Dark Moon Arisen

by Chris Kennedy

  “Well, I ain’t gonna just let them come and get you.” The younger man reached behind his back and came out with a Ctech HP-4 handgun. The 13mm behemoth could drop a charging water buffalo and was as illegal as hell, even for the retired Chattanooga sheriff.

  “You aren’t doing anything of the sort.” Zeke pointed, and one of three hidden doors in the ornate room popped open, appearing in the deep mahogany trim as if by magic. “I need you alive and not in Peepo’s jail cells.”

  “No, I’ll call Hoss; he can get a couple of the boys and meet us down at the Purple Daisy!”

  “He can’t, Zeb.” The other man was frantically trying to make calls and looked confused as nothing happened. “Zeb, stop. I have a scrambler running.” The younger man still didn’t respond. “Grandson!”

  Zeb looked up in surprise. Zeke hadn’t referred to him as family in a long time. It had helped keep a useful separation between the two as Zeke built his clandestine organization, especially when Zeke had used some of his underworld contacts to get Zeb elected sheriff. The younger man had now retired and was managing many of Avander Intergalactic’s various enterprises. Through all that, Zeke had never called him grandson.

  “You need to listen to me.” He glanced at the slate built into his desk, then back at his grandson. “Four days ago, I called Hoss and put him to work organizing the various underworld contacts I’ve been controlling through proxies. I had a feeling they might be figuring out what I was doing.”

  “We can’t just let them take you.”

  “Yes, we can. If they take me, and you aren’t directly linked, they can’t take you. I need you out there, fighting the fight. Hoss has the data and all the group’s contacts.” Zeke held out a box about the size of a cigar box. It was, in fact, a cigar box. Jeb opened it. Inside was a single cigar of Zeke’s favorite brand and dozens of Union credit chits. All of them had a large glowing red diamond in the center, and “One Million Credits” written in many prominent Union languages.

  “There’s gotta be 50 million credits in here,” Zeb said.

  “56 to be precise,” Zeke said. “There are several burner Yacks in there, too, for accounts holding millions more. Use them to stay safe. Use the contacts Hoss has to kick Peepo in the nuts.”

  “I don’t know if Veetanho have nuts,” Zeb said, looking down so his grandfather wouldn’t see his eyes shining with tears. “I was just a punk when you found me.”

  “You’re a man now. An Avander man, the Avander man, and I’m proud of you.” The building shook as a pair of flyers came in low overhead. Zeke glanced over and could see them landing in the garden, ruining his azaleas. He recognized the model of light APC. “Go, now. Don’t leave until after they’ve gone.” He grabbed the man and gave him a quick, furious hug.

  “I love you, grandpa,” Zeb said and turned to leave.

  “I love you too, kid,” Zeke whispered as the secret door slid closed. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay, game time.” He pressed a control on his desk. “Let them in,” he said to his security. “Offer no resistance.”

  “But sir!” the voice complained.

  “Do it! That’s an order. Stand down. Order all staff to evacuate the mansion, immediately. Thank you for your loyalty.” He cut the connection, sat behind his desk, and waited. It didn’t take long. He heard them come into the foyer. There was the sound of breaking glass and a scream, but no firing. He was glad security was listening to his orders, at least.

  Zeke remained at his desk, enjoying the plushness of the 250-year-old chair, which had once belonged to his father, and his father before him. From a box on the desk, he retrieved a cigar that was the same brand as the one in the box he’d given his grandson. Slitting it with a solid gold tool, he lit the stogie using an alien-manufactured plasma lighter. The smoke tasted luxurious and warmed his lungs. He drew it in deeply and blew out a huge cloud, which drifted toward the ceiling.

  The door to his office slammed open, shattering some of the centuries-old wood as it stove up against the stop, and a squad of five MinSha troopers in light combat armor walked in. They all carried laser carbines and wore clan markings he recognized.

  “Are you Zeke Avander?” the leader asked.

  “I am,” Zeke said. “You must be Captain Brantayl.”

  “Major Brantayl,” the MinSha warrior corrected. “I was promoted when we took the assignment on this planet.”

