The Messenger Box Set: Books 1-6

by J. N. Chaney

  Ragsdale nodded. “All the more reason not to let them do that. Okay, I’m moving in three.”

  Dash nodded and glanced back. Conover and Freya were starting up the sloping ramp of rocky debris that led to the way out, lugging Grundel between them. Leira, Amy, and Viktor crouched at the base of the ramp, ready to give him and Ragsdale covering fire as they pulled back.

  Ragsdale turned and ran. Dash snapped out three more shots, one each at a trio of scuttling mechs, then turned and raced after him.

  “Sentinel,” he called as he pounded across the compartment toward the rocky ramp. “We’ll be coming out hot in one minute. Can you use the Archetype’s weapons to cover us?”

  “These weapons are designed for long-range combat outside a planetary atmosphere. There would be considerable collateral damage if they were employed here.”

  “Got it.”

  Dash raced on, wincing as both Viktor and Leira fired past him at the Dreadfoot swarm erupting from the gap in the blast doors. Despite having killed a bunch of them, there only seemed to be even more. Either they were being manufactured somewhere—which, hopefully Sentinel’s deactivating the ship would stop—or they were being repaired.

  Ahead of him, Ragsdale clambered up the slope. When they got halfway up, he and Dash would stop and cover Viktor, Amy, and Leira as they pulled back.

  Something burst from the ground beside Ragsdale in an explosion of dirt and gravel. A Dreadfoot lunged as he ran past, slamming its wicked claw into him, knocking him down. The claw withdrew, dripping blood, and readied to plunge down again. Dash swore and raised his pulse gun, then he snapped out a shot that missed. Two more shots connected, sending it tumbling down the slope. Dash dodged it and shouted for help as he reached Ragsdale, who was hurt badly, blood oozing from a deep wound in his gut. He groaned and tried to sit up, but he dropped back, a sheen of sweat on his face.

  “Don’t move!” Dash shouted at him, turning as Viktor reached him. “Help me get him out of here.”

  They grabbed Ragsdale and lugged him up the slope. Leira and Amy held back, covering them, shooting pulse after pulse into the horde of Dreadfoot now scuttling up the slope behind them.

  They reached the exit and clambered through it, blinking at the glare of daylight.

  Outside.

  But they were still at the bottom of a deep pit, and they still needed the winch to reach the top. The Dreadfoot were just seconds behind them.

  Leira scrambled out of the hatch, waving her pulse gun. “I’m out!”

  Amy stayed at the hatch, firing inside. She glanced back at Dash. “I’m almost there. Last shots now.”

  “Dash!” Viktor shouted. “We need cover. Now!”

  “Sentinel, I need the Archetype. This instant.”

  In answer, a massive shadow loomed over the top of the pit. The Archetype towered over them, blocking out the sky.

  “Everyone away from the hatch,” Dash ordered. “As far you can get. Sentinel, you’re going to put your foot over this damned hatch and keep those things inside. Lock them in.”

  “Understood.”

  Dash scrambled up the side of the pit, loose gravel and rock slumping under his feet as he and Viktor dragged Ragsdale with them. The others clambered away from the hatch. The looming shadow of the Archetype swelled, swallowing the sky as it descended.

  As the first Dreadfoot emerged from the hatch, the massive foot of the Archetype slammed down upon it, blocking the hatch.

  Gasping, Dash dug his feet into the loose dirt and turned around. The Archetype’s leg was almost close enough to touch.

  “Okay, Viktor, if we have any first aid gel or clean-clot left, let’s use it on Ragsdale. Then, let’s get out of this damned hole before those Dreadfoot assholes find another way out of the ship.” He levered himself to his feet and glared at the bottom of the pit. “And then, I’m going to board the Archetype and see just how long it takes me to turn every one of those bloody things into scrap metal.”

  23

  Dash poked his head around the door, making sure Ragsdale was awake. He was, lying amid sundry bits and pieces of med-tech, reading something on a data-pad. When he saw Dash, he smiled.

  “Dash, come on in.”

  “You sure? The doctor said you needed your rest.”

