by J Porteous
Traitors of Sol
Part One of the Sol Sequence
By
J. Porteous
Copyright © 2017 by J. Porteous
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2017
Chapter One
Carl
Home. That was where Carl Goban wanted to be. Sure, the mining ship his parents lived on wasn't the most exciting of places, but right now it seemed a comfort that he needed. The problem with that was that it involved telling his parents the truth. Somehow, Carl did not see his parents taking his expulsion from the military well, especially when it involved crashing a ship.
He wiped another bead of sweat from his brow, the stifling heat of the recycled air filling his lungs. It was work like this that kept his mind from drifting. Survivor's guilt plagued his thoughts. Five week cycles had passed since the Indomitable, the most advanced star-ship in the human fleet, had found its grave on one of the many death worlds of the outer systems. Carl had convinced himself that his mind relished replaying the event, making him wonder if there was some way he could have averted it. He often wondered if he was ever going to escape that recurring nightmare. He wondered how he would tell his parents, how he would tell Rix.
'What's the set up, Rookie?' a voice called from behind.
Rookie. Given the amount of training hours to fly any ship, the word would be enough to piss off any pilot, let alone one that used to be regarded as one of the best in the military. Of course, Carl had not told his new employers the full tale; crashing a star-ship tends to put your skills in a poor light. Carl managed to bite his tongue. 'Two confirmed distress calls, Captain, a third on transmission now.' He turned to gaze at his new captain, a creeping feeling of dread washing over him.
Hawke Sparov. The Traitor of Sol. The heavy set man stood in the doorway to the cockpit, the single overhead light casting sharp shadows over his bearded face. The dim lighting did him no favours, highlighting his scarred and pockmarked skin. Captain of one of the most infamous mercenary group in recent history, he was the basis for many stories of his heavy-handed ways in the military academy. Now Carl was experiencing those stories first hand, something he never thought he would have the displeasure of having.
'What's the pay?' Hawke asked.
'The third call hasn't confirmed yet, their line is mainly static.' Carl pushed the headset closer to his ear. 'From what I can make out, an emergency fire-team is needed, something about out of control Synths-'
'Remember, Rookie,' Hawke said, patting the badly painted slogan on his combat jacket. 'Loyalty to the ship, loyalty to the pay.' The stark yellow and black of his jacket gave him the appearance of an angry hornet. 'Right now, I'm concerned about the pay.'
'People are dying, Captain-'
'Save your prissy academy bullshit,' Hawke spat. 'Life is a cold and harsh bitch. The sooner you learn that, the sooner you'll fit in with the rest of the Space Bastards.' He cleared his throat. 'Billions of people die each day, in every corner of the universe. Those we save are the ones who can pay.' He brought his hands down heavily on Carl's shoulders and leaned in towards him, lowering his voice. 'Now, what's the set up, Rookie?'
It was not standard military protocol, Carl was certain of that much. He strangled a sigh. He punched the coordinates of a distress signal into the glowing star map in front of him. He knocked the collected pile of empty drink canisters to the floor to clear the view of the map screen which seemed to have led a double life as a table.
The star map flickered intermittently before coming into focus, betraying the ageing tech of the vessel. A planet appeared on the map, its details gradually being filled as data slowly streamed into the system. 'Looks like a pick up from Beledar Four. A Harathdan Researcher needs an evacuation urgently.'
'And?'
The pay, Carl thought. In his mind he rolled his eyes. 'She said she would pay anything, Captain.'
Hawke rumbled with laughter. 'They all say that.' He reached a burly hand out towards Carl. 'Give me the comms.'
Carl passed Hawke the headset and leaned back in his seat. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed a shaven-headed figure propped against the doorway to the cockpit. Lieutenant Justinia Clarke, a shark of a woman. She thought nothing of cutting a person with her sharp tongue and, if words did not have the desired outcome, using her fists to back it up. Her presence always set Carl on edge. She was one of the rare humans who had Carcino-Relic Syndrome. Those afflicted with this genetic hangover made the most brilliant artists, the most passionate scientists and the fiercest fighters. There was little doubt that she fell into the latter category.