  “How special for you,” he said. “I assume there’s a reason you’re tearing up my home?”

  “By order of General Peepo, the custodian of Earth as appointed by the Mercenary Guild, you are under arrest for resisting our lawful rule.”

  “Is that what you call it?” Zeke asked. Brantayl took several steps closer. She was the only one of the five not holding her weapon. Zeke admired the cockiness.

  “What do you think it is?”

  “I think you are alien scum who have come to our planet to put your noses into our business so you can try to take over.”

  “Is that so, Human? Then what does that make you?” She leaned over his desk as she spoke, no more than a few centimeters from his face.

  Her rich insect smell reminded him of cinnamon. He hated cinnamon. Zeke took a huge puff and blew the smoke in her face. “I’m your worst fucking nightmare.”

  “General Peepo said dead or alive. I believe I’ll chose the former.” In a flash, Brantayl swept one of her topmost arms at Zeke, aimed at his neck. The inside of each arm had a serrated blade built into the combat armor. Similar to her natural chiton, it was razor sharp and made of a composite-alloy ceramic. Just as fast, Zeke brought his left arm up, and the blade hit it. When the blade went Ching! and stuck, Brantayl’s surprise was obvious.

  “Gift of the HecSha,” Zeke said, waggling his eyebrows. The alien began to move her other arm, but he didn’t give her the chance. He stood and pivoted, using all the force his cybernetic legs relayed through his reinforced skeletal system to his right arm, which was powered by the same electrical muscles used in the prototype Mk 9 CASPers. His fist struck her thorax armor with two tons of force.

  Brantayl and her combat armor and gear weighed just over 300 kilograms. Zeke’s punch launched her backwards into the nearest MinSha warrior, sending them both sprawling. Zeke flipped over the desk, pistoning out with both feet at the upper thorax of the next-closest MinSha. His aim was a little off, and the heels of his boots hit her in the face, crushing her skull.

  “Oops,” he said. He landed, grabbed the slumping soldier by an arm, anchored a foot against the wall, and spun the soldier like a club, slamming two others down just as they brought up their weapons.

  A laser snapped, and he felt an instant of pain in his right side, which began to get steadily worse. He rolled to the left and saw woodwork flash into flame from a bolt aimed at his head. “Hey, watch the trim!” he said, snatching up a fallen laser carbine.

  The design’s ergonomics were totally wrong for a Human, but in decades of fighting, he’d used pretty much every weapon from every alien in the galaxy. He found the safety—it was off—and the firing control, then shot the one who’d shot him.

  “Meet your maker!” he said, laughing. Brantayl caught him by surprise with a flying MinSha leap, her wings buzzing madly. Zeke spun, squeezing the trigger as fast as the chemical laser would fire. He burned a line of holes in his office’s wall just behind the flying officer. She went over him and through his office window with an explosion of glass and wood.

  “Well, hell,” he said, looking out the window. She’d dropped and wasn’t in his field of fire. He turned around. The two MinSha still living were both getting to their feet. He killed them. The first laser from the APC burned a hole through the wall of his office. He squatted slightly as he trotted to the wall and touched a hidden control.

  As the panel slid aside, Zeke dropped the MinSha weapon and put a hand to his side and felt the burn. Now that hurt! He’d been managing the pain until now. The panel opened the rest of the way, and
he immediately grabbed a nanite medkit, one of six there, spun the control to major internal trauma, and stabbed myself in the chest.

  “Fuck!” he roared, holding the wall to keep himself upright as pain flooded the side of his chest like molten lava. He’d never get used to that. He figured he’d lost a chunk of lung, but as the pain ebbed, Zeke shrugged. He’d had worse. He stuck the half-spent medkit in his belt and started climbing into the CASPer hidden behind the door.

  The APC opened up again and began riddling the landmark home with heavy laser fire at a furious rate.

  “Tear it apart!” he heard Brantayl yell at her surviving troopers, and a second APC began shredding the building. After a minute of sustained fire, first one laser stopped firing, then the other.

  “You thought we were done, Brantayl?” Zeke boomed over the speakers of the CASPer as he rode his jumpjets through his ruined home’s ceiling and up another 10 meters before killing the power. Only two of the 10 remaining troopers had the presence of mind to fire at the CASPer, but neither of them hit.