  “Bah, I’m tired of resting. Time to get back on my feet.” He put the data-pad aside and sat up.

  Dash moved beside the bed. “Port Hannah’s got a damned fine infirmary. Better than a lot of colonies I’ve been to.”

  “It was a priority when the place was first planned out. You want productive people, you need to keep them healthy.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Dash,” Ragsdale said. He paused, let out a sigh, then said, “To hell with it, I’m just going to say it. Thanks for saving my life.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “So all those Dreadfoot are dead.”

  “Every single one. Sentinel and I made sure of it. Now we’re recovering stuff from that ship. I’m just taking a break, in fact, to get some stuff loaded aboard the Slipwing. Going to head back to the wreck tonight and do some more digging.”

  “I’m glad. Look, I know I gave you hard time at first, but I’m glad it worked out this way. If that thing had come to life without you and your friends here, I don’t like to think about what might have happened.”

  “Yeah. Makes me wonder what else is out there, sitting buried near other colonies, maybe on the verge of waking up.”

  There was a moment of silence as they both chewed on that. Then Dash said, “Anyway, just thought I’d drop by. I’m off now to see your Governor. I’m assuming she’s going to give me a hard time.”

  “Don’t be so sure. She’s a good woman—and smart. Besides, none of us can just blow off what’s going on with the Golden, and the Unseen, and—” He smiled. “Well, I don’t need to tell you, do I?”

  Dash gave a wintry laugh. “No, you don’t. I’m only too familiar.”

  Dash sat across from the Governor, who simply stared at him. Freya hovered nearby, an expectant look of dread on her face. An uncomfortable silence dragged on, filling the space between them all. Dash had already told her the Golden ship had been neutralized and no longer posed an immediate threat to Port Hannah. He’d cautioned that the Golden might still want to recover it, to which she’d simply said, “This is our home. They can try.”

  Dash noticed that Khyber had a small plant growing in a pot on her desk, laden with round, red fruit. On impulse, he picked one and popped it in his mouth, earning an even harder stare from Khyber—until she relented and took one herself.

  “They’re good, aren’t they?” she said after he’d swallowed.

  “Never had anything like it,” Dash admitted.

  “And you never would if you weren’t here. That’s a hybrid of four plants, designed by none other than Freya,” Khyber said. There was open admiration in her voice. That was new.

  “Actually, that’s exactly what we need,” Dash said. “That, among other things.”

  Khyber looked surprised. “You need plumato? From us?” She pointed at the fruit, smiling wryly. “I think you’re being rather limited, if that’s all you’re going to ask me for.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t done,” Dash said, answering her with a broad and somewhat feral smile of his own. “I don’t want those. At least, not just those. We could use food, and a lot of it. The ability to plant and grow our own, and, frankly, the knowledge that you’re an ally. We’re not going to be alone out there at the Forge. We die in the cold of space if we try to fight alone. The Unseen learned that the hard way, and I’m not just going to make their mistakes all over again.”

  Governor Khyber stepped around her desk and put her hand out. Dash took it with a grave expression.

  “Absolutely,” she said. “You’ll have food. Assistance. And consider this the beginning of our diplomatic partnership, Dash. I’ve read through the data Leira gave me. I know what the Forge is—what it really is.”


  Dash was curious about her take on it. “And what’s that?”

  “The first line of defense,” she said. “And it can’t fall.” She sighed, then pulled out a tablet and began to make notes in bold strokes, the screen glowing with her commands. “Freya, do you feel like taking a trip?”

  Freya perked up. “A trip? To where?”

  “To the Forge. You’re going to do some gardening there. And then some. Get them up and running with every trick you know. I think Dash is right. The stronger we are all over, the better our chances for when the Golden return. Take Ragsdale along, too. He can be my eyes and ears.” She smiled, and it was warm, without a hint of the politician they’d met during their first visit.

  “He’s already volunteered,,” Dash said.

  “About which part?” Khyber asked.

  Dash looked at a display on the wall that depicted the local star systems. He saw beyond it, across the galactic arm. “They’ll be coming back. And this time, we’ll be ready.”

