by C. S. Harte
Voices of the Lost
Entrent Saga Book Four
C. S. Harte
Star Publishing
Copyright © 2018 by C.S. Harte
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, live or dead are purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-947721-08-1
Version 1.0.0 (2/24/19)
For my Maria.
Contents
Notes
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Also by C. S. Harte
About the Author
Reader Circle
Notes
Anjali needs more personality. Happy go lucky. Super excited about things. Also someone that cares about humans and think they are a species worth protecting/helping.
When Dren is floating between universes, good time for him to confront his voices. Maybe a convo with RAI-17 or Raven. You are more than a collection of cells.
also remove ocular implant to prevent tether death.
explain what a tether is earlier. like when walder first reshells him.
1
A ghost floated across space marine Dren Arvol. He recognized it as a former squadmate, a friend torn in half by a Voidi warrior. The dead marine appeared icy blue behind his helmet. His white, pupil-less eyes were wedged open in fright. Dren’s ghosts all had an unnatural aura to them, like a super-saturated light, distorting their appearance and color into the spectrum of hyper-reality.
As far as he knew, no one else saw them. The apparitions vanished shortly after they appeared, often turning a corner or passing through a wall. Dren learned to recognize the delusions. He had to. Otherwise, he would fail his psych eval. Clones that failed their evals became something worse than ghosts. They got purged — expunged — as if they never existed.
On a daily basis, Dren had to lie. Today, he lied to the Phoenix Company squad leader, Commander Kara. She was another clone created in the same replicant facility vat as Dren. The only difference between her and the marines she commanded was her variant line, her genetic blueprint. Kara, and all the other squad leaders, were modeled after Whispers, covert agents specializing in infiltration and assassinations.
Dren looked into Kara’s honey eyes and told her he was fit for duty — that he was eager to make up for a misjudgment leading to the death of two marines, two friends. Anything to avoid a psych eval, even volunteering for a first contact mission with an unidentified alien vessel in the Abren system.
Her lips turned south as she lowered her Obscura suit helmet over her black, braided hair hiding her smooth, coffee skin. “This is your last chance to prove you belong in my squad, marine!” She clenched her jaw and waved him on board Timor, the transport ship.
Dren’s forest green eyes surged open. He expected her to scream an order at him to clean the company latrine as she usually did. But few people volunteered for first contact missions — those rarely ended well. Dren knew she would be short on able-bodied soldiers. “Understood, Commander.” He ran his fingers through his short black hair to flatten it before putting on his Tempest suit helmet. The heads-up display activated as he locked the visor closed. His heart rate was slightly elevated, but his vitals were otherwise solid.
Another ghost waited for Dren once he entered the main cabin. This one mirrored Dren in appearance; 2.3 meters tall wearing a Tempest suit with a pasty-white face hiding behind the helmet, and a three-centimeter diagonal scar underneath the right eye. The ghost blocked access to Dren’s seat, snarling at him. This apparition was a regular, following Dren everywhere, including his dreams. Dren ignored him and walked through the specter, leaving wisps of smoke in his wake. Once seated, Dren repeated the same lie he told Kara to himself: I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy. Three more spirits appeared across him, each carrying blank expressions and empty eyes. Dren pointed his eyes at the gunmetal gray floor, away from his audience, and exhaled.
Clones are humans. Dren replayed an argument with a birther Fleet sailor earlier that day. He wanted to believe that was true. On the surface, clones were indistinguishable from birthed people. It shouldn’t matter that Dren came to life in a glass tube. Yet, Commonwealth laws regarding clones were clear. They were the property of the corporation or agency that funded their creation making them essentially assets, someone’s property. As assets, their genomes could be recombined and spliced at will to produce whatever desired results. Can assets with consciousnesses, truly be the same as natural-born humans if they had no control over their own genetics?
“Listen up, Dupes!” yelled Kara from the front of the main cabin.
All five marines on board — Privates Dren, Wyrick, Veillon, Jann, and Staff Sergeant Kingston — stood and faced her.
The three ghosts haunting Dren’s mind moved next to Kara as if forcing him to face them. He clamped his eyes shut and counted to three, a trick he learned to push the phantoms away, giving time for them to fade.
The Timor entered warp as the Commander spoke.
“In 18 sol-hours, we will reach our target, unidentified ship #203 which we’ll refer to as UNID-203.” Kara’s eyes panned across the cabin. “Our mission is strictly intel gathering. We need to get close-up details of the hull design. Then we hail them and see if they’re naughty or nice aliens.”
“What happens if they’re the naughty kind?” Sergeant Kingston asked with his usual deep, baritone voice.
