by Rob Dearsley
The Terrean Legacy: Book 1
Slave Mind
By Rob Dearsley
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Interlude One
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Interlude Two
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
UntitledEighteen
Nineteen
Interlude Three
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
TWenty-four
Twenty-five
The characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
© 2019 Robert Dearsley
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
ISBN: 9781091684669
Visit the author’s website at
http://www.robdearsley.com
to order additional copies.
Illustration © Tom Edwards
http://tomedwardsdesign.com
Editing by Crystal Durnan
https://www.animaediting.com
Hey, Nan. Look, I finished one!
One
- Kyanite Va -
The air around the small spaceport stank of ozone from the engines of aerospace freighters. Michael Dannage kept his breathing shallow as he started away from the dock. His gaze crept above the vista of gantries and half-finished skeletal warehouses, to where the planet Kyanite V crested the horizon. Twinkling lights outlined its night-side continents. He’d always loved the views from close-in moons like this one.
Despite the view, the small hairs on the back of Dannage’s neck crawled. Increased automation led to more and more layoffs, more people with nothing better to do than cause trouble. To call it a bad neighbourhood was an understatement. Dannage glanced over at his companion, Shauna Arland. The presence of the ex-military officer, her blond ponytail bouncing as she watched the shadows, calmed his nerves. If trouble did find them, it would have to get through her first.
Ahead of them, a streetlight highlighted a large noticeboard plastered with flyers and posters. One caught his attention.
“The Systems’ Defence Force needs you,” Dannage read the tattered recruitment poster aloud. “We're in real trouble if they need me.”
Arland shot him a disapproving glance. “Sir, the SDF could always use capable pilots.”
“Capable? I could fly rings around those military fly-boys.”
“As you say, sir.” Dannage caught the glimmer of a smile as she turned away. By the Stars, she could be irritating at times. And why did she have to call him sir?
Of course, it was one of those silly military things. And Arland was nothing if not a product of the Systems’ Defence Force. If you cut her in half she’d have ‘Property of the SDF’ printed down the middle.
She stood out as a stark contrast to his rumpled clothes and unruly hair. He prided himself on being the complete opposite of all those jumped up military suits.
“Sir.” Arland looked up from her flex-screen. “These are the coordinates Mr. Fitz sent us for the buy.”
An older building stood in front of them. Featureless iron walls climbed into the night sky.
An abandoned warehouse. Typical Fitz.
‘Somewhere quiet and out of the way. Makes it easier to dispose of the bodies.’ That’s what the old broker had said. Dannage wasn’t quite sure if he was joking or not.
Arland folded the flex and stuffed it into a trouser pocket. “We going in then?”
Dannage straightened his battered duster and smoothed down his dark curls, before gesturing for Arland to take the lead.
She grabbed the heavy door and, with a grunt of effort and a squealing of hinges, pulled it open. “Well, if they didn’t know we’re here, they do now.”
“We were never trying to sneak up on them,” Dannage said, following her into the darkened interior.
Arland slipped a hand into her pocket and when she drew it out something metallic caught the light. A knife?
“I thought I said no weapons.”
“You did.” She twisted the end, activating the small flashlight, then panned its surprisingly bright beam around them.
They were in a loading bay. Above them, rusted cranes sat on rails that ran through into the warehouse proper.
The flashlight, which had seemed so bright in the relative confines of the loading dock, faded into nothingness against the huge expanse of warehouse. The now diminutive light just about traced the outlines of the nearest shelving racks.
“How big is this place?” Dannage asked.
“Ten square kilometres,” Arland supplied, “five long, two wide.”
He let out a low whistle. Although the warehouse was actually fairly modest compared to some of the others on the moon, it was still huge. Long enough to fit his small cargo ship, the Folly, in twenty times end to end.
A metallic clunk came from their left. Arland reacted instantly, grabbing a handful of Dannage’s shirt and pulling him in close behind her. Her other hand panned the flashlight in the direction of the sound.
He felt ridiculous, towering a good head taller than her as she tried to shield him.
Light flooded the room. He threw an arm over his eyes. Arland didn’t move, her attention on a pair of big men perched high up on the shelving units. Both dressed in black and aiming compact rifles at them.
Arland shot him an annoyed look over her shoulder. She didn’t need to say anything; he knew what she was thinking.
You told me, ordered me, to come unarmed, idiot. Sir.
“Fitz,” he called into the stacks. “We came in good faith. Stand your goons down.”
“Now, now, Michael Dannage, your dog’s reputation precedes her. These men are just here to make sure I leave intact.” The voice seemed to come from all around them.
Arland’s grip on his shirt tightened, threads popping under the strain.
“Easy, Arland. And let me go, damn it.”
She relaxed her grip and he jerked his shirt free. Stepping around her, Dannage addressed the room. “Come on, Fitz. Come out and we can talk like civilised men.”