  Epilogue

  “It’s amazing,” Ragsdale said, “and actually quite beautiful.”

  Dash could only nod in agreement. The Forge was a controlled, elegant inferno of heat and colored sparks, all contained inside the massive central smelter. The smelter was constructed from a transparent material that gave everyone a front row seat as the Dark Metal was slagged to a roiling liquid, then poured through the transfer tubes where it sluiced off into specific molds.

  “Stay back just in case,” Dash said.

  “That will not be necessary,” Custodian said. “This facility, while not at full power, is operating in complete safety at all times.”

  The AI sounded miffed, Dash thought. “Are your feelings hurt?”

  “I do not have feelings as you would understand,” Custodian replied.

  “But?”

  A brief pause. “I simply want to emphasize that you are quite safe here, Messenger, as are your friends.”

  Dash winked at Leira, who looked more than a little smug at the idea of Custodian feeling hurt.

  “I can see your facial expression, Leira,” Custodian said, “and would like to point out that you’re standing rather close to that transfer tube. Sparks fly. Eyebrows may be inadvertently lost.”

  “Hey! I thought you said this place was completely safe?” she shot back.

  “It is. For people who do not antagonize the operating system by making faces.”

  Dash and Leira exchanged grins with Ragsdale, while Viktor, standing nearby, gave a polite cough into his hand.

  “Hey, Custodian? Um, what comes next?” Amy asked, her eyes bright with curiosity. Dark Metal was being spun like thread by a fine nozzle, each microfilament laying down perfectly in the mold. In a moment, there were three nozzles working, spinning a web like robotic spiders who used black, liquid metal that seemed almost alive. She glanced back at Dash and the others. “Kind of weird to think I’ve still got some of that stuff inside me.”

  “The process begins with internal circuitry. The second mold will then be filled to fabricate armor segments, joints, and motivators. Propulsion and weaponry will begin after I can verify there is enough material for the project in question,” Custodian said

  “And what is it? Other than an Archetype, I mean?” Leira asked.

  “You recall the body scan I did in the hallway?” Custodian asked.

  She nodded. Dash recalled how the intense light had circled her three times, mapping the contours of her body and some of the internal makeup as well.

  “That image is now being integrated into all plans moving forward for the construct—in your language, known as the Mark II Swift. It will be smaller, slightly faster, and comparable to the current Archetype in many ways, although the Messenger and his unique connection will always have a slight combat advantage. You are a natural warrior, Leira, and the Swift will fit your fighting style well.”

  “Thank you, Custodian. I hope—I mean, how long will it take?” Leira asked.

  “With the current stocks of Dark Metal, I may be able to bring your Swift online in a month, but that would only be a husk. For avionics and weapons systems, we will need six weeks station time, as well as more Dark Metal. The process is exacting and requires every bit of power this station can spare,” Custodian said.

  “Can you divert from the upgrades on my ship and the Archetype?” Dash asked. Both the Slipwing and the big mech were being retrofitted for maximum combat efficiency, and the projects took time, energy, and—costliest of all—Dark Metal.

  “I could, but the solution is easier than that. You must be at full efficiency in order to fight, and only then can you harvest more Golden technology for our purposes. It is this station’s recommendation that you, as you humans say, relax.”

  “Relax?” Conover asked.

  “Yes. That is what I said, and that is what I mean. With the addition of botanical elements to this ship, I believe you can produce something known as liquor, which will, according to all data on hand, help you relax.”

  “Not with hangovers,” Dash muttered.

  “Hangovers. A negative state brought about by the accumulation of metabolic toxins derived from alcohol consumption. Yes, those do not exist here. There is a medicine designed to rehydrate and—”

  “Wait, what?” Dash asked, incredulous. “No hangovers? Are you sure this isn’t paradise?”

  “No, this is the Forge, and yes, our medical bay provides an intravenous rehydration system designed to overcome any and all toxins you might accumulate from…relaxing.” The certainty in Custodian’s voice was clear.

  “Sounds like we’re on vacation,” Conover said.