“We book it back home to Salvation Station.” Kara scoffed. “This won’t be a repeat of Eagle Company. We will not engage hostiles on their own ships.”
Uneasy laughter sprouted among the soldiers. Eagle Company thought they could board and capture a Voidi transport ship ran by a skeleton crew. Their confidence originated from outnumbering the Voidi sailors ten to one. No member of Eagle Company survived.
“And if they’re nice aliens?” Jann asked. He was the newest clone in the squad with a baby face. Everyone treated him like their little brother.
“There’re no plans to board the ship,” Kara said. “If that’s what you’re asking. Sleep or do whatever you need to do to pass the time. Just don’t bother me.” She exited the cabin into the cockpit.
All the marines sat back down. Most of them drifted into sleep within minutes.
Low rumbling sounds came from Jann’s corner.
Wyrick kicked Jann’s leg. The snoring stopped.
The tension disappeared from Dren’s neck when he heard Phoenix Company wasn’t planning on boarding the alien ship. The survival rate of first contact missions in the Age of the Defi
led were low.
Mankind won the Battle of Final Hope, a glorious victory between a rag-tag band of hobbled military warships and civilian merchant spacecrafts against a vast armada of technologically superior Mimic sphereships. Outnumbered dozens to one, there was little hope for a human victory. It wasn’t until the still unexplained event known as the Blessing of the Guardians, did the Earth Defense Force snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.
Humanity celebrated as news of the victory spread to every frontier planet. The euphoria of salvation lasted less than a week. Anchors, a portal mechanism between worlds and pocket universes, activated throughout the galaxy. Earth itself had seven Anchors, one on each of the major land masses. From the pulsing blue and white light of these portals, the Defiled paraded their armies through, proclaiming the universe of man as their own.
The Defiled was a coalition of three races, the Chorda, the Voidi, and the Streydr from the time of the First League over 100,000 sol-years ago. They initially ran from the Mimic swarm that eradicated the 10,000 member-strong First League. They thought themselves safe from the ghoulish grasp of Mimics by hiding in pocket universes. They soon learned there wasn’t a corner of space the Mimics couldn’t reach. Eventually, they swore fealty to the Mimics, sparing their children from certain death.
With their Mimic overlords gone, the Defiled became the new pestilence dreaded by man. They provided a different face compared to Mimics, but they were no less ruthless and vile.
For humanity to have a chance against its latest enemy, they had to rebuild their warships even as resources dwindled. They needed more soldiers. Mass cloning, once considered unconscionable, became the widely accepted solution. Humans direly needed new allies after the Katoks once again disappeared in light of the new dangers. Which is why a group of six volunteer marines and a pilot on the transport ship Timor made way toward an unknown, potentially hostile alien ship. Desperation was a necessary ingredient for reckless hope.
The droning of the engine softened. The Timor dropped out of warp.
Kara returned to the main cabin. “We’re 10 minutes out. I want one last weapons and gear check. We’re not looking for a fight, but we’ll give them one if they come seeking it.”
Dren performed his usual pre-combat checklist. With eye movements, he navigated to his inventory tab on his HUD. His Mattix rifle, standard issue for Fleet Marines, showed max loadout for all ammo types.
100 standard projectiles.
50 explosives.
50 cryo.
And 25 electro charges.
He switched to his neuromod screen which interfaced with his Bio-Information Panel on his forearm. All clone soldiers had the maximum of three neuromods installed.
Strength neuromod active.
Speed active.
Agility active.
Healing biomod active. This modification affected non-neurological systems of the human body, hence the distinction between bio and neuro mods. All cloned soldiers had a healing biomod, allowing even gravely wounded marines to return to combat in a span of hours provided they had a safe location to regenerate. Self-healing made clones cheaper than combat droids. Cells could regrow themselves. Mining metals or salvaging broken droids required time and resources, two luxuries Fleet no longer had.
“One minute!” Kara yelled.
A body of a dead marine caught Dren’s attention as it drifted past his window. With his ocular implant, he zoomed in on the face. The expression screamed terror with his mouth and eyes frozen wide. His body was dull white, like marble, a perfect sculpture of horror. Dren locked his stare on the face, waiting for it to move, wondering if his ghosts had jumped outside the ship. How else could a human corpse be outside the ship in this part of space?
Kara passed him. She turned her head to follow Dren’s stare. “Looks like an Ensign,” she said to him. “A bridge officer from the CMS Dallas according to his wings.”
“Sir?” Dren creased his forehead. She sees him too? He questioned his reality as turmoil reigned in his mind.
