The Mongrel: A Military Sci-Fi Series (Hunter's Moon Book 1) Page 9

  “What in the Twin Hells is going on?”

  Duschene looked over to the armored duo. “Join the lancers. See the sights. Get to play with the best tech that...”

  A blaster bolt ricocheted off the hull of the APC, ripping into Duschene. His attempt at levity was cut short by the round entering his helmet, knocking him prone against the tarmac.

  Solere choked into the Battle-net. “PDCs! Hit back with something heavy!”

  Costa laid him flat, reactivating the shield on his arm. A warning sensor flared to life in his HUD.

  >>WARNING: Shield Integrity at 40 percent.

  Costa tried to stay low while his armor unfolded a gyroscopic arm from his back. The mount folded over his left shoulder attached to a small rocket pod. Stepping from the cover of the ramp, the shield flashed to life. Blaster fire from the ship bounced off of the shield, sending up an array of sparks. Baby Doll tried firing low to seek a way around the shield, digging deep gouges in the carcrete tarmac.

  It took half a breath for the battle-frame's combat computer to lock on to target. The white launch-signature of the micro-missile taking flight filled the space under the APC. Streaks of blaster fire took on gleaming halos as they passed through the smoke, aggressively seeking to chew through Costa's shield.

  >>WARNING: Shield Integrity at 18 percent.

  “Hold on, mon cher.” The ship's voice was sultry and elegant. If silk had a sound, it would sound very close to Baby Doll. Even as warning sensors chimed and desperate holo-advisories vied for Kel's attention, Doll's voice was satin and lace.

  “Whoa!” Kel hadn't strapped in before the world had exploded into mayhem. This mattered little to Doll. She was programmed for preservation of self, mission, and her principal. In the past, it would have been the Force Commander. Now it was Kel. While being knocked around the cockpit was technically a violation of that protocol, Doll saw being shot down as the greater of two evils.

  The ship blasted into the air to avoid the attack. Doll deployed countermeasures of brilliant smoke trailing flares, exiting from both sides. The ship swayed, banking sideways to avoid the projectile completely. The missile stormed through the smoke, detonating where its target had been.

  “Might I suggest we move out of the line of fire.” Doll cooed.

  Kel climbed back into the pilot's seat, grabbing the restraints. “Great minds think alike! You might want to take care of that APC on the way out.”

  The nose of the ship angled down and shot forward, tracing the wadi away from the fort. Gaining altitude, it juked hard, bringing it back toward the landing pad. From out of the cockpit window, Kel could see the remaining armored trooper plotting a targeting solution against him. Other warnings flashed across the HUD. “Those guys down on the roof are planning to throw a SAGA missile at us. I'm not looking to see how well you can hold up against one of those.”

  “Oh! I agree, mon cher. Another problem. Someone down below is trying to slice into my core system and take control. Can you fly?”

  Kel smiled as he fastened the last of the restraints. “A little bit. I'll take the stick, you hit the slicer with one.”

  The ship bucked just a bit before Kel found the proper tension of the controls. He banked again while pouring power into the main engine. The craft shot forward too fast for either Costa or the lancers on the roof to get a shot, lest they be caught in the blast themselves. Kel brought it into a hard climb, passing the ship over the fort. The inertial compensators struggled with the g-forces, pressing him into the seat.

  “Whatever you did worked; the tech-slicer is no longer trying to gain access.”

  “I figured he was using a wearable system to break in. Those things only have so much range. Do you have defenses up?”

  “I do,” the ship responded gleefully. “Now that I know what to look for. ”

  “Make sure deflectors are at full front as well.” Kel said, rolling the ship over backwards from its climb. He choked a little, trying to breathe through the pressure of the heavy inertia-inducing turn.

  “Are we going back?” Doll sounded surprised.

  “We are going back.” Kel Confirmed. “Good business to keep a promise. Better business to have backup like our new friend.”

  The pressure abated as the roll worked into a dive and the inertial compensators factored in the proper adjustments. Kel armed the main blasters at the front of the ship. He gradually leveled off, heading straight for the landing platform.

