Prime Alpha (Planetary Powers Book 1)

by Joshua Boring

  “Don't touch anything,” he said, seriously. “No matter how curious you get.”

  “Da,” Nikolai said, not arguing with the sniper's tone. “I get it.”

  “I don't,” Rathe said, none-the-less keeping his hands to himself. “What is all this?”

  Trent moved from tarp to tarp, pulling them up occasionally to read the stamps on the crates. After about half a minute, Trent froze, re-reading the label on a particular crate. Then, as if settling an internal struggle, the sniper pulled the tarp off, sending a small cloud of dust into the air to choke the air filter. He took a deep breath and broke off the clasps that were holding it down. They were heavy-duty clasps, meant for securing cargo and designed to hold steady in the event of a direct hit, or gravitational failure. Once the heavy straps were cast off, Trent looked at the two pilots.

  “Help me move this,” he said. “And be very careful.”

  Nikolai left his Casper leaning against the door and moved to help while Rathe tenuously slung his SMG. Nikolai kicked the tarp away and the two pilots grabbed the crate by one end. Trent took the other side, showing little strain at bearing one end by himself. The three men slowly brought the crate out into the main, well-lit chamber and put it down. Trent stood and put in a command to the main console. The light in the crate room went out, and the wall started to close, barely giving Nikolai enough time to grab his Casper from the doorway. Soon, the secret room was sealed. The doors to the rest of the ship remained closed.

  Rathe avoided getting closer as Trent knelt in front of the crate.

  “You're making me nervous, Trent,” the pilot said as the sniper input a code to the crate's lock. “Just what's in that thing?”

  The crate beeped, and Trent took the corners of the lid in his hands.

  “The Mojave.”

  He opened the lid and let it lock back. Rathe and Nikolai, despite the earlier warning, moved in to look. Trent took his time, examining the crate's contents before he even touched it.

  There were many weapons in war. Weapons of all sizes, shapes, and uses. A thousand and one ways to kill. But there were some things that went beyond that. Some things that were born from the darkest recesses of the Human mind. Things that, in Trent's opinion, should almost always stay buried. And he knew he was looking at one such example now.

  The Mojave was... not a gun. It was a prototype of a lethal element. The gun aspect itself was incidental. It looked for all appearances to be a standard wrist-mounted Firehound flamethrower with extendable jet tube, pressure valves, booster propellant hose, and canister backpack. Aside from the paint job—which was normally red and was now green—the weapon didn't seem to hold many surprises. But Trent knew this was not built for fire. It was built for something worse.

  Inside the crate were approximately seven gallons of something Trent knew only as the Mojave compound. It was a liquid that had the charming little effect of near instant decomposition on any living tissue it came into contact with. It had the crackling effect of fire grilling flesh. And worse yet. After being propelled out of the modified flamethrower in a liquid state, the Mojave compound would oxidize as soon as it found a surface. The compound turned to thick gas in an expanding cloud. The gas was even more lethal than the liquid form. And as if that wasn't enough, the gas-cloud was attracted to living things. You couldn't just back away and wait the thirty seconds it would take for the cloud to disperse. It would follow you, and soak into your skin. Something about bio-heat attracted the compound like a magnet.

  The Mojave was literally pure death with a hunger for the living.

  Trent hooked up the canister and started filling it with liquid gas, trying to ignore the cold sweat he felt just beneath his skin.

  ***

  Several minutes passed in silence in the connector between the Orbit Angel and Haven Alpha. The heavy blast door on the station side remained closed, and the bulkhead of the mobile headquarters remained sealed.

  Then the pressure door on the station side shattered inward in glowing pieces.

  The smoke from the blast mixed with the clumping dark blood from the Flogs. Within seconds of the pressure door's destruction, the boarding teams moved in. Vorch went first, two at a time, taking light hops into the zero gravity and slowly letting themselves float down the tube. Several Stelkans were close behind, practically swimming like fish in water, pushing and maneuvering through the air with their wings. The reptilian-avians used their arms, legs, and hooked wings to steady themselves as they moved toward the ship. Flogs came next, using the handholds to anchor themselves to the walls and ceiling. Golos came in last, testing their way slowly, unnerved by their sudden lack of weight but following their training regardless.

