The Galactic Sentinel: Ultimate Edition: 4 Books with 2000+ Pages of Highly Entertaining Sci-Fi Space Adventure

by Killian Carter

  “Very good, Grimshaw,” a chorus of voices whispered in his ear. “Come to us.”

  He looked around the interior nervously, searching for the source of the sound. There were no speakers he could see. Perhaps whatever had happened to Perez was also happening to him.

  Am I going mad?

  The sensation of a thousand tiny legs ran up his back. He thought of the creatures that exploded from Garcia and started to panic.

  He pressed the orb again, eager to escape despite the Krags still trying to get at him.

  Let them have me! I’m not dying in here!

  He banged on the glass, his limbs still weak. He may as well have banged on stone.

  “Do not fear, Grimshaw. Embrace.”

  Something sharp jabbed into the back of his neck.

  Pins and needles raked his body.

  A blinding white light enveloped his mind.

  And for the first time in Grimshaw’s life, he understood.

  6

  Blood And Thunder

  Colors Grimshaw had never seen before coalesced into rainbows and shapes he didn’t know possible. Shapes, shadows, and other forms for which he had no names danced a great celestial ballet around him.

  The dancing lights converged into the vague form of a woman, he’d come to know as a friend of sorts.

  “You’ve been with us long enough, Grimshaw,” a chorus of voices boomed all around him. He wasn’t sure if he could hear them or feel them. Perhaps it was both. “We are sad that you must go. We will miss you. But you must do what must be done.”

  “I understand,” he said. And part of him did…the part of him that didn’t appear to be hearing, seeing, or feeling the way he usually did. That part of him seemed greater in some respects but smaller in others. It was powerful beyond imagination while also being incredibly fragile. Somehow, he knew that was normal. But it also didn’t make sense.

  The lights danced again, but this time they pushed him away.

  “No,” he begged. “I don’t want to go.”

  He couldn’t remember who they were or what he was doing there with them, but a strong desire to remain in their presence pervaded his senses as he sped away from the light and into cold, harsh shadow.

  “Don’t forget, Grimshaw,” their final soft voices echoed in his head.

  “Don’t forget, Grimshaw,” he repeated. “Don’t forget, Grimshaw.”

  A white line split the darkness.

  The darkness parted to reveal a Kragak. He felt no fear at the sight of the creature. He knew not why and he had no desire to understand why for he was occupied with trying to remember that which he was not allowed to forget.

  Grimshaw knew he wasn’t dead, yet he didn’t feel alive.

  The trees of Gorthore drifted over head against a black sky.

  He knew he was lying on a cot of some kind and that the cot was being moved, but he didn’t know how or why, and he didn’t really care. It was all just a dream.

  He swiveled his head from side to side and found a Krag marching to either side of him. His cot seemed to keep pace with them.

  Their heavy boots thudded gently on the jungle floor.

  “Hello,” he said weakly. “It’s a nice night for a stroll.”

  They ignored him.

  Kragak would be like that, the thought, the words echoing through the trees.

  A figure, no smaller than an average human, looked down at him. The figure’s face was shrouded in the darkness of a hooded cloak. He or she reached out and touched Grimshaw’s forehead.

  They continued.

  The sound of Grimshaw’s beating heart got louder.

  He realized the sound was coming from outside and inside.

  His heart was getting louder, but they were also getting closer to something outside his consciousness…something in the real world…something on Gorthore.

  The stranger pulled back a curtain of vines and light spilled forth, causing Grimshaw to cover his eyes.

  Harsh light flooded the way ahead. The beating was much louder here. It was a machine. A ship of some kind, it’s idle engine pulsing low.

  Vroom. Vroom. Vroom. Vroom.

  “Perhaps our paths will cross again one day, Grimshaw,” a rough voice said from inside the dark hood. It was a human voice. He couldn’t tell who it belonged to, but something about it seemed familiar. “Perhaps not. Either way, good luck.”

  The cot drifted ahead without the Kragak. Without the cloaked figure.

