N’Tikah ordered reinforcements on that side, and twenty-five more tanks rolled into position between the dug-in ones. Moments later, he realized his mistake; at least ten tanks on the east side blew apart. It appeared as if charges had been set on them. The idiots in third company had allowed infiltrators to get close to them in during the night. He would have that commander’s shell split, he thought. He ordered the remainder of his tanks to the east side, and they began maneuvering around the craters and destroyed buildings. Then twenty mechs dropped among the tanks and started firing missiles and railguns.
“Send out fourth and fifth companies to support the shell tanks,” N’Tikah ordered over the comms. “Have them use the crew-served lasers. Destroy those machines.”
The cursed humans had deployed their bipedal mechs. They had to build shells to protect their weak bodies, he thought. The information they had on them was that they were mobile but limited in armament. Once the humans were depleted of their rounds, they would have to be reloaded. If the Squilla could hold out until then, they could defeat the humans. He couldn’t believe they had so many mechs—he’d thought the preparatory bombardment had taken out the factory where they were made as well as most of the ground forces on the planet.
N’Tikah watched through the video feeds of several different shell tanks as the battle was fought. He noticed a particularly large mech that seemed to be all over the place. It was knocked sideways as a tank’s laser blasted a missile rack off its shoulder. After this, it leapt onto a shell tank, fired a continuous laser into the hatch, and shot kinetic projectiles at another tank across a crater. Whoever piloted that machine had no fear.
A heavy weapons team starting to set up the tripod of a crew-served laser. They would have a clear shot of that mech’s back. Yes, he thought. Out of nowhere, a smaller being climbed onto the rear of a burning tank, ran across the top, and jumped a considerable distance to land on the gunner’s back. N’Tikah saw a glint of silver as the arm slammed down into a claw soldier’s shell over and over. Before its teammate could react, the soldier fired a rifle several times between its eyestalks. Even their infantry had shells built for them, he thought.
Hours later, N’Tikah gathered with the remaining company commanders. There were only sixteen Squilla companies and the headquarters company left—only eighteen hundred Squilla remained to face whatever the humans threw at them. He ordered his commanders to have each of their companies separate into ten squads. “Hide along the buildings of this city. Destroy what you can. Eat when you must. Make your way to the coast. We will regroup offshore and wait for reinforcements. We have all been out of water too long,” he said.
“They will not hunt us in the seas?” the fourteenth company commander asked. It was an honest question. N’Tikah knew him well; E’Marik was no coward.
“This race cannot survive in the sea. They are air breathers. We will be safe,” N’Tikah said.
* * * * *
Chapter Thirty-One
Harmon fell backward into a chair in the command tent, exhausted. All the beings that participated in the attack were just as exhausted. The adrenaline rush and its following crash took a toll on a being. Not to mention the energy expanded while fighting. He was tired, but he had to know the outcome.
“How bad was it, sir?” he asked.
“We lost one hundred and ninety-two mech pilots, seven men from the tank crews, twenty-eight GDF, and eight Leethog. Two tanks were destroyed in addition to two hundred and nine mechs. We are out of railgun rounds and mech missiles. On the positive side, we have around five hundred law enforcement and armed farmers gathered ten miles from here. We would have more, but most law enforcement personnel just have stun guns issued to them. We are trying to get the logistics together on that. How many weapons, what type, rounds…that sort of thing. I’m putting Lieutenant Bentalt in charge of that group. He’ll have to pick some subordinates from law enforcement, but that should be simple since they have leadership in place. Mostly,” Lieutenant General Wilton said.
“Twiggy can handle it, sir,” Harmon said, dismayed at the loss of life.
“I hate to lose him as a mech pilot, but he had his mech shot out from under him. It’s a wonder the laser didn’t kill him. The blast blew the whole side of his mech out. He is so skinny he walked away with only first-degree burns on his side,” he said. “If we had any more mechs, I would climb back into one myself, even though it’s been years,” he added, frustrated.
“Can we get any help from other cities here or from other continents?” Harmon asked.
“Not going to happen. That Squilla carrier orbited several times as it prepped the planet. Every major airfield, every space port, and even the shipbuilding facilities in orbit were hit,” Wilton answered.
“No wonder there are no missiles left on the carrier,” Harmon said.
“Sir, my people tell me that the Squilla have started moving through the city. They appear to be heading toward the coast. If they get to the water, we won’t be able to hunt them down,” Evelyn said. She had been sitting with her head down, resting. Harmon had thought she was asleep.
“I know. On their planet, they live both in and out of the seas,” Lieutenant General Wilton said, frustrated. “I don’t know that we can stop them.”
“We’ve got to do something,” Harmon said.
* * *
Nobody noticed Clip ease out of the tent. He had a plan. He walked into the bay of the Hauler and went up to the operations center. Big Jon was sitting there, sharpening his knife.
“I heard you lost some,” Clip said, as he sat down.
“I did. They knew it was a possibility when we hired them back home. We all did. It doesn’t make it any easier, though,” he said, testing the knife’s edge.