A dark grin spread across her face. 'Enjoying yourself yet, Rookie?' she said, her fierce eyes backing the intensity of her words.
Carl did not answer. Keep your head together, he told himself. You need this to work out. Nine other crews had approached him on Calanz station and nine crews had rejected him. When people found out he had been dismissed from military service, they tended to not want him as their pilot. Four weeks of sitting in a space-port, waiting for someone willing to hire you, was worse than this. Possibly. He managed a slight nod in response to her question.
Hawke cleared his throat dramatically in a bid to silence the two of them. 'This is Captain Hawke Sparov of the War Goddess,' he said into the desk mounted microphone. 'You're requesting an emergency evacuation?'
The communication console crackled into life, a voice breaking through the harsh static that droned from the speakers.
'Yes, Captain,' the voice said.
Carl dredged his brain for what the academy had taught him on Harathdans. The voice from the speakers sounded female, but sometimes it was hard to tell when it came to their species. Their voices held a solid monotone, only taking on any type of emotion when becoming close to another being, Harathdan or otherwise.
The voice broke through again. 'It is of incredible importance that I-'
'It's of incredible importance that we get paid,' Hawke said impatiently. He lowered his voice. 'I won't ask again. How much?'
The voice fell silent again, letting more static run through the speakers. Carl leaned in, straining to hear the voice fight through the noise.
'Five hundred thousand,' the voice eventually responded.
'One million or you can rot there.'
Carl heard something behind the voice. It sounded like muffled voices, gradually increasing in volume. They did not sound particularly happy.
'Deal,' the voice said. 'Just be quick, Captain.'
Hawke grinned to himself. 'Punch your landing location through and we'll be there soon.' He pushed the headset into Carl's chest. 'Now that, Rookie, is how to negotiate a deal.' He turned to Justinia. 'How's Watts getting on with his new toy?'
'His new girlfriend you mean?' she smirked. 'He's still tinkering away with it in his quarters.'
From what Carl had seen in his brief time on the War Goddess, Dareth Watts always got a bit carried away with his tech, but this time it really was a labour of love. The engineer usually would have kept him company in the cockpit, feverishly chatting away about the upgrades he would love to install on the ship, but recently he had rarely ventured from the dense clutter that he called his quarters.
Hawke's grin spread over his face. It was not a grin in the usually friendly sense, it was more like teeth bared in grim determination. 'I'll go g
et him. You and Sherlock go get suited up. Planet-fall in half hour.'
Justinia nodded a response then turned and left through the poorly lit steel corridors. Hawke turned his attention back to Carl. 'Any intel on the planet?'
'Yes,' Carl replied. He swivelled back to the data that had now fed through from the star map. It was a far cry from the mapping technology he had used onboard the Indomitable, in both quality and speed. I'll pull a favour from Rix when I see her, see if I can get an excess unit to install. 'It's mostly a ball of bleached rock. There's a minor human population, around the three thousand mark. Looks like it hasn't been life-bearing for long.' He paused, spending a moment squinting to read the poorly rendered text. 'Neo-Neanderthals.'
Hawke laughed his joyless laugh. 'Anti-Techies?' He slapped a firm hand against Carl's back, causing the pilot to jump. His voiced dipped to its usual gravel tone. 'I need to go see Watts. Suit up in half hour.'
'Sorry, Captain?' Carl said, looking up at Hawke. 'Suit up?'
'You heard me, Rookie,' Hawke said. 'I need to know that everyone in my crew can handle themselves, including my pilot.' He leaned forward and tapped the logo on Carl's crew jacket. 'We're the Space Bastards. Mercenaries. This isn't some cushy military posting guarding a bunch of farmers.'