  It drifted ever so gently and carried Grimshaw into the light.

  A circle of blinding lights floated above.

  Is it a Krag ship? Did they finally catch me?

  A woman in a surgical mask appeared above him.

  “He’s waking. We need to up the dosage. If he moves so much as an inch, the machine will scramble his brains. If that happens, his Fury Drive loses power. We can’t let that happen. Come on people.

  Grimshaw tried to move, but he couldn’t feel his fingers. He couldn’t feel anything. He tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn’t move.

  Several people moved around his periphery like phantoms in the mist of the light.

  They spoke, but he could no longer make sense of their words. They seemed so quiet all of a sudden. So distant.

  The lights dulled. Shadow crept across his eyes, starting at the edge, and slowly working its way across the center.

  The shadow joined in the middle, blotting out the final light.

  7

  Metal Daze

  Grimshaw stirred, a dull thud rising in the back of his head. He tried to talk, but his lips were dry and stuck together. He let out a weak moan instead.

  “He’s awake!”

  “You keep an eye on him. I’ll fetch someone.”

  Those were the first words Grimshaw heard when his eyes parted. He blinked several times, trying to clear the sleep from his eyes to no avail. He felt beyond groggy. He wondered what he’d had to drink the night before. He couldn’t find his hands…like they were somehow detached from his body. He was numb all over.

  What a hangover! I swear, I’m never drinking again.

  He broke that promise as many times as he’d made it in his youth, but he was serious this time.

  The light stung and he scrunched his eyes.

  “I didn’t expect you to wake so soon,” a woman’s voice said. “Let me get the lights.”

  The lights faded to a dull glow, making it easier to keep his eyes open, but everything was a blur. The silhouette of a person appeared before him, a female human judging by her form.

  “I can’t see,” he croaked.

  “Don’t worry. That’s normal when you’ve been in a certain kind of induced coma for so long. Your eyesight will return to normal in a few hours…a day at the latest.”

  “Induced coma?” His throat felt like he’d been force-fed glass.

  “We’ll get you oriented soon, sir. Don’t worry about a thing.” The woman’s voice was kindly and sweet, but it did nothing to satiate his need for answers. “I’m a nurse. You can call me Cynthia.”

  “Here, drink some water.” She held a plastic cup to Grimshaw’s lips as she poured water into his mouth.

  Swallowing hurt like hell, but the water also felt refreshing. He drank deeply.

  “That’s enough for now,” she said, taking the cup away before he was done.

  “Where am I, Cynthia?” Grimshaw demanded a little louder than before, the water having lubricated his mouth.

  “You’re in a military hospital in Buenos Aires. You’re receiving the best medical care. You needn’t worry. Honestly.”

  Now that she mentioned it, she did have a South American accent.

  He tried to reach for the cup she held in her hands, but his arms clumsily went in the wrong direction and moved slower than expected. As they landed on the bed with a thump, sharp pins and needles shot through his fingers and hands. The overwhelming sensation made him gasp.

  “It’ll take a while for your body to operat
e normally, Corporal Grimshaw. Please try to take it easy. Just for a while.”

  “What do you mean ‘Corporal Grimshaw?’”

  She lifted something from next to his bed. The blurred vision made it difficult to tell what exactly. She pressed what felt like a wooden picture frame into his hands. He ran his finger over it and felt a piece of metal with rough edges.

  “What is this?”

  “While you were unconscious, you were promoted and awarded the Confederation medal of honor. It was quite the ceremony. A lot of important people were there.”

  That raised countless more questions, but he still hadn’t asked the main one on his mind. “How long have I been here?”

  “The doctor is on her way, Corporal. She can answer all—”

  “How long have I been here, Cynthia?”

  “You’ve been in this hospital for six weeks.”

  “I’ve been out for six weeks?” He was furious for some reason, but his words came out weak and feeble, like helpless little squeaks.

  “Longer, sir. You were at another facility before this. I don’t know how long.”

