Free Space

by Scott Bartlett

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Free Books

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Glossary

  A Note on Dawn Cluster Cartography

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Free Space

  By Scott Bartlett

  Book 2 of Spacers, a military science fiction series.

  Free Space

  © Scott Bartlett 2019

  Cover art by Tom Edwards (tomedwardsdesign.com)

  Typography by Steve Beaulieu (facebook.com/BeaulisticBookServices)

  This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 License. To view a copy of this license, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0

  This novel is a work of fiction. All of the characters, places, and events are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, businesses, or events is entirely coincidental.

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  Chapter One

  New Houston, Oasis Colony

  Freedom System, Dupliss Region

  Earth Year 2290

  Corporal Jordan Wilson thought his crash seat felt like a giant’s hand, cradling him. The other jarheads would make fun of him the moment he mentioned it, so he wouldn’t, but damn, the designers had known what they were doing.

  He was ready to admit that was a strange thought to have, especially at a time like this. But he’d be damned if he didn’t appreciate a little comfort during what might be his final minutes.

  “That one came too close,” Major Avery said over the radios built into their power suits. The moment he finished talking, something hit their shuttle, causing her nose to wobble in its course, tossing the marines against their restraints.

  “Just a glancing blow.” From the front of the craft, the major offered the marines a reassuring glance through his power suit’s visor.

  But then the shuttle trembled, bucked, and dropped. Wilson tensed. Why does it feel like we’re going down? he thought.

  Apparently, even a glancing blow from one of the Xanthic’s weird surface-to-air projectiles was enough to do the job. He’d watched them coming through exterior sensors for the first few minutes, hissing through the air toward the shuttles, which all had their articulated aerogel wings extended for descent. He’d decided he wasn’t doing himself any favors and closed out the visual. The oncoming projectiles looked like someone had taken a ball of energy and trained it to lengthen out and act like a conventional missile. They seemed more stable than should have been possible.

  The Xanthic didn’t have weapons when they attacked Earth. So why do these guys?

  The pilot’s voice played inside Wilson’s helmet. “Our starboard wing is toast. We’re going down.” He sounded as relaxed and detached as ever.

  Probably so doped up on stims he thinks he’s inside a video game.

  “Parachute deployed,” the pilot continued. “She’s seized up, otherwise. Everything’s seized up.”

  Wilson felt the shuttle start to spiral out of control, corkscrewing wildly toward the planet’s surface. It would be a rough landing.

  “Turn your suits’ force absorption up to max, marines,” Avery said quietly.

  Every marine fumbled at his wrist to crank the feature up. The suits would keep them alive—probably. But it was better to impact the ground outside of a shuttle to achieve full shock absorption. Inside, strapped into crash seats…well, it was better than nothing.

  The shuttle dashed itself against the ground, and Wilson’s world became one of igniting fuel and flying shrapnel. His power suit’s shocks absorbed some of the impact, distributing the rest evenly across his body. Even so, it hurt like a mother. He felt like a can of the carbonated piss-water Frontier called soda, shaken till it was ready to pop.

  Even with all the commotion, he still found he had to rip his restraints off his battered body, not bothering with the buckle. With the suit enhancing his strength, the fabric tore with ease. It’s not like anyone’s going to use this shuttle again.

  Avery’s voice came once more. “Laser cutters!” He sounded less calm, now. Actually, he sounded pissed.

  Cutters flared to life all over the wrecked craft, accompanied by a high-pitched whine. Wilson set his own cutter to the higher setting and turned to work on the section of hull above his crash seat. Blue beam met steel, piercing it. He moved the cutter’s muzzle slowly, working on his own escape hatch.

  The shuttle’s passenger compartment was designed to be flush against the hull, for times like this—the storage compartments were underneath. Wilson finished cutting through before any marines around him did, and when they noticed he was done, they stowed their own cutters and clambered out after him.

  The staccato of kinetic weapons roared the moment he pulled himself out, and he dropped to the pavement below, fumbling at the shuttle’s exterior till his fingers found a combat hood’s handle. It pulled out only halfway—but it was a miracle it pulled out at all. The shuttle was tilted sideways in his direction, so he was forced to squat under the cover as he detached his Crossbow 790 assault rifle from his suit, poked it through a firing port, and returned fire.

  Wilson took a second to finger the comm controls built into the side of his helmet, switching to a wide channel. “They’ve got us pinned on all sides.”

  Weapons fire flashed past in the deepening dusk. Soon, visibility would become an issue—for anyone not wearing a power suit, that was. Could Xanthic see in the dark too?

  A tiny box appeared in the top-center of his field of vision, showing a view down his weapon’s barrel, so he didn’t have to lift it to his face to peer down the sights. He drew a bead on his clearest target and fired, the Crossbow vibrating in his hands.