  The Mk 8 CASPer, all 450 kilos of it, hit the roof of one of the APCs like a bomb, crushing the heavy laser on top. Zeke activated the arm blade and cut the gunner in half. The chain gun on the other arm came on, and he pumped a hundred rounds into the APC through the lightly armored roof.

  “You didn’t think I would be that easy to kill, did you?” Zeke roared. His threat warning went off, and he spun, retracting the arm blade and activating the shield. A medium MAC round slammed into the shield. The trooper who’d fired the weapon looked surprised he was still standing. “I’ve been killing MinSha since before you were a grub!” Zeke let the trooper have a long burst from the chain gun, then rolled off the roof of the ruined APC.

  Zeke landed on his feet and swept his shield arm back across his body, the impact sending a pair of MinSha sprawling with broken limbs. He cast about for his main target. Where was Major Brantayl? “I don’t have as much of a hard-on for killing you guys as Asbaran does.” A pair of lasers splashed against his torso; he gunned the shooters down and moved closer to the other APC. On top, the gunner was desperately trying to finish reloading his heavy laser. “But I do love squashing bugs.”

  A trooper popped out of the APC, trying to bring a MAC around. Zeke swung a powered fist, and blue chiton and blood sprayed. “See?” he said, laughing. He pulled a K-bomb from the armor, armed it, and dropped it through the hatch the trooper had come out of. “Little present for y’all!” Zeke turned his back as several MinSha piled out before the bomb went off.

  “You’re just making it hard on yourself, Brantayl!” Zeke yelled. He examined the area with his CASPer’s heads-up display. Only four MinSha moving. Where the fuck was that bastar—

  Something hit his suit and went SNAAPP!, and he staggered like he’d been hit in the head with a baseball bat. “What the fuck?” he said, and it hit him again. His displays went out, and the suit stopped responding. He tried to move and only succeeded in unbalancing the suit, which fell over face-first with a crash. Everything was dead, even the escape system.

  He lay there for a few moments, face down, considering his options. Then the suit was rolled over, and he felt the releases being activated. He’d have a second when the cockpit was opened to go for the pistol nearby. The cockpit swung up, and he moved, then stopped.

  “As I was saying,” Brantayl said, pointing a laser pistol at Zeke’s head, “you are under arrest.”

  Two of the surviving troopers extracted him, none too gently, from the dead armor. As they stood him up, he got a look at a module magnetically stuck to the side of his armor. EMP, he thought. Brilliant. A few minutes later, another APC showed up, and he was bundled onboard and on his way to Sao Paulo.

  Chattanooga’s fire department came and put out the flames before they could engulf the building, saving the historic structure. As they got the blaze under control, the fire brigade was surprised to see Zeb Avander, the retired police chief, crawl out of the smoldering building.

  “How did you survive that?” one of the fireman asked.

  “Good planning,” Zeb said, walking away. He was already on his phone and calling people, the box of chips and credits tucked under one arm. His grandfather had given him a mission; it was time to get to work.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Nineteen

  SOGA HQ, Sao Paulo, Brazil, Earth

  “Is this the Human responsible for the Tri-V disruptions?” Peepo asked as a Human was led into the office, covered by three MinSha with laser rifles whose barrels never flinched from the Human’s head.

  “Yes,” Major Brantayl replied.

  Peepo frowned. The MinSha officer was moving somewhat timidly, and her voice was hoarse. “I take it there were…issues…with his arrest?”

  “Yes,” Brantayl repeated. “He killed a large number of my troopers. We were unaware he had cybernetic legs and arms, which was an unpleasant surprise. He also had a CASPer, which we were prepared for, but which caused a lot of damage before it could be subdued. We do, however, now have his Mk 8 CASPer, which is in prime condition and is headed to the lab for our analysis.”

  “Well done,” Peepo said. She turned to the Human. “Zeke Avander, is it?”

  “I am.”

  “I am General Peepo.”

  “I know who you are. I saw you once on a contract, a long time ago. Your smell hasn’t gotten any better with age.”

