by Dale Sale
Corvus Ascending
Dale Sale
Copyright © 2021 by Dale Sale
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.
Created with Vellum
To Ivy: Who thought I could tell a story
Contents
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
Epilogue
About the Author
WANT FREE STUFF?
Also by Dale Sale
Chapter One
“This day is totally fucked!” Chief Warrant Bosun Guster Johansson swore to himself as he put his Anvil class assault dropship into a steep dive.
The controls were glitchy, and they bucked wildly when he hit the towering thunderhead over the extraction zone.
“Warning, external environmental conditions are exceeding operational parameters. Initiating pilot restrictions,” a calm feminine voice sounded in his ear.
Gus shouted, “Annie, override all operational restrictions. Command code Gusty Joe.”
“Operational restrictions removed. Command code override logged.”
A panicked voice sounded over the comms, “Joe, you coming? We are getting our ass handed to us down here! Too much lightening to move, pinned down. The whole landing is FUBAR.”
Gus said, “Hang on, Marine! I’m dropping in hot. I’ll have you back to base in time for evening milk and cookies.”
The storm had appeared out of nowhere just after the patrol dropped. The ship they landed in was out of commission from a direct lightning strike. “I want you moving when I hit the LZ. No time for souvenirs.”
“Rodger that, just open the door and keep the engines running,” the comms rang out.
Sweat poured off Gus’s forehead as he fought for control. His haptic feedback gloves were slipping despite a death grip on the controls. The forward view was fogging, and rain beat a furious tattoo against the glass. A silver Mjolnir medallion swung on a chain from a switch. Time slowed, and the medallion blurred. A nagging feeling grew between his shoulder blades. The old Bosun could barely see the landing zone and was relying on the heads-up-helmet overlay to guide him in.
Gus shook his head and flared the ship at the last minute above the patrol’s position, then punched the landing ramp release. Lightning was popping all around and the thunder was deafening through his helmet.
The squad leaped from their positions and ran hard. When the last of them were exposed a tremendous blue bolt fell from the sky and danced from one Marine to the next. Puppet jerking as they screamed. Then it flared at Gus…
Gus jolted awake. The sweat-soaked sheets stuck to his body. He shook his head to clear away the images.
Post Military Service Disorder the head shrinkers called it these days. It had gone by a lot of different names over the centuries.
Gus peeked out of the window. The day was bright and sunny. Finally! A storm had been raging for a week. The Infonet said hurricane Astra was the biggest storm to hit the area in over 200 years. The tides and surf had been high and pounding. Gus’s shack, officially named: Building, Prefab, Retirement: 01 each Fleet Stock Number 5410-56-153-8645, plopped down here by Governance Fleet Retirement Services had survived through the recent blow, but a touch of cabin fever was setting in.
Gus was itching to get back out and check on his fish traps. It was as close to being back in space as he was going to get. Oh, he had his pension and little house, but it felt like quite a downgrade from a lifetime of riding the most powerful warships in the Governance. After 30-plus years of service he had been cashiered out and dumped on this out-of-the way rock named Terne, butt-end of the end of the trade lines. He hauled on the same wrinkled khakis he’d worn the day before and headed to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee from the auto-brewer before heading down to his boat.
Terne, that’s a fitting name for this boring planet, Gus mused as he nursed the bitter cup. I’ve tasted better coffee boiled in a muddy ammo can.
Gus pitched the dregs into the weeds outside the boathouse door before hanging the cup on a peg. He raised his eyes to check the position of Ix in the sky. The ringed white-dwarf sun that Terne orbited was still high. The double systems, much larger primary, Iz, had already set. He began to get his boat, the Annie D, ready for the day. She was simple, just the way Gus liked it at this point in his life, besides she was all he could really afford. The boat was seven meters, a good size for one man to handle. The mast raised on a tabernacle and featured a simple lug rig sail. A small cabin forward was just large enough for a cozy berth. Navigation was a compass and lead line. Gus ran through an underway checklist out of long habit.
The boatlift motor growled as it lowered. He would need to replace the bearings soon, but money was tight, his pension didn’t stretch far. If he could land a few nice sized nattos today, it would be good eating for the week and maybe enough to sell at market.
Gus shoved off and shipped the oars to stroke confidently out of the cove and into the swell beyond. He decided to just row for a while instead of raising the mast. Exercise always helped clear away the dreams.
The bot lay tangled in rope on the shallow ocean floor. The storm had twisted it up tight. The bot had been down here a long time. It wasn’t in a hurry to get loose.
Depth: 35meters
Clarity: 12 meters
Temperature: 15C
Silt burden: Negligible
Systems…. Checksum 100%
Commence daily attempt to contact command for instructions.
All frequency check… negative appropriate code response.
All current maintenance tasks complete.
Initiate self-rescue protocol. Fail self-rescue.
Fall back protocol initiated, awaiting instructions.