  He reached for the bed’s side rail several times before his clumsy fingers managed to clutch at something.

  He tried to pull himself up, but strength failed him, and he sank back into his pillows.

  “You’ll need to stretch your muscles before they go back to normal, sir. We hook you up to the MSM daily.”

  “MSM?”

  “Muscle stimulation machine, sir. It helps coma patients maintain muscle density. Fools your body into thinking you’re using your muscles when you haven’t been. It’ll mean less time in therapy. But your rehabilitation officer will fill you in more on that front. Other than that, you’ve got a clean bill of health.”

  “Where’s the rest of my team?” he moaned. “Where’s Sarge?”

  He tried climbing out of the bed a second time but pulled harder.

  The room spun about him and his head hit the floor. The back of his skull struck something hard. Probably a bed leg.

  Blinding light flooded the room for a second. “I require assistance in here!” Cynthia called into the hollow hallway.

  Pain flared in the back of Grimshaw’s head. He tried to move but his body wouldn’t obey.

  The cold from the floor worked its way under his skin. It was pleasant at first, even refreshing. It was nice to feel something…anything. But it soon reminded him of the improvised drop pod above Gorthore. Pictures of a vast jungle flashed in his head, quickly followed by Chao, Garcia, and Perez.

  He shivered wildly. Shivering turned to shaking and shaking to trashing. His head banged against the ground several times.

  The door clicked shut again, once again enveloping the room in a dull glow.

  A large shadow appeared above him. He couldn’t make out details or hear words, but a sense of calm emanated from the figure.

  Hands weighed down on his shoulders. Warm hands. He could hear again.

  “It’s okay, Corporal. The fit will soon pass. Just remember to breathe.”

  The voice was as warm as the hands. No, warmer.

  “That’s it, keep breathing, sir.”

  He didn’t regain control of his body, but it stopped thrashing wildly.

  “Let’s get you back into bed, Corporal,” the warm stranger said.

  Strong arms scooped him off the ground with ease and gently returned him to his sheets and pillows. He tried to move, but his limbs had no strength.

  The warm hands held him in place for a little while.

  “It’s okay, sir. They’re giving you something to help you sleep.”

  “I don’t want to sleep anymore.” At least that’s what he wanted to say, but the words exited in a tangled slurred mess.

  Darkness tugged on his senses.

  The harder he tugged in return, the deeper he sank. His window into the world shrank to a point. Then even the point was gone.

  Grimshaw drifted in and out of consciousness, his dreams haunted by strange shapes and half-formed horrors. He got the feeling he was supposed to remember something, that the strange dreams were trying to tell him something important. But every time he reached out to touch those dreams, he awoke.

  Sometimes, someone was in the room with him.

  Sometimes, he was alone.

  Either way, he always drifted back to sleep within minutes, whether from tiredness or anesthesia, he couldn’t tell.

  But each time he fell into the darkness it took longer to claw his way back to the light.

  His eyes opened, and he wiped away the crust around his eyelids, his arms working better than the time he fell out of bed. He expected to be put to sleep again, but the darkness retreated further and further until it was nothing more than a pitiful spot of shade hiding somewhere inside his head.

  A dull sound issued from outside his room. Straining his ear, he realized three voices argued in the hallway. One of the voices belonged to Nurse Cynthia. She seemed frustrated…angry even. The second voice was also female but carried that definite yet rough edge that comes from experience. He’d heard that maternal voice before but couldn’t put a face to it. The third voice was deep and belonged to a man he didn’t recognize. It sounded cold and direct like it was used to getting what it wanted.

  The argument stopped abruptly.

  A moment later, Cynthia opened the door.

  “I’ll be back later, Corporal. Nurse Margery will take care of you for now.”

  She exited the room and a stout lady entered. She had dark, knowing eyes with only slight wrinkles in their corners. Her white hair was tied up in a bun. She wore a head nurse’s green uniform and held herself upright. Her cheeks were rosy, and she wore a little pout on her face. She struck Grimshaw as disciplined and old-fashioned.