Before Carl had a chance to respond, Hawke was already halfway down the corridor. Carl watched as Hawke disappeared into the ever present shadows of the ship corridors, swallowing the man back into the belly of the ship. Carl bent forward in his seat, his stomach knotted at the thought of fighting planet-side.
He forced himself to sit upright, sucking in a deep breath to slow his thundering heart rate. I'm not meant for this, he thought, as he turned back to the star map. I should be at the helm of a Nero cruiser, not this ageing museum piece. It was common knowledge that mercenary crews generally ran on older technology. They used most of their profit for bulking out their hulls with additional armour plating and installing as many weapons as possible without draining their ship generators. The Space Bastards looked to have taken that rule and ran with it.
A dull thump came from the doorway. Carl looked back from the database to see the large form of Sherlock, his carapace reflecting the harsh light with a certain brilliance. His small eyes shone from deep beneath his thick exoskeleton. Byracinths were a rare sight across the galaxy, and Carl had been surprised to find one serving with the Space Bastards.
'It's not perfect, but it's better than no armour at all,' Sherlock said, as he dropped an assortment of battered combat armour to the floor. The armoured plates clattered against the floor grates beneath him.
Carl stared at the dented plastron armour. Four neat holes were haphazardly placed along the chest plate. Bullet holes. He gazed up to meet Sherlock's glare.
'First time planet-side, Goban?' he said, cocking his head.
Carl cleared his throat. 'Yeah.' He had trained for planet-fall. He had fired a few rounds on the basic combat abilities range, that much was true, but training situations are exactly that, just training. Nothing ever prepares you for the real thing, as his drill instructor had taken great joy in telling them, before regaling them with tales of his own first drop.
'You should be happy,' Sherlock replied. 'A chance to prove yourself, to earn your place amongst the Bastards. It's good money you know.' His beady eyes watched Carl intently. 'A colony of Neo-Neanderthals should pose little threat.'
Carl did not say a word as he rose from his seat to pick up the dented chest plate. The name “Truman” stood out, badly stitched in the covering fabric. He looked up at Sherlock, whose blank stare watched him intently. Byracinths did not have the same range of facial emotions as either Harathdans or humans, making their nuanced glances only something their own species could understand. The thick, beetle-like armour which covered their face and body made it hard to read them.
'Apologies,' Sherlock said, following Carl's gaze towards the name on the armour. 'I haven't had time to take his name off yet.'
Concern etched Carl's face. 'I didn't see anyone else leave the War Goddess at Calanz?' Carl said. 'Not even a body bag.'
'That's because he didn't make it back.'
Carl swallowed the fear in his throat, steadying his voice. 'Didn't make it back? What happened?'
Sherlock stood unmoving, his voice unwavering. 'He exited the airlock mid jump.'
'That's some rotten luck,' Carl said, dropping his gaze to study the dead man's name. Poor bastard.
What passed as a laugh for a Byracinth gurgled through the cracks in Sherlock's face shell. 'Luck had nothing to do with it. He betrayed the ship. Betrayed the crew. We caught him transmitting data back to a rival mercenary outfit, the Sons of Odin. Hawke found out and, well, I assume you can finish the picture.' He quickly fell silent, following Carl's empty stare towards the intermittent red light flashing from the tracker bolted to his carapace. 'Not seen many of us, human?'
Carl reeled back, unaware of his apparently obvious staring. 'No, I only know what I have read,' he said, glad of the change of subject from dead pilots. He nodded to the flashing light embedded into the Byracinth. 'It's a tracker, right?'
Sherlock looked back in silence for a moment, as if contemplating what to say. 'There are not many of us left in the universe, as you know. Many have consigned us to history already, including our own leaders.' He reached his cumbersome fingers up to the tracker, shaking it to show how immovably embedded it was. 'They implant us at birth, allowing them to keep an eye on the steady population decline, and to retrieve our bodies on eventual death to be preserved and archived.' He stood for a moment, holding Carl's stare. 'No need for the Implanters anymore though.' He turned to leave, stepping out of the cockpit. He looked back over his shoulder. 'We might be a dying species, but we will ensure we are not easily forgotten like those who went before us.'