  Kel took a straight line for the pads. Lined up with the APC, he primed the forward blaster cannons and loosed energy-bolt-focused chaos toward the ship. The last of the power-armored troopers jumped back under the ship, covering his squad mate with his body. Bolts rent the back of the troop carrier, rocking it sideways with each hit. Baby Doll roared passed the APC, turning the main engines to slag.

  “Yeah!” Kel screamed.

  “Don't celebrate yet, mon cher.”

  Warning sirens roared through the cockpit as a light flashed on a panel just beyond the control yoke. One of the troopers on the roof had enough of a target plot to fire their SAGA missile.

  Kel cursed under his breath. This was the type of stupid and arrogant that got people in the business killed. The missile had a solid lock and was gaining fast.

  Hammering on the throttle, Kel took the ship low into the valley, just beyond the fort. The ship's systems roared to life, with the engines coming to full power. Moving this fast in atmosphere was dangerous. There was never enough room to maneuver. Even more of a concern was that the gravometric projection planes that allowed a ship to fly normally in space wouldn't work planet-side, without major upgrades.

  Kel didn't see the commander requiring such upgrades. He probably used the state-of-the-art ship for a taxi between duty assignments. He couldn't picture the stuffy old military man flying like he stole it, as Kel had often done earlier in his career.

  The missile continued to power after the ship, just keeping pace. Doll sounded concerned for the first time in her life cycle. “I hope you have a plan.”

  “I always have a plan. We are heading straight for the Kabran City Space Port.”

  “Kel, flying through an active traffic pattern, especially at this speed, is the very definition of suicide.”

  “Funny thing about these lancers...” Kel said, through gritted teeth.

  The space port grew ever bigger on the horizon. Kel smiled like a cat about to take down a bird that didn't know he was there. Criminals were hard to predict. There were all types of criminals who did all sorts of crimes. Lancers were not so hard to read. While they came from varied backgrounds, they all felt the same sense of duty. Protect the innocent. Persecute and prosecute the lawless.

  The missile detonated behind them. “...They always try and do the right thing.”

  Kel throttled down and took the ship high above the city. Steering back over open terrain, he kept the ship in a holding pattern above the clouds. The sun was brilliant, cascading off the top of the clouds, allowing Kel to see every nook and cranny in their texture. The sight gave him pause as he had spent the last few years on the ground. “Doll, hold us here. Keep these clouds around us. The ionization will keep us hidden unless someone targets these particular fluffs. You mentioned you were going to deal with the tech-slicer who was trying to creep into the core system. Can you still do that?”

  “It would depend on how good he is. I can try.” Doll said

  Kel adjusted several controls to keep them in an optimum orbit free of prying eyes while having a direct path back to the fort.“See if you can get us a look through their eyes. I have a feeling my friends down there are going to need a quick exit.”

  Ten

  Lasher ran into the hallway, acrid smoke parting for him. The smell of cordite, blood, and dust— the very fragrance of a close quarters fight. Men were down everywhere. They rocked slowly as they either attempted to get up or assess their wounds.

  The fragmentation grenade had exploded, liquefying the metal t
able, sending slag along with its own shrapnel. Pieces of metal littered the blast burns decorating the hallway. The faint echo of the detonation was reverberating off of the adjoining halls, making it seem like a rumbling storm passing by. A metallic taste permeated the hall. Dust and debris mixed with the irritating smoke wafted from the medical bay.

  Two of the lancers had been at the front of the stack when the grenade did its grisly work. Even with the protection of Marshal Brand working the Way, Frazier took the brunt of the blast. He had pushed Williams behind him, intending to take the full weight of the assault for his friends.

  Shards of razor-sharp metal stuck out at odd angles from his armor. His environmental emergency systems had sealed the perforations, making the spiky protrusions appear ornamental. Despite the gear protecting the lancer's core, it was easy to tell that he was in serious trouble. His chest was rising and falling quickly. On-board medical systems did what they could, but long metal shards in the lung, and the problems they caused, were not going away any time soon.