  The thirty-plus Yew moved in admirable synchronization, drifting down the weightless umbilical. All the aliens had their weapons on maximum charge, ready to burn their way into the ship if they had to. They would try a bypass first. If that failed, they had explosives that would put a dent even in a starship hull. All were wearing breathing masks, if the umbilical gave out and vented its air. The Vorch arrived outside the bulkhead and took up positions while two Stelkans moved in to breach. Not one single Yew had uttered a word the whole trip, entirely focused. One of the Stelkans reached out to touch the control panel.

  The bulkhead banged and retracted, leaving the airlock accessible.

  The Yew jerked into position, filling the walls of the umbilical like termites in a mound. There was a hiss of pressurizing air and the whir of heavy locks turning. The boarding teams braced themselves for the assault as the door opened.

  The foremost Stelkans looked into the hangar, confused. Nothing happened. No grenades floated into the umbilical, no shots were fired. One Stelkan took hold of the doorway and pulled himself closer, looking suspiciously to see if anyone was beside the doors. That's when the single Human in a black and white mercenary uniform stepped into view.

  The Stelkan’s hesitation was fatal. His eyes searched for the form of a gun; something held in his hands. He didn’t recognize the wrist-mounted valves as anything other than a suit accessory. The Human lifted his hand, pointed his arm down the umbilical, and formed a fist. There was a sharp metallic chink like a sword being drawn, and a retractable jet tube extended from its housing and locked out. The muzzle at the end was reaching out into the umbilical’s zero gravity when the Human fired.

  There was a wicked hiss as dark green liquid sprayed in a thin stream from the end of the weapon, launching in a straight line away from the gravitated hangar. The stream went straight past the first boarders, who turned their heads in confusion to track the apparently harmless burst. A few meters down, a Vorch trooper, floating in the middle of the umbilical, watched in stern confusion as the jet splashed into his chest armor.

  Then the enclosed umbilical was filled with swirling sick gas.

  Trent slammed the bulkhead shut as the first maddening screams began. The sniper backed away, carefully examining the end of the Mojave for any remnants of the lethal compound. The screams grew louder until Trent could hear them through the armored hull.

  Ten seconds passed, and the screams went on.

  Five seconds later, the screams stopped.

  The prototype said the gas dispersed after fifty seconds. Trent waited uncomfortably for another two minutes, just to be sure. Then he opened the airlock.

  Figures that bore only the barest semblance of bodies drifted into each other in the tunnel. Their uniforms and armor were fused to their former owners as their flesh turned to gelatin and melted into their gear. Shrunken, crackling corpses floated rigid as burnt morsels in a fire. Some bodies, like rotten tomatoes, had burst, releasing sulfurous soup to splatter in droplets against the walls and ceiling. The smell of a month’s decomposition filled the hangar.

  Trent closed the bulkhead and turned away, covering his gag reflex with his sleeve.

  Composed as the sniper was, it took him a minute. The image of the massacre of the Mojave compound stuck in his mind. Th
en, taking a deep breath of the hangar’s freshly cycled air, Trent returned to the weapon’s room.

  The prototype worked.

  This was the beginning.

  Chapter 43

  Nathen held his breath until he was sure the sounds of a Yew boarding team were headed the other way. The air on the station was growing heavy with the scent of ozone and death. He knew that if he engaged every enemy force he came across, he’d lose in the long run. Getting to the bridge was his main goal. Still, with all this hiding and detouring, it would be a miracle if he could reach it at all. Nathen dashed across the open and skidded to a stop in front of an emergency blast door that had been sealed, likely to hinder the boarders. Nathen held a palm to its surface and pressed, testing its flexibility, then curled his fingers into a fist and rapped his knuckles against the door. It didn’t ring when Nathen hit it, telling him the door was very solid and he wasn’t likely to get through it with force. He’d have more luck getting through the walls. The Commander was not comforted by that thought.

  Nathen sighed and started performing a bypass. It wouldn’t be too hard. Phillip had shown him how to do it several times in the past. Nathen tried not to think about what was going on in the core at that moment.