“If we can, we’ll try to pick him up on our way back.” She patted his shoulder and continued past him.
Pick him up… Fleet wouldn’t bother retrieving the bodies of clones. Why would they when they could make more? Dren repeated a second, more insidious lie to himself. He believed himself to be human, that he was of the same worth to humanity as humans, and that he should have the same rights given to all men — mainly, the freedom to choose his own path in life. Dren believed his genetics to be his own. Only he should have the right to modify them. Altering his genome, was in essence, changing who he was.
In an era of peace, perhaps Dren had a case to be made. In the Age of the Defiled, there were less than two million humans across the entire Milky Way galaxy — survival trumped the doctrine of fairness.
“Three minutes, Dupes!” Kara shouted after entering from the cockpit.
She was never here. Dren felt his breath catch in his chest. The body disappeared from the window. It was a false memory — the body, the conversation with Kara, all of it wasn’t real. This was an inauspicious start to the mission. Maybe it was a mistake to come, to not take a psych eval. He might be placing his squad in danger.
The unidentified vessel came into view from the side of the Timor. It was mostly intact, about the size of a heavy cruiser, approximately 20,000 meters in length. There was power to the ship as indicated by the various operational cobalt and ruby lights.
Dren didn’t recognize the configuration of the ship. It definitely wasn’t a Fleet or Alliance design, or any known human arrangement. There were three distinct parts to the massive, asymmetrical vessel, making it seem like three ships had merged. Two front sections formed a U-shape with one side of the U shorter than the other. Connecting to the back of the U was another segment which was taller than it was long. Together, the vessel gave the appearance of a gun with two barrels.
Dren ran a search algorithm with his Tempest suit’s computers. No matching design came up. He looked across to Kingston and wondered if he saw the same or if it was another haunting of the mind.
“You OK there, Private?” Kingston asked over private comm. He was the oldest member of the squad at 33; some members called him “Pops” as a sign of respect.
Dren stared into Kingston’s brown eyes and said, “I’m fine, Pops. Just a little antsy whenever I’m near alien things.”
“We’ll be fine,” Kingston said. His lips curved into a smile. “What’s the worst that can happen, we die?”
Dren laughed uneasily. “Right, Pops.”
“Listen up, Dupes!” Kara crossed her arms behind her back. “By now you can see that the unidentified vessel outside the window is an alien design humans have never encountered. This information has been relayed to Fleet Command, and they have given us new orders.”
Groans erupted from Dren and the other privates.
“Hold on now…” Kara flashed a wicked smile. “You haven’t heard the good news! Our new mission is to make contact with the aliens on board.”
“How is that good news?” Veillon asked and rolled his eyes.
“I’m glad you asked, Private Veillon.” Kara’s smile grew into a smirk. “We lucky marines get to play ambassador to a new species of aliens and get the honor of first contact. History will remember this day.”
More groans. We’re boarding the alien ship. Why on Sol would we do that? Dren already knew the answer before he asked Kara his question, but asked anyway. “How are we getting back home?”
“Private Arvol,” Kara sighed before continuing. “You are a clone. As such, you are expendable. We all are. The only way back to Salvation Station for us is,” she looked directly into his eyes, “death.”
2
While circling the mystery ship probing for an ideal section to use the hull-borer, a 250-meter panel opened on the aft side of the craft, exposing a cavernous bay with a navy blue light as the sole source of illumination. The vibrant light shifted in hue and saturation, ro
lling like a wave, giving the appearance of moving water within the hangar-like compartment.
Commander Kara crossed her arms as she chewed on her lip. “Take us into the opening,” she ordered the pilot. “Thrusters only.”
Every ghost around Dren disappeared, afraid to haunt his thoughts from this point on.
Dren heard his heartbeat thrashing in his ear. He had an urge to scream to his commander to change course, but he was already on thin ice with her.
Unease rested on the faces of the other marines. If they had reservations, they kept it to themselves. Everyone’s HUD showed the main, bow camera feed of the Timor as it drifted into the eerie alien ship.
Dren opened a private comm to Kingston. “Sarge, I’m getting a bad feeling…”
“Your job isn’t to feel, marine,” he said with an edge, closing the discussion.
Jann glanced at Dren.
Even with no verbal communication, Dren knew what he was thinking. Jann wanted him to speak up to the commander and say something to the effect of, “We need more people to explore a ship this massive. There must be thousands of soldiers on board. Why would they open their doors and let us in? They will kill us! This is suicide!” Those were also Dren’s chief complaints to the commander.
The Timor entered the hangar at 30-meters per second.