The sound of a door opening and shutting was followed by the slap-slap of dress shoes against concrete. Fitz walked around the end of a shelving unit, his face split into a broad grin.
“Civilised? Are we really so different, you and I?” He chuckled, discarding his old-fashioned, chromed microphone as he came closer.
“We’re both businessmen,” Dannage replied, “so let’s get down to it.”
“As you wish. Come into my parlour.” Fitz’s eyes lingered on Arland as he spoke.
◊◊
Arland followed behind the captain, her eyes tracking the two thugs as they clambered down the shelving. They dropped the last ten metres or so to land with heavy thumps that kicked up clouds of dust.
She looked more closely at the nearest one. There it was, in the fall of his trousers, the odd angularity of his shoulders: The intentionally loose clothes were hiding exoskeletons, robotics designed to enhance the strength of the wearer.
“You like what you see, girly?” The first man smiled, showing crooked teeth.
Shaking her head and ignoring him, Arland went back to mapping escape routes.
Fitz led them into a small
office space illuminated by a pair of bare overhead bulbs. It wouldn’t take much to break them, giving her and the captain cover if they needed to make a quick exit.
Speaking of the captain… She glared at him again. Why had he insisted she go unarmed? It was idiotic. Worse than that, it was dangerous.
Fitz swept his arm, gesturing for the captain to take a seat on one side of a brand new trestle table, while he walked around the far side, well out of her reach.
The captain declined and remained standing. He possessed at least some common sense.
Fitz and Dannage started bartering, and she tuned them out, focusing, instead, on tracking the two thugs. Their heavy footfalls made it easy.
One paced back and forth outside, while the other moved to station himself behind his boss, his hands clasped behind his back and chin up like he was at parade rest. He was mirroring her, maybe mocking her.
He wasn’t military or even ex. His eyes darted back and forth, nerves maybe. He was trying to watch everything instead of relying on his other senses. Like the concealed exoskeleton, it was a sign of an amateur, a pretender. Not that that made him any less dangerous.
“What are you offering in return?” the captain was asking.
“Information,” Fitz said, his eyes straying toward her, again.
Since he’d first made his grandiose appearance, he'd been watching her with that hungry expression, like she was some slab of meat he was itching to get his teeth into. Just the thought of that slimy little man touching her made her shiver.
The broker’s bony arms jutted from the sleeves of his jacket, his weaselly face was topped with greasy, slicked-back hair. If he tried anything she’d kill him, to hells with the captain’s deal. She could do it – take him out. Even unarmed, it would be easy. It was the guards she had to worry about.
“What information?” the captain asked.
“The biggest salvage of your life. TIN ships, lots of them. Could set you up for life. Or at least pay off your debts.”
That piqued her attention. The Terrain Imperial Navy had been the pinnacle of human military achievement, with warships the size of small moons, even genetically engineered crews – at least that’s what she’d heard. Nearly all the Terran artefacts were spirited away by the government as soon as they surfaced.
“Okay, where?” the captain asked.
“Give me the goods first.”
The captain’s hand dipped into his jacket pocket. Goon number two’s gun snapped up. Arland tensed, her hands moving to grab the gun.
“Easy there, man.” The captain slowly withdrew his hand. “I’m just going to get your boss’ payment out. We agreed on two bars?”
“Two bars for the location,” Fitz replied. “Maybe we can cut a deal for exclusivity?”
“Another bar.”
“I was thinking of something a little different.” His eyes slid over Arland again.
The captain laughed. “Do not go there. She will kill you.”
“She’s military. She’ll do what she’s ordered to, right?”
“Even if I was inclined to give the order, I doubt it.”
Arland clenched her jaw. She was a good soldier, or had been, anyway. What had happened – the court-martial – wasn’t her fault. But, they had seen to it that the only way she could support herself was to sign on with second-rate traders like the captain, working security for bumbling fools. No. That was unfair. The captain was a decent sort, a good man. Not that she’d ever say as much to his face.
“Three bars,” the captain said, “two for the location, one for exclusivity. My final offer.”
Fitz looked down at the scuffed table top. “Done. You first.”
The captain unwrapped the paper and tossed three bars onto the table, their dark blue wrappings catching the light. Fitz grabbed them up, shoving two into his pocket and carefully removing the wrapper from a third. He broke off the smallest corner and popped it into his mouth, his eyes closing in bliss as he chewed.
“Feldspar system. Do you know how long it’s been since I had chocolate?” he asked.
“Feldspar is a big place. Be more specific.”
Fitz just smiled in response. “Like I said, lots of ships. Can’t miss them. As sweet as this is, I still want the girl. I’ll give you five hundred currency for her.”
“Thanks, but no.” The captain turned to leave.
“I don’t think you quite understand the situation.”
Goon number two stepped into the doorway, blocking their exit.