“Well, I’m about to make a call, and I’m probably going to be jumping over every bit of command to do it. You in?” Clip asked, looking over sideways at the staff sergeant.
“Will it help me get some revenge?” Big Jon asked.
“Oh, yeah. If it works out the way I think it will, the Squilla will never even smell the sea on Tretra.” Clip said.
“Make the call,” Big Jon said as he slid his knife into its sheath.
* * *
“Ssir, you have a call on sscreen,” the new Tretrayon System President’s personal assistant said.
“Who is it?” President Benter asked. “And how did they get this comm address? It’s brand new,”
“He ssayss his name iss Clip,” she said.
“Well, if he has this address and asked for me, he must be important. Put him on screen,” he said.
A young man appeared on the screen. President Benter didn’t recognize him. He appeared to be calling from a small ship’s bridge.
“Can I help you?” the president questioned.
“You know it,” Clip said. “Check it out…”
* * * * *
Chapter Thirty-Two
Harmon woke up late the next morning and walked outside of the Hauler. He heard ships, and then he looked up and saw them. Ships of all shapes and sizes were coming into the atmosphere and looked to be landing at the beach fifty miles away. There were small ships coming in, larger ones that were just a little smaller than the Hauler, and two that Harmon knew belonged to companies in the moisture retention business that took the exports to other systems.
Harmon wondered what they were doing. He also wondered why he hadn’t been awakened by anyone that morning. They needed to figure out a way to stop the Squilla from making their way to the sea with the limited resources and beings they had.
He walked into the tent and was surprised to see two Prithmar, a Yalteen, a Caldivar, and two men that, judging by their clothes, were obviously from Joth. The beings were all seated around a table with Lieutenant General Wilton. Harmon’s chair was empty, so he took a seat.
“Nice of you to join us today,” the Yalteen said through a translator.
Harmon recognized him; they’d been friends since s
econdary school. “Mahnoot!” Harmon exclaimed. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be running the grappler?”
“Rinto gave me some time off. Thank you for the good word to him, by the way,” the big Yalteen answered.
“What’s this all about, sir?” Harmon asked.
“It appears somebody we know called the system president directly on a private link and told him he had an idea,” Lieutenant General Wilton said.
“Clip,” Harmon said, without hesitation.
“You guessed it. So now what we have are an armed Joth militia of fifty-five hundred members and rising. It looks like by the end of the day, we will have over ten thousand members. More in the next few days if we need them. The system and planet president declared martial law on Tretra and did away with the personal weapons ban. Then they called Joth’s new president for a favor. He requested volunteers from the Joth militia,” Lieutenant General Wilton said.
The Joth militia was the unofficial military on the planet Joth. The planet had no real military, as the system government had designated the ground defense force to be sufficient for both planets. However, none of the GDF was stationed on Joth.
Even though the system government had tried numerous times to enact a personal weapons ban on Joth, it had never even been close. There were more weapons than beings on Joth. The militia met every other month at various times, depending on the community’s needs. It was never official, yet it always was.
The militia drilled for an entire weekend. Physical training, combatives, weapons training, target practice, communications, and calls for fire were part of the weekend. All over Joth, there were garages with armored hovercraft parked in the back. There were modified construction equipment vehicles with cannons. In the last month or so, some beings had even been building mechs.
Many companies on Joth had removable turrets on their small spacecraft. There were rumors that some of the Farnog Corporate ships could defend themselves should they be attacked by pirates. Companies and businesses on both poles looked the other way when employees asked for certain weekends off.
The word had gone out that their sister planet needed help. The beings of Joth had not hesitated to help, despite having been treated as second class by the humans on Tretra. When a neighbor needed you, you came. It didn’t matter if your families had a running dispute for years. When the sand blows in, you go, shovel in hand and containers of water in the back of your hovercraft.
Clip is a genius, Harmon thought. For real. There was no way a single Squilla was going to make it to the sea. Things were starting to look up.
“Where do you want these?” Harmon heard a voice ask.
He looked up, and there was Rinto, carrying what appeared to be a heavy box in his mechanical arm. Rinto had an entire box of mech charging plugs. There were at least thirty plugs in the box.
“I have been collecting these things for years. Most of them will fit the new mechs, I think. Ya got anybody that can wire them up? I brought a portable fusion plant. I use it to charge the grappler,” Rinto said. “Oh, and there are cases of railgun rounds in the cargo hold. I ain’t lifting those. The fine beings at the railgun plant on Joth donated them.”
* * * * *
Chapter Thirty-Three
Two months later, Evelyn watched as Harmon directed operations on the bridge of Salvage Title. Zerith and the repair crews, with help from what was left of the shipbuilding facility, had fixed its fusion plant and engines. All of the compartments that had been breached were repaired. It wasn’t a pretty job, but it was sufficient. Hank and Stan called it a monster weld. It was big, ugly, and strong.
Harmon had sent video messages to the families of all the crew members who had died. It was one of the hardest things he had ever done. The system president had insisted on the government paying the costs to send them through the gate.