Gus was surprised to see one of his trap buoys. He figured that they had all been lost in the storm. This trap lay farthest out. The sea shelf fell off hundreds of meters nearby. Sometimes a deep-water dweller would get swept up the shelf and caught. Those always brought a nice market price. People paid more for novelty. Plus, he had to admit they were tasty.
He brought the boat smoothly along the buoy and clipped a line to it. A few quick movements and he started to crank it up.
“Damn, trap must be silted in from the storm,” he said. “Weighs a ton!” He put his back into the handle and rocked the boat to break the bottom suction. “Here it comes.”
Gus peered down into the clear water. The trap didn’t look right, must be fouled with something.
The trap broke the surface. He could see that whatever was tangled in the trap was big and heavy.
“Come on, you piece of shit! Get in the boat!” Gus yelled out loud, then he fell back.
Two metal arms had popped out of the water and grabbed onto the gunwale. “Holy Shit!” Gus scrambled to balance out the sudden weight that threatened to capsize him.
He just sat
wide eyed as a small armored figure with a featureless helmet hauled itself aboard, seaweed trailing behind. It began to untangle itself. The helmeted head spun and focused on him. A stream of words began to pour out of the machine. It sounded like weirdly archaic Standard.
“Greetings Good Sir. Could you please identify yourself or I will be forced to take defensive action in response to my abduction,” the strange machine said.
“Your abduction? You are the one that is interfering with my business,” said Gus, “Taking the food right out of my poor mouth. I should dismantle you and sell you for damages.”
“I advise against that course of action, Sir. I am allowed to defend myself according to the Rules of Behavior. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”
“OK you damn insolent tin can, I’m Guster Johansson, Star Bosun 4, Governance Fleet, retired.”
“Pleased to meet you Bosun Johansson, I am Imperial Confederation General Repair and Maintenance Protocol bot service designation HAM2F347791 currently assigned to, I beg your pardon, it seems that my current assignment data is incomplete,” the bot replied.
“Well, HAM, you don’t look like any GRAMPy I ever saw. What are your service parameters?” He slipped back into fleet-speak fit like a pair of old shoes.
“The 2F is a multifunction unit designed for maximum duty flexibility. I am fully capable of performing all ship’s repairs and maintenance in any environment. I carry a full set of vessel specifications and am authorized to make a host of autonomous decisions. You appear to be a ranking officer, so I am at your disposal, until I receive new orders,” HAM said, evidently programmed to be polite.
“Well, this might just be my lucky day! I could probably find a few odd jobs for a GRAMPy around the place. Besides, it wouldn’t be right not safeguarding government property. Just until I find out what your story is of course,” Gus chuckled.
“Absolutely Sir! I feel that I have been underutilized ever so long and the Rules of Behavior require me to strive to be helpful. A busy bot is a happy bot!” HAM had begun to repair the trap and continued talking, “As for my story, it seems to be a little fragmented. My last logs show I was performing deep reaction core maintenance on the number 6 fusion engine of the ICS Deliver (LRST 421) when the ship came under attack by raiders. Everything was going along swimmingly for our side until an enemy torpedo struck a weakened containment area. The resulting explosion seems to have sheared away the number 2, 4, and 6 engines, I and a good portion of the hull were sucked into the gravity well of this planet. The last time I saw the Deliver, she was on a maximum burn for a dimensional insertion maneuver. However, it is doubtful that she survived the transition given the extent of the damage I observed. The Captain was always reluctant to take advice.”
Gus said, “Yeah, I’ve known more than a few captains like that.”
“Your trap is repaired, Bosun,” HAM said as it gestured to the trap.
Gus inspected the repairs. Not only was it fixed, it had received some performance improving modifications. “Hmm, what did you do to my trap?”
“Sir, I have restored the device to standards listed in the Imperial Supply Catalog for Trap, Fish, Stationary. If you will allow me Sir, I shall place the device in an optimum position for maximum catch,” said HAM as it hoisted the trap and itself to the gunwale.
“Good idea there HAMy, why don’t you swim down there and do that,” Gus told the bot, and it disappeared with a splash.
Gus thought about the bot’s story. He’d never heard of a ship called the ICS Deliver, any kind of vessel called an LRST, or a “dimensional insertion maneuver”. There hadn’t been any battles in this region of space for a very long time either.
HAM quickly resurfaced and clamped himself to the boat’s stern. “What next, Sir?”
“I think that’s enough excitement for one day. Time to head home,” Gus said as he reached for the oars.
“Sir, allow me.” The bot’s legs configured into a dolphin tail and the boat surged forward.
The sudden jerk caught Gus off guard, and he toppled. “Hey! Be careful, you overgrown outboard; this isn’t an attack fighter. Slow down!” The boat skipped over the waves and stinging spray flew.