  “My smell?” she asked, refusing to rise to the bait.

  “Yeah, you’re a smelly-ass alien, and the planet’s air won’t be breathable again until you’re all gone. Speaking of which…” He turned toward the MinSha pointing rifles at him. “I’m going to open a panel in my arm to take out a cigar. Don’t shoot me.”

  Without waiting for permission, he commanded a hidden compartment on the inside of his right arm to open and reached in with his left hand to remove a cigar and small plasma lighter.

  “You can’t smoke that in here,” Brantayl warned.

  “So shoot me,” Zeke replied. “You’ve caught me, and I expect I’ll spend the rest of this war in a jail somewhere with Besquith nibbling pieces off me unless I tell them what you want to know. Before I go to that demise, I’m going to have my last cigar. So, you can either shoot me or shut the fuck up.”

  Brantayl looked over for guidance, and Peepo waved her off. She didn’t care that much if Zeke smoked. While it smelled, it might put the Human at ease to the point where he gave away something or accepted her proposal. It wasn’t likely, but the chance was worth putting up with the stench for a short while.

  The Human finished lighting the cigar and blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “Thanks,” he said with a small nod. “So what is it you want to know so badly you had to send out a bunch of folks to wreck my home to find out?”

  “Are you responsible for the Tri-V disruptions we’ve had across the planet?”

  “I am, indeed.” Zeke smiled at her. “Did they piss you off?”

  “Only to the extent that we didn’t think of doing it first.” She pulled her lips back from her teeth in an approximation of a Human smile. “The disruptions have been very helpful to us.”

  “Helpful how? There have been riots everywhere. I heard you even had them here.” He waved out the window at the city. “Didn’t they come close to burning down this building?”

  “No,” Peepo replied, “this building was never in danger. And, as I mentioned, the riots were very helpful to me. It allowed us to use displays of force some of your civilians had never seen before, except in your movies. To have their friends and family killed was useful in showing them who is actually in control of your planet, and the lengths we will go to maintain that control.”

  She smiled again. “Since the riots, we have found the populace, in general, easier to control. We have examples, world-wide, of Humans informing on their countrymen to get their Tri-V service restored. I had to authorize additional troops to man the communications systems to field all the calls we now
have coming in daily. No, I am not, as you say it, pissed off at all over the disruptions.”

  “Those are only the people you see, though. Your reprisals will drive more people underground. The informants will end up dead, and it won’t take long for people to see what happens when you squeal.” He shrugged. “It’s awfully hard to spend your blood money if you’re dead.”

  “That can be arranged, planet-wide, too,” General Peepo said. She stared intently at Zeke for a moment and then added, “It would certainly be cheaper.”

  That caught the Human off guard, and he twitched backward in surprise. “What do you mean? You would kill everyone on this planet?”

  “The thought has indeed gone through my mind,” Peepo said as she walked to the window and looked out at the city below. “It is also one of my contingency plans. One way or another, we need to bring this campaign to a close, and soon. There are other missions that require my services and those of my forces. Playing babysitter to a bunch of smelly Humans is not what I had as my life’s goals. Earth will either be made to accept our rule, or it will be destroyed.”

  She turned back to look at Zeke. “As I said, I don’t have a lot of time to waste here; therefore, I’m willing to make some concessions. Rather than kill you out of hand, I would like to offer you a job on my staff. You obviously have great skill not only in biochemistry, but also in group psychology, and you are a fighter as well. I could use someone like you on my team; it would make the pacification of this planet go smoother and quicker, and I’m sure the pay would be even better than what you are making helping old, fat Humans live another month or two beyond what nature intended for them. So, which is it going to be? Will you join my staff, or do you want to go talk to the Besquith jailors you mentioned earlier?”

  “Huh,” Zeke said. “I gamed this conversation out a lot of different ways in my mind on the way here, and having you offer me a job was never a consideration. So, I guess what you’re saying is that you will pay me lots of money—maybe even millions of credits—to turn my back on my race and become a lackey on your staff?” His voice rose in volume and pitch. “Basically, you want me to turn my people over to you, and help you induct my whole race into slavery? Is that about it?”