The ship had some new crew members. Many former fleet members had signed on to Tomeral and Associates since the Tretrayon fleet now consisted of only a few Tretrayon ships, a Squilla troop carrier, and a couple other Squilla ships. They were assigned throughout the Salvage Title.
A handful of Prithmar had signed up to work in engineering. They were experienced with fusion plants and propulsion, and Kyla was glad to have them on the team. They quickly learned to do things her way.
Eight Yalteen had applied to join security and ship repair. Big Jon was running them through their drills. Clip thought it was funny to see the huge, blue Yalteens act nervous as frost around a five-foot-four Leethog.
Down in the bay, Hank and Stan were repairing three Zax III’s. The museum had donated two more as well as some parts. Twiggy was right there with them. He had to resign from the GDF since his father was the planet president. Favoritism and all that. He figured if he was going to fly a Zax, he needed to know how to repair it. He wasn’t worried so much about his own ship as he was the one they were rebuilding for JoJo. Hank and Stan were teaching Twiggy the words for a song that Vera and Kyla would never approve of while they worked. Twiggy kept a grin on his face as much as the brothers did. None of it rhymed when translated, but it was hilarious.
The rest of the bay was covered in shuttles and small craft of all kinds. They were the temporary quarters for one hundred extra crew members. They were rotating through their respective departments daily, learning what they could.
On the bridge, Evelyn sat by JoJo as they headed out to the gate. She was amazed at the confidence Harmon showed as he handled everything. He was coordinating training, checking the status on the different sections on the ship, and directing the two ships attached. It was something that should have taken tens of years.
“TDF United. This is Salvage Title. Take it easy when you attach. Don’t scratch her paint, and don’t squish the Hauler,” Harmon said over the comms to the former vacation cruise ship. The Tretrayon system had purchased it through the net. It had two thousand beings on board; there were humans from both Joth and Tretra on it. There were also Leethog, several other races from Joth, and a few other races from neighboring systems that had heard jobs were available from family members. All of them had experience.
“Hey man, I got this,” Clip said from the view screen. “And I’m coming back over there when we arrive and detach. I’m only here for the swimming pools. Who would have thought someone would waste so much water? I’m on a ship of fools. Oh, and Zee says you’re missing out on a killer salad bar on the buffet. They have dill pickles. Real ones.”
# # # # #
About the Author
Kevin Steverson is a retired veteran of the U.S. Army. He is a published songwriter as well as an author. He lives in the northeast Georgia foothills where he continues to refuse to shave ever again. Trim…maybe. Shave…never! When he is not on the road as a Tour Manager he can be found at home writing in one fashion or another.
* * * * *
Follow Kevin Online
Website: www.kevinsteverson.com
Instagram: kevin.steverson
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kevin.steverson.9
Twitter: @CallMeCatHead
* * * * *
The following is an
Excerpt from Book One of In Revolution Born:
The Mutineer’s Daughter
___________________
Chris Kennedy & Thomas A. Mays
Now Available from Theogony Books
eBook, Paperback, and Audio
Excerpt from “The Mutineer’s Daughter:”
Kenny dozed at his console again.
There he sat—as brazen as ever—strapped down, suited up, jacked in…and completely checked out. One might make allowances for an overworked man falling asleep during a dull routine, watching gauges that didn’t move or indicators that rarely indicated anything of consequence, perhaps even during a quiet moment during their ship’s long, long deployment.
But Fire Control Tech Third Class Ken Burnside was doing it—yet again—while the ship stood at General Quarters, in an unfriendly st
ar system, while other parts of the fleet engaged the forces of the Terran Union.
Chief Warrant Officer Grade 2 (Combat Systems) Benjamin “Benno” Sanchez shook his helmeted head and narrowed his eyes at the sailor strapped in to his right. He had spoken to the young weapons engineer a number of times before, through countless drills and mock skirmishes, but the youthful idiot never retained the lesson for long.
“Benno, Bosso,” Kenny would plead, “you shouldn’t yell at me. You should have me teach others my wisdom!”
Benno would invariably frown and give his unflattering opinion of Kenny’s wisdom.
“Get it, ya?” Kenny would reply. “I’m a math guy. Probability, right Warrant? The Puller’s just a little ship, on the edge of the formation. We scan, we snipe, we mop up, we patrol. We don’t go in the middle, tube’s blazing, ya? We no tussle with the big Terrans, ya? No damage! No battle! So, something goes wrong, back-ups kick in, buzzer goes off, we mark for fix later. And when’s the only time you or the officers don’t let a man walk ‘round and don’t ask for this, don’t ask for that? When’s the only time a man can catch up on the z’s, eh? One and the same time! So I doze. Buzzer goes off, I wake, make a note, doze again till I can work, ya? Such wisdom!”
Benno usually lectured him about complacency. He asked what would happen if they were hit, if the shot was hot enough, deep enough, destructive enough to burn through the backup of the backup of the backup. What if they did have to face the Great Test, to rise and work and save the Puller themselves?
Salvage Title Page 20