“I’m sorry, Michael. It’s just business, you see.”
“How much are Recoup paying you?”
Money was always the captain’s first concern.
Fitz let out a snort of laughter. “More currency than you can afford. Leave the girl and I’ll let you walk.”
The captain bristled at the idea of being railed into a corner. “Arland?”
She knew what he was asking. Could she take them, could she get them out of this, unarmed against two augmented mercs? Maybe. Was she going to go down without a fight? Definitely not.
“Yes, sir.”
Before any of them could react, she vaulted across the table, her fist connecting with Fitz’s face. He recoiled, clutching his broken nose. She grabbed him, one arm going around his throat. The spice of his cheap cologne burned the back of her throat. Ignoring the stink, Arland put him between her and the goons.
“Back off, or I’ll break his neck.”
She sensed the knife a second too late. Before she could do anything, the slimy git jammed it into her side.
Ignoring the pain, she grabbed his wrist and twisted. He screamed, falling away from her. She gave him a quick kick for good measure, then the goon number one was on her.
She ducked under his first blow, delivering a jab to his kidneys. He grunted and swung again, his gun apparently forgotten.
Pulling Fitz’s knife from her side as she went, Arland darted beneath another swing. Then she was behind him. Her target, the exoskeleton’s control module, protruded just above his collar.
She jammed the knife into it and twisted. There was an electrical crackling as the control module splintered apart and the knife blade snapped off.
The goon froze in place, his exoskeleton locking around him as its systems went offline. He was lucky, she’d seen damaged exoskeletons rip their users apart.
Not giving the paralysed man a second look, Arland swiped up his gun.
“Put the gun down and I won’t shoot your captain.” Goon number two held the captain on his knees, his rifle pressed to the back of the captain’s head. “I won’t ask again.”
She shot him twice, between the eyes.
“Come on, sir. We should get out of here.” She pulled the captain to his feet.
◊◊
Stars above, Arland was good. She’d taken out those guys without breaking a sweat, even with a knife wound.
“Are you going to be okay?” Dannage pointed to her side where blood stained her green shirt.
She looked down as if not quite understanding. Then, seeing the blood stain, she shot him a quick smile. “Oh that, it’ll be fine.”
He grabbed her arm, turning her to face him. “I’m being serious. We should bind it or something.”
“It’s fine.” She pulled up her shirt to show him.
He knelt beside her to wipe the blood away with a handkerchief. The skin was raw but unbroken.
“What the heck?”
She rolled her eyes. “Medical nanites. It’s a military thing. All the spec-ops and officers get them.”
Dannage had never joined up – not even the mandatory six-month System Service.
“Okay, okay. You’ve made your point. Let’s get gone.” He pushed himself up and headed off through the stacks, toward the front of the warehouse.
As they emerged into the murky night, Arland stopped short. Dannage turned to ask her what she was doing? She held up a hand, forestalling his question.
“Sounds l
ike someone tipped off the authorities,” Arland said. “Sirens coming from the south.”
“Folly’s docked north of here. So, what are you waiting for? Let’s get gone,” Dannage said. “I, for one, don’t want to wind up spending the night in jail.”
The voice came from the shadow of a broken streetlight. “I wouldn’t be worried about that.”
They both turned. An unassuming man of average height stepped from the shadows. Beside him, Dannage could feel Arland assessing the man. To his eye, the newcomer was just a young man with dark hair, bland features. Perhaps the most distinguishing thing about him was the complete lack of anything noteworthy.
“What do you want?” Arland asked, the tension practically radiating off her. What was it about this man that had her so riled up?
“Me?” He let out a short bark of laughter. “It’s not about what I want, any more than it’s about what you or your pitiful captain wants.”
Dannage was about to speak up when Arland’s elbow in his ribs stopped him.
“What is it about then?” she asked, moving in front of Dannage, again.
“This is about everything, and what happens when the past returns. If it were to fall into the wrong hands, then all might be lost.”
“And you think we’re the wrong hands?”
“Not necessarily. There are worse. But I will need to take those coordinates.”
“Arland, the cops are almost here. Deck him already.”
“Shut up.”
He stopped. She’d never spoken to him like that. Her constant sarcasm and teasing had grown on him enough – it was almost endearing. But this was new, it was like she was talking to a subordinate or a child.
“Your captain is right. The enforcers will be here momentarily. We should conclude our business before then.”
“What does a Spook want with a bunch of ancient Terran ships?”
A Spook, Stars above, a real Spook. No wonder Arland was wound tighter than a HyperCoil. He’d never seen one before. They were little more than an urban legend. Them and their enigmatic bosses.
“It’s not the ships, it’s what’s in them. The Binaries say the Old Ones are important in what is to come. This point is a fulcrum about which humanity’s future will turn.” The last was said almost like a recital, lines learned by rote.