“Oh, terribly sorry Sir, my apologies,” HAM squeaked and began to slow. Gus thought he heard a little laugh from the bot, but that must have been his imagination.
Ix’s rings were brushing the horizon by the time the boat was hoisted in the boathouse. Gus trudged back to his cottage as HAM, whose legs now ended in tracks, skated along behind on the sand.
“Excuse me, Sir, but I can’t help but notice that your accommodations look in need of some maintenance,” the bot said. “Perhaps you would like me to take care of a few things?”
“That sounds like a fine idea HAM, that storm sure left a mess. Why don’t you spruce the place a up a bit? I’m gonna see what’s in the freezer, crack open a beer and settle in to watch John Wayne in She Wore a Yellow Ribbon.”
The bot cocked his head. “Sir, why would John Wayne be wearing a yellow ribbon? Perhaps social mores and fashion have changed while I have been away.”
Gus frowned at the little bot. “You’re just trying to make me mad now, ain’t ya!” Gus slammed the door as the little bot saluted, spun, and whirred away.
The next morning Gus awoke to the smell of fresh coffee and the sizzle of what passed for bacon on Terne. He stretched and padded into the kitchen to find HAM busily preparing a breakfast like he hadn’t had since he left the service. One arm worked the skillet of meat while the other poured him a steaming cup. The normal heap of dirty dishes was gone, and the floor sparkled.
He sat at the small table as HAM slid a heaping plate of pancakes and bacon in front of him. The rising aroma made his mouth water. “Hey, I didn’t know we had any syrup!” Gus exclaimed, as he poured it over the pancakes.
“During my work last night, I found the most delicious looking beach plums, and it was no trouble at all to prepare,” explained HAM.
“Well, thanks,” Gus said through a satisfied burp, “I didn’t know I even had plums.” He grabbed his coffee and sopped the last of the syrup with a cake and popped it into his mouth with satisfaction.
“So, what have you been up to all night, HAM? I thought I heard a lot of commotion.”
“Oh, I believe you will be quite impressed, Sir,” HAM said in a self-satisfied way as he led Gus out of the door.
Gus took one look, “What have you done to my yard?”
HAM chirped, “Oh, a few small improvements and much needed maintenance, Sir.”
The bot had indeed been busy. Neatly trimmed grass bordered a walkway of fused sand that ran from the cottage to the boathouse. Winding paths lined with flowers and metal sculptures circled the house and wound through a garden. Gus’s collection of junk vehicles and equipment he called his “inventory of spare parts” was gone. Some of the former were incorporated into a gently bubbling fountain, sculptures, and new wind turbine humming power into the cottage’s batteries.
“You blasted piece of self-propelled mayhem!” yelled Gus, “This place looks like a mashup of a Victorian novel and a Sultan’s palace as envisioned by 16-year-old girl!”
HAM dismayed said, “Oh my! I was only trying to help. It seems I have not captured your aesthetic properly, Sir.”
Gus was about to launch into another tirade when he felt an unfamiliar rumbling behind his belt buckle. His face twisted and his eyes popped a little.
“Ham, where did you get those plums from?” Gus gasped as another stomach cramp shot through him.
“I found them growing just over the dune line as I was disposing of some rubbish. Nice plump ones.”
“Those aren’t beach plums, you idiot. Those are used to relieve digestive stoppage!” Gus took off at a skipping trot towards the back of the cottage and hauled up short just as he rounded the corner. “Where the hell is my privy?”
“Oh, it was quite unsanitary, I removed it. I planned to construct a bathhouse this
morning, but breakfast preparations took priority.”
Gus hobbled over the dune line, trailing a string of blue language.
“Sir, I am so sorry about this situation. It seems I need a data update on the local flora. Is there anything I can do to help? You seem to be in distress.”
“Stay away from me! Get back to work!”
“Right you are Sir, A busy bot is a happy bot!” HAM saluted, twirled, and headed back towards the house.
A pale and shaken Gus entered the cottage after a good bit.
“I need a change of clothes, HAM.” Gus said matter-of-factly.
“I have just the thing Sir!” as the bot skated on one leg into the bedroom, “I noticed that you were lacking a proper dress uniform in the wardrobe, so I stitched one up. Star Bosun 4 I believe you said.” Ham’s voice was practically beaming.
HAM held forth one of the most gaudy displays of military tailoring Gus had ever seen. High black knee boots, blazing red jodhpurs, a stellar black tunic (with his appropriate rank) belted with a sash.
“Is that a fez?” Gus began to turn red. “I’m not wearing that costume, you poor excuse for my great grandma’s Singer. It looks like something from an ancient history vid! Just how long ago did you say you crashed here?”
“As I said, there are some gaps in my data logs. However, I did some star observations overnight and the new data confirms your supposition. Deliver’s battle above this world occurred 1446.8 Imperial Standard Years ago. I had not considered that fashion would change considerably in the intervening centuries.”