  The rounds slammed into the alien, causing it to stagger back. It swung its own weapon around, seeking its attacker. Wilson’s shots seemed to slow the yellow beast…but how much damage was he actually doing?

  Its carapace could be pierced. He remembered that from training. But some parts were stronger than others. He forgot which were which. No one had expected marines to have to fight these things here, in the Dawn Cluster.

  He switched up his approach, aiming for the darker-yellow, segmented tendrils holding the weapon in place. His aim had alway
s been good, and that held true today. As his rounds sprayed across the weird appendages, they snapped back from the beast’s weapon, and its aim got worse. Nice.

  “Aim for the tendrils,” he said over the wide channel.

  “The what?” It was Private Peters, who was crouching against the shuttle’s hull just ahead of Wilson.

  “Their fingers. Uh—those ropey things they use to hold their weapons. They’re weak.”

  Major Avery’s voice came next over the comm. “You heard Wilson, marines. Aim for the tendrils first, then pick them apart as their aim gets worse.”

  Wilson’s assault rifle roared in his hands, his morale spiked after the major acknowledged his discovery, even though they were completely surrounded by nightmares.

  A volley of Xanthic fire slammed into Peters, and he dropped his weapon, his body completely rigid, fingers curled stiffly around nothing.

  Cursing, Wilson left the combat hood, lunging to grab a strap on the back of Peters’ suit. He hauled the private under the protection of the cover. There was only really room for one under the hood, so Wilson crouched just behind it.

  “Peters,” he hissed over the comm. “Peters!”

  No response. Peters’ suit was blasted apart over his ribcage, the flesh there a charred mess, with a large, spiked projectile sticking out. The power suits were designed to protect the wearer against kinetic weapons, distributing the force of each bullet as evenly as possible across the entire body. So why had the Xanthic’s fire gotten through?

  Wilson clawed at the clamps sealing Peters’ helmet to his suit’s neck, popping them off one by one.

  When the final clamp was unfastened, he lifted the helmet from the private’s shoulders. What he saw made him bite his tongue, to stop a yell from coming out.

  Nothing was left of Peters’ face. In its place was a mass of shiny black tumors, risen like hard bubbles all across what used to be the private’s head.

  “VOLATILE SUBSTANCE DETECTED,” Wilson’s HUD told him. “DO NOT REMOVE POWER SUIT UNTIL THOROUGH DECONTAMINATION HAS BEEN PERFORMED.”

  Chapter Two

  New Houston, Oasis Colony

  Freedom System, Dupliss Region

  Earth Year 2290

  Avery’s entire body ached from the tension. His mind ached, if that was possible. It sure seemed possible, the way an invisible vise had gripped his head near the start of the battle and only tightened since.

  “Contact on our right!”

  At Corporal Wilson’s warning, Avery snapped his tactical shotgun in that direction, stepped to the left to clear his line of sight, and let loose on the trio of Xanthic approaching up the alleyway with both barrels of explosive rounds.

  With his HUD’s assistance, he managed to land most of the spray across one of the hulking alien’s gripper tentacles, which slithered back from its weapon. The other two Xanthic spread out from their afflicted comrade, firing back at the marines. Avery reloaded and fired again.

  The papery aliens looked like they should break apart with a strong gust of wind, with their frayed, yellow skin whose texture reminded Avery of moth wings. Instead, they withstood a lot of punishment.

  They seemed to be adapting to having their tendrils fired at, too. These Xanthic bobbed and weaved, offering only moving targets as they gunned down two of Avery’s squad members.

  But Frontier marines were well-trained, and they scored enough hits on both the Xanthic tendrils and carapaces that Avery’s third volley did real damage, the explosive rounds embedding deep inside his target, ripping it apart.

  One Xanthic down.

  The marines rallied, then, a lifetime’s worth of drills taking over. More explosive rounds found cracks in the alien’s armor, and the remaining two Xanthic went the way of their comrade, falling to the asphalt with their innards exposed to the air.

  So strange, how they don’t bleed. “It’s all right,” he called to the civilians nearby, who’d huddled around a parked speeder—the only cover within reach. “We got ’em.”

  It took a few seconds, but he coaxed the civilians back out into the street so they could keep moving. They were a mixed group, from all walks of life. Terrified children. A grandma who stared back at him with a blank expression, probably in shock. A teenager who looked resigned to his situation. Resigned to the idea he might die.

  As marine commander aboard the New Jersey, a Frontier ship, it was his job to protect them. That was why Frontier—an American company—was in this system at all. To protect American colonists.

  Today, it was failing pretty hard.

  If I can get this group to the landing zone, at least they’ll be safe. A local planetesimal mining outfit called Starbound Metals had a few shuttles in the area, and they’d stepped up to the plate soon after the Xanthic attacked, ferrying civilians into orbit as fast as they could. One of their transports was due to touch down in ten minutes, just a few blocks away.