  Lasher dropped to a knee beside the trooper. He was holding a large metal tube similar to the one he had patched himself up with earlier. Robotic Automated Trauma kits were standard gear for all field use throughout the Core Worlds, as well as a staple for the lancers. The one Lasher borrowed on his way out of the medical bay was significantly larger and more advanced.

  He hit one of the quick release buckles to the armored chest plate. Prying it aside, he slammed the tube into Frazier's right side. A loud kathunk from its needle preceded the trooper sitting almost straight up. He grabbed the shoulder strap of Lasher's armor with one hand while fishing for his side arm with the other.

  “Hey, skell hound!” Williams crawled over toward his battle buddy, trying to clear his delirium enough to butt stroke Lasher with his rifle.

  The apprentice swept the weapon aside, guiding it into Frazier's opposing bicep. The butt struck a needle-like piece of shrapnel sticking out, causing the arm to flex in pain. Frazier dropped his pistol. Continuing Williams' momentum, Lasher pulled the man over his friend and relieved him of his rifle. He knelt on top of Frazier's dropped pistol while placing Williams' rifle against the wall. He grabbed Williams' free hand and placed it onto the RAT Kit.

  Lasher spoke directly into the man's helmet. “Hold this here until the nanites inside consume the outer case. This is a surgical grade RAT Kit. It will hold your friend together until your doc can do his thing. He probably has a chest wound. Don't want that lung to fill and shift his trachea. Nod if you understand.”

  Williams was dazed from the grenade blast.

  “Hey! Hold this. Nod if you understand.”

  Williams' eyes seem to clear a bit. He nodded.

  Lasher sprang to his feet and he burst through the space littered with downed lancers. Like an athlete moving through an obstacle course, he darted, cut, and bounded from walls to make his way past the men.

  D'Marco had recovered his wits enough to try a shot at the fugitive. Lasher dove out of the way, letting the burst from the CR-51 rip up the ceiling. Spinning while crouched, he whipped out the entrenching tool from earlier. The blade of the shovel was partially folded like a deformed scythe. It contacted the weapon, ripping up the forward hand-guard and knocking it to the floor. He continued the turn to put him back in line with his desired path, escaping the lance sergeant at a dead run.

  As he was about to burst into the hallway, a high-pitched whine gave way to a snap flash of a plasma blade being ignited. The black blade illuminated the smoke with a corona of blue with amber sparks. The throaty digital fwoosh from its swing indicated to Lasher that the weapon was moving to deal damage.

  Legends were told of the sword carried by Marshal Brand. It was an ancient weapon that had seen use when the marshals were first pushing back against the lawlessness of the Frontier. It had been passed down the ages to end up in the hands of this marshal, who refused to die. He was strong in the Way, forged of the hottest parts of the Crucible. He, and his sword like him, were relics of a time where only the strong stood against the evil men do to each other.

  Lasher came to an abrupt stop ahead of the slashing blade just as it ripped into a corner of the wall, turning the adobe to molten slag. The swing recovered the blade to its wielder. Brand tore at the mongrel in a flat arc at belly height, looking to take the apprentice in half.

  Lasher leapt back, letting the obviously winded marshal take the space, embedding the weapon into the opposite wall. He leveled a kick into his opponent's arm. The counterattack caught its target between the wrist and the cross-guard of the sword, digging it deeper into the liquefying brick. Brand let go of the weapon. The brilliant corona of focused energy instantly cooled, returning the blade to its filigreed opaque metal.

  His hand now empty, Brand focused the power of the Crucible through the Way and swung his free hand into a backhand strike. The blow from an armored glove, powered through the marshal's training, ripped open a wound in Lasher's cheek, and pummeled him back into the hall.

  Lasher turned in the direction of the blow, absorbing the energy given to him, and extended Marshal Brand's arm over his shoulder. The marshal’s elbow rested just above his opponent's clavicle, forcing it completely straight. Lasher continued to pivot, bringing the arm at an angle across his chest, forcing his opponent to move forward. He extended a leg, allowing momentum to trip the wheezing lawman's head and shoulders into the wall. Lasher grabbed the back of his adversary's armor, flinging him into the hall he had emerged from.