Carl watched Sherlock's hulking form disappear down the corridor, unsure of what to say, so instead holding himself in silence. Only humans, Harathdans and Byracinths existed in the universe now. All others had died out long before humanity had been uplifted by the Harathdans. Generations upon generations of species, long lost to the distant past. He thought on Sherlock's parting words. Who will remember us when we are gone? He glanced down, realising he was still gripping on to Truman's chest plate. He sucked in a deep breath and pulled the armour on piece by piece.
Carl fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat, trying his best to make his ill-fitting armour sit better. He had buckled the armour as tight as he could, but it still slipped slightly as he moved. It's only Neo-Neanderthals, he told himself. What's the worst that could happen? He pulled the last buckle closed and repositioned himself in front of the pilot's console. Beledar Four loomed ahead of the War Goddess, and the ship started to shake as it punched through the planet's atmosphere.
'Almost looking like a real Space Bastard there, Rookie.' Hawke said, stepping back through the doorway into the cockpit.
Carl did not respond. He clipped himself firmly into his seat, concentrating on trying to correct the descent trajectory as the rocking of the War Goddess became more intense. The noise in the ship grew to an ear-shattering level. Carl gritted his teeth in a vain defence against it. The main lighting went out, replaced with flashing red alarms. Hawke gripped onto the desk beside him as the shaking grew in violence.
'Is she meant to do this?' Carl shouted above the noise.
'Don't sweat it, Rookie,' Hawke shouted back. 'She's safe, but not like that fancy military tech you're used to. No drop dampeners here. Keep us hovering over the coordinates before we touch down.'
The shaking lessened as the descent of the ship slowed, the bone-rattling rumble reducing to a gentle rocking motion. Relief swept over Carl's face. He sat back in his chair and let out a deep sigh, prising his fingers out of their tight grip on the controls. He set the War Goddess to a steady hover above the surface.
'Lets switch the screens on and take a look,' Hawke said. He reached above Carl and flipped four switches, and i
n return four monitors flickered to life. A sickly green glow bathed both of them as the grainy images of the external cameras came through.
The internal communications buzzed into life. 'All prepped down here, Hawke,' Justinia said. 'Ready to drop, just say the word.'
Hawke studied the video feed intently, running a finger across the screen to certain points and mumbling to himself. Carl glanced between the screens, constructing the scene that surrounded the War Goddess. A throng of people looked up towards the ship, the appearance of the War Goddess seemingly surprising them as they gawked at it with open mouths. Carl moved a joystick, swivelling the cameras to survey the scene. 'What exactly are we looking for, Captain?'
'There,' Hawke said, pointing a thick finger up towards the third monitor.
The sleek design of the ship was unmistakable. A Harathdan vessel. The usually polished exterior stood dull, covered in dust and debris. Judging from the lack of visible engine scorch on the rock surrounding the craft, it must have been here some time.
Hawke leaned across Carl and switched on the external speaker system. The speakers squawked into life, loud enough for even Carl to hear through the thickened hull. The crowd on the screen covered their ears, confirming that they had heard it louder than he did.
'This is Captain Hawke Sparov of the War Goddess. We have an official contract for the extraction of the Harathdan on board that ship. Stand down and you will be left unharmed.'
A stillness settled over the scene on the monitors. Carl's eyes flickered from screen to screen, watching for any kind of reaction from the crowd below. He wiped the returning sweat from his face. A dull thud could be heard against the hull, followed by another, then another.
'Stones?' Carl said. 'They're throwing stones?' He almost laughed with relief.
Hawke smiled at the screens. 'I was hoping they would do that.' He switched the external communications off. 'Land the Goddess then get down to the drop bay.'