  Avery nodded toward the fallen marines. “Check on Davies and Rodriguez. Make sure your suits are sealed before you open them up.”

  Wilson and Dupont stepped forward, popping the downed marines’ helmets. But Davies didn’t exist anymore, and neither did Rodriguez. Like the other marines who’d fallen to Xanthic fire, their faces had become dark, mottled masses. Giant tumors.

  We’re losing the city. Avery resisted the urge to lower his visor so he could massage his temples. That wouldn’t set a good example for his men, or for the civilians, who he’d instructed to keep well away from the marines, and anyone who’d been shot, including their own loved ones.

  This was his first major battle as commander of Frontier’s marine battalion, and he could never have anticipated how impossible it all was. Processing recon drone feeds and reports from squad leaders all over the city, trying to somehow extract victory from that data, all while focusing on the engagement right in front of him….

  He knew a lot of commanders would have coordinated the battle from safety. Maybe holed up with civilians in one of New Houston’s underground shelters. But Avery didn’t want to be that kind of commander. He didn’t want to be…but his brain felt like a scrambled egg from trying to keep everything straight.

  Something flashed across the sky, made all the brighter by his night vision. Less than a second later, fire blossomed on the horizon, and the ground rumbled. Captain Thatcher must have taken out another group of those yellow bastards. If it wasn’t for orbital support from the Jersey, blasting rods from God at Xanthic who emerged from the ground to move on the city, New Houston would have been overrun hours ago.

  His comm crackled, and Sergeant Dillon’s voice came over the line. “Major, the northeast quadrant’s crawling with these buggers. We gotta pull back.”

  That left the northwest and southwest quadrants, and Avery already had intel that the latter was on the brink of falling too. “Do it. Fall back to the northwest. To Frontier HQ.”

  “Will do.”

  “Uh…Major?”

  Avery turned back to look at Wilson, but he didn’t need to ask what he wanted. He saw: fifteen Xanthic WERE loping up the street toward them, scythe-like blades whipping back and forth, glinting in the light from a nearby street lamp.

  He slapped his helmet twice, switching it to broadcast, and raised his voice so his marines and the civilians could hear. “Push forward to the LZ! Scatter, and run!”

  No one hesitated. Children were scooped up by adults, and Avery saw Wilson snatch up the frightened little girl he’d noticed before. They pounded along the shadowy street, weaving between lamp posts and speeders.

  The Xanthic opened fire. Avery’s suit informed him that one of them was getting close to hitting him, and he threw himself into an alleyway, whipped around, and raised his shotgun to fire around the corner. Wilson had taken an alley on the opposite side of the street, the girl in one arm and his assault rifle in the other, muzzle blazing as he sent round after round at the Xanthic.

  We’re done here. Damn it. What do I do? He needed to survive, so h
e could continue commanding the battle. There was no one he trusted enough to take over that job—not now. Not on the fly like this. But he also needed to save these people.

  A whining sound came from overhead. A sound he recognized, and welcomed. The street flooded with light, and he glanced back and upward to see a shuttle filling the space between two buildings, thrusters flaring. That has to be Hotdog. No other pilot would be crazy enough to attempt a maneuver like that.

  The combat shuttle’s turrets blazed to life, opening up on the Xanthic. Not even their carapaces could withstand that kind of firepower, and the onslaught put down two of them, then three more. The rest scattered, though Hotdog wasn’t letting them off that easily. He picked them off as they ran.

  Good thing they can’t carry those surface-to-air energy weapons around with them. Those things all seemed to be positioned around the city perimeter, which was where Avery liked them, right now. It meant Hotdog was virtually invulnerable from them.

  A few of the Xanthic escaped, but the ambush had been neutered. Avery flashed the shuttle a thumbs-up, in the off chance Hotdog was looking his way. The shuttle continued forward, thrusters roaring as its pilot searched for its next targets.

  Avery’s comm crackled. “I’ll take my thanks for that in the form of bourbon, Major.”

  Avery chuckled. He didn’t drink, but— “For that little maneuver, I think I can probably hook you up, Hotdog. Any news from above?”

  “Word is reinforcements are on their way down from the Victorious.” Hotdog sniffed. “Hope they do better than Jetson when it comes to avoiding the bugs’ surface-to-air fire.”

  “Roger that. Thanks again for the assist.”

  “Assist, Major? Pretty sure I was the whole show.”

  Avery chuckled.

  When he reached the LZ, the civilians were already gathered there, along with most of his squad. The Starbound Metals shuttle was just touching down. Its airlock opened, and the New Houstoners piled in.

  “Major, you there?” It was Sergeant Landon, who was leading a squad on the border between New Houston’s northwest and southwest quadrants.