  “I’m Margery,” she said all matter of fact.

  “What—”

  “I know you have questions, Corporal,” she said holding her finger up with a warning look in one eye. “But I’m going to have to ask you to save your strength for your visitor. When he’s done, I will answer your questions. I promise. Your visitor wasn’t supposed to come until tomorrow, so we haven’t been able to get you ready, but there’s nothing we can do about that. We’ve given you longer sessions on the MSM machine and found medication that suits you. You should feel much better than when you awoke last week. I’ve arranged for the orderlies to bring you tea, and when you’re feeling up for it, you can have soup. That’s all from me for now. I’ll check in on you again later. Take care.”

  Margery bowed out of the room.

  A man in a neatly tailored black suit appeared where she was standing. He wore a hat and carried a briefcase under one arm. He appeared too young for his outfit.

  He entered with the slightest of nods and set his briefcase on the bedside table without a word before opening it.

  “Nice to finally meet the war hero.” He spoke with a commanding baritone voice.

  He had a boyish face but spoke like someone from the Confederation Intelligence Department. His face was eerily familiar.

  “You work for the CID, don’t you?” Grimshaw was glad to find it was easier to speak than before.

  The man smiled at Grimshaw. “What gave it away?” He looked down at his own black suit mockingly.

  “What do you want?”

  “The Confederation sent me to ask a few questions.”

  “You look too young to be a CID agent.”

  “Yes, I get that a lot, but looks can be deceiving.”

  “Have we met?”

  “No. I need to remind you, Corporal, that I’m the one who is here to ask the questions.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “About Gorthore,” he said, pulling a recording device, a pen, and a clipboard out of his briefcase. “It won’t take long.”

  He placed the recorder on the bedside table. A little red flashing light showed that it was recording. The man didn’t give the medal of honor so much as a glance. He
took up a standing position at the foot of the bed, a dominant position. He readied the clipboard and pen in his hands.

  “You write with a pen? Really?”

  “The CID still like to keep physical records. Let’s start with your name, rank, and designation.”

  It was more of a command than a suggestion. This guy looked like a rookie, but he knew what he was doing.

  “You already know—”

  “The sooner you answer the questions, Corporal, the sooner I can let you get back to your rest.” It sounded like a canned response he’d used a thousand times.

  “Jason Grimshaw. Lance—” He glanced at the frame on the bedside table. “I mean Corporal. Marine. Team Zeta.”

  “Where were you most recently assigned?”

  “Gorthore. In the Zakadur system.”

  “What happened on Gorthore?”

  “You mean the mission?”

  “Yes.”

  Grimshaw narrowed his eyes. He got the feeling he was being tested. “That’s classified.”

  “Very good, Corporal. Here is my clearance.” He produced a wallet from inside his black jacket.

  Grimshaw glanced over it and confirmed he had the clearance necessary to hear about the mission.

  “That’s a young man.” He couldn’t have been much older than Grimshaw.

  “The mission.”

  Grimshaw joined his hands. “There were eight of us on Team Zeta under the command of Sergeant Richards. We were selected for our various skills, but mainly because we were among the few candidates to pass the CSD medical examinations. We hitched a ride on the SS Hermes and launched cold from a Narwhal Bomber. We hit the ground miles away from our designated plots. Sandy’s pod burned up in the planet’s atmosphere. Those of us who landed regrouped, but Chao got mauled by a spike bear. On our way to the temple, Krags attacked. Garcia went down. Perez was meant to scout ahead, but he went missing and was assumed dead. It was strange. He kept talking about voices inside his head. His Fury Drive probably went haywire. It happens. He was close to Garcia too though, so maybe that broke him. Lynch and Sledge held off the Krags while Sarge and I made a run for the temple. Their beacons didn’t last long. The Krags were on our heels most of the way. But we made it. We split up inside and I eventually found a pod. The Krags caught up to me, I jumped inside. Next thing I know, I wake up in a hospital in Buenos Aires, and I’m being harassed by a CID agent.”