  Brand spun and landed with his back against the wall. His breathing mask had been further damaged and was partially hanging from his face. He tore the rest of it free, dropping it into a cargo pocket on the leg of his armor. His exposed face was horrific. His nose had almost completely been burned away and seared scars lined his face. Tears of pain welled and then burst from their levees. Each breath gave as much as it took.

  Pain was ever the Forge that the Crucible fed from. Drawing in its power, Brand raised a hand as Lasher reached for the pistol on his thigh. The power of the Way tore through the intervening space. Lasher was catapulted into the ceiling, striking against his back and shoulder. He was almost horizontal when the power of the Way released him. He flailed during the drop in an attempt to right himself. He landed in a crouch, both men seething at each other, blood draining from one, rasping pain from the other.

  “You can't...” A series of coughs and a troubled inhale marked the pause between words. “...win. I am one with the Way. I am...”

  As the marshal struggled to find his next breath, the apprentice laughed. He could hear the men behind him stirring. Their heads were clearing enough to recover weapons and get themselves to their feet. It didn't matter. He continued to laugh.

  Brand's face changed from one of confident triumph to fear and uncertainty. He turned just in time to see the embodiment of violence slam into him.

  A Prosteel chassis with resicarbon and duradium outer armor. Multi-core processor with combat and non-combat personality matrices. Dedicated Symicrion resolution matrix for optimal combat efficiency. Resicarbon and Duradium talons and teeth. Bite strength in excess of seventeen thousand Newtons. Vibro-technology in both teeth and talon allowed for combat against armored combatants and vehicles.

  When someone described the RIM-IV, there was a load of tech that they could go into to impress someone. While it was the teeth and claws that everyone thought would inspire awe, it always ended up being the two retractable tendrils that could come from vents in its back. Used to grip or whip, these nightmare extensions could even be energized to deal with power-field-enhanced weapons.

  The RIM-IV had been described as an engineer's attempt to bring his favorite fantasy monster to life, while giving it a tech upgrade. It was most predominantly known for its model name: the Doom Cat.

  It came around the corner, identifying that its new master was under attack. Silenced foot pads and retracted claws allowed the machine to cross the distance, almost silentl
y. When it closed in on its prey, it leapt, front legs extended. It rammed into Marshal Brand, taking the man off of his feet. Man and machine flew several meters through the air before the two-hundred-plus kilograms of mechanical predator slammed Brand into the ground.

  The only thing that kept the marshal from having the life crushed out of him was his working of the Way during the hit. Brand landed on his back with the cat above him, claws pinning each shoulder. Its voracious maw glistened in the sunlight coming in from one of the hall windows. With a quick pump of its feet, it pounded onto Marshal Brand's armor, cracking it like a shell to get at the tender meat beyond.

  “Hold!” Lasher shouted.

  The cat held its position but halted its attack. Lasher could hear Brand's labored breathing. The man was still alive, but wouldn't be for long if his injuries and the breather weren't fixed.

  “It serves no purpose for you to die here, Marshal. You're broken. Stand down and live to fight another day.” Lasher turned to face the recovering lancers. “Same goes for the rest of you. Continue to come after me, and I will stop making an effort to keep you alive.”

  Lasher walked over to Brand, lying on the floor, wheezing and broken. “These belong to me.” The cat extended the claws on one of its paws to dig into the armor around his shoulder. It rolled Brand over to one side, adding pressure so the man couldn't move. He grunted under the strain. Lasher reached down and removed two objects from the man's belt.

  He looked to see Force Commander Hylaeus walking toward him. The commander stopped midway down the hallway. His face was a mask of assessment and concern. “Orin.”

  “Commander.”

  The cat moved to put itself, and Brand, in between Lasher and the commander. The apprentice put up his hand, signaling the mechanical terror to take things light and slow so as not to hurt anyone, yet.