  The rest of them just stared, smiles slowly spreading across their faces. Finally, Dash yelled, “Hey, Freya! Can you make booze out of those plumatos of yours?”

  Continue reading for book 4, THE SILENT FLEET.

  1

  The Slipwing wrenched through a hard-lateral acceleration, burning her fusion drive at full power, trying to shove herself out of the path of the oncoming missiles. Dash could only grit his teeth and wait, desperately hoping that the maneuver would be enough—that the Slipwing’s acceleration could outpace that of the onrushing salvo.

  But it wasn’t going to work.

  The missiles had no crews or sensitive components to protect; they were just drives, guidance packages and warheads, launched on a one-way trip. They could afford to accelerate much harder than their target could, pulling g’s that would overwhelm any inertial dampening system. They easily slid inside the Slipwing’s possible maneuver envelope.

  At the last moment, there was a change of tactics. The Slipwing’s drive went dark and she spun, using thrusters only, to face the looming missile barrage. Her particle cannons opened up, blasting three of the projectiles to clouds of scrap, but she couldn’t track, acquire, and change targets quickly enough. The remaining two missiles both slammed into her, detonating with terrific plasma explosions. Dash groaned as the searing energy ripped through her shields and left a smashed, glowing hulk. A second later, her own fusion containment failed, and the Slipwing momentarily outshone the distant star.

  “Dammit,” Amy snapped. “I was so close.”

  “Hate to say it, Amy, but no, you weren’t,” Dash replied. “You were dead the moment you tried to outburn those missiles. You should have turned into them and started shooting as soon as they came in range.”

  Dash drifted the Archetype back toward the very much intact Slipwing, the simulated missile attack replaying across the heads-up display. Amy had come a long way in her piloting, but she had a long way to go. Still, they had no choice. Someone had to be able to pilot the Slipwing, since Leira was soon to have her own version of the Archetype to fly, a smaller mech called the Swift. Custodian said the Forge only needed a few hundred more kilograms of Dark Metal to complete it, which was the main reason they were out here—testing a new device the Forge’s AI had cooked up with Conover, that could more reliably detect Dark Metal a
t a distance. Dash figured it offered a good opportunity to get Amy some more flight time in the Slipwing. She clearly needed much, much more, especially if she was ever going to take the ship into combat.

  “I thought I could outburn those missiles, though,” Amy said. “It worked last time, and these were the same types of missiles, right? At least, that’s what the scans told me.”

  “I programmed more uncertainty into the scans,” Dash replied. “To screw with you. You can’t just go by the data. You have to be able to go by…let’s call it the feel of the situation.”

  “The feel. Really.”

  “Yes, really.”

  “And what, exactly, is the feel supposed to be?”

  Dash rolled the Archetype to face the Slipwing as they both drove through space. As he did, he tried to formulate a way of describing it—the feel. But it was tough to come up with anything. It was instinct. It was intuition. It was something that came from a pilot’s gut. It included cues from hard data scrolling across the cockpit displays, sure. But it also included sounds and vibrations in the ship’s structure, as well as known behaviors from enemy ships and missiles. Dash even used the natural world—gravity, celestial bodies, and the effects of their eternal dance—in configuring how he reacted to life in space.

  But how to put that in words?

  As the silence dragged on, Dash decided how to explain such a nebulous concept to Amy, but before he could, Leira piped up. She was aboard the Slipwing, but under firm orders to only observe, for later critique.

  “Let me give it a try,” she said. “Amy, remember back when you and I were working together, doing maintenance on a…I think it was a freighter, from the Algaran Collective. Its fusion drive was stuck at eighty-odd percent efficiency, and no one could figure out why.”

  “Yeah, I remember that,” Amy replied.

  Dash was intrigued. “What was the problem?”

  “Oh, it turned out to be an issue with the way the system was drawing fuel from the deuterium tanks,” Amy said. “Whoever fabricated them screwed up, making them all slightly skewed off the right geometry. The pumps couldn’t draw the fuel out of them quite right, so they couldn’t feed it to the engine properly.”