarbiex allowed a great deal to go on aboard his ship, but he did not tolerate interference with crewmen who were about their assigned tasks. After shift was another story. Of course, with the massive hit the ship had just taken, perhaps the horrible games down below decks would have stopped.
The Warlord's Path: Samair in Argos: Book 6 Page 1