  After two more failed attempts, Nathen finally succeeded in bypassing the security system and opened the door. The four internal locks disengaged and the door slid open with a hiss. As soon as the door was clear, Nathen was face to face with two human crew members, both very surprised to see him. One had a Coyote—Nathen wasn't sure where a crewmember would even get one—while the other carried no weapon but had a data pad with an uplink cord dangling from it.

  “Oh jeeze!” gasped the one with the data pad, jumping when he saw Nathen. “Gyah. Think I just had a heart attack and died.”

  “Chill out, Rass, you’re fine,” said the crewmember with the Coyote. “In fact, we’re probably better off now than we were a minute ago. You're one of those White Sun mercenaries, right? You're 'hardcore'.”

  Nathen tried to evade the conversation and brush by. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  The man with the Coyote held up a hand. “Hey, whoa! Hold up a second. Mind if we tag along? I don't know where you're going, but you look like you know what you’re doing, and that’s more than the rest of this station knows.”

  Nathen brushed by the man. “I don’t have time for this. Just find someplace to lay low.”

  The man with the Coyote shrugged and walked past Nathen. “Suit yourself, champ.”

  The other crew member, the one called Rass, moved into Nathen’s way, smiling uneasily.

  “Hey, wait! You’re not just going to leave us here, are you? I mean, this place is crawling with Yew! Who’s going to cover your back?”

  He scowled at the man. “I can cover my own…”

  Nathen felt a sharp buzz in the back of his mind.

  The elite spun on his heel and jerked his elbow up, knocking the barrel of the Coyote away from his head. The man squeezed the trigger and sent a barrage of shots screaming off the wall, just inches off aim. No time to think. Hurt him! Nathen dodged in and rammed his knee into the man's groin, and when his attacker leaned forward, Nathen smashed his forehead down on the man's nose.

  The fake crewmember dropped his Coyote and groped his severely injured nose with both hands, swearing and moaning as blood spewed from between his fingers. Nathen drew back and swung his clenched fist into the man’s chin, knocking the senses out of him with a hard crack! The imposter choked and stumbled to the floor, trying to hold the two areas of pain, nearly blacking out from Nathen's ferocious attack.

  Before Nathen could spin back around, he felt something brush over his head. Acting fast, Nathen snapped his hands up, just in time to stop the cord from closing around his throat. Rass was trying to strangle him with the uplink cord from his data pad. Sensing Nathen’s resilience, the traitor tried to bash him into submission by ramming him face first into the wall. Nathen, both hands pre-occupied in preventing the cord from drawing tight, had to take the blow on the chin. He was jarred, but not badly hurt. Nathen pushed back, trying to force Rass back across the small hallway space and smash him into the opposite wall, but Rass managed to stop himself before he hit.

  “Dan! Dan! I need a hand with this guy!” grunted Rass, attempting to pull the cord tighter to no avail. Dan, still reeling on the floor, managed a response.

  “I’b uh liddle bizzy bleedig ad the momen’! You asshow! You broge by nose!”

  Rass moaned in frustration and tried to push forward and force Nathen into the wall again. This time, Nathen was ready. When Rass pushed forward, Nathen used the momentum as he kicked his way up the wall and flipped his lower body up and over Rass's head, simultaneously getting the cord away from his neck and around Rass's. Unable to sustain Nathen’s full weight going over his shoulders, the traitor crumpled to his knees. His last mistake was to use his hands to try and break his fall. Doing so gave Nathen full control over the cord. The commando landed upright behind Rass, gripped the cord with both hands, and yanked backwards.

  Rass choked and groped at the cord he’d used seconds before in his attempts to kill Nathen. The traitor tensed in panic, clawing for breath. He never had a chance to suffocate. Nathen twisted his hips, reaped with his leg, and hip-threw Rass head over heels, slamming him onto the hard floor. The traitor gasped in pain as the cord slipped from his neck. His relief was short-lived as Nathen took a knee and wrapped his arms around his head. Rass' eyes went wide.

  “No! Wait, wait!-”

  The traitor's neck snapped with one sharp wrench. His pleads ceased. Nathen threw the dead man onto the ground and turned to meet Dan as he was getting unsteadily to his feet.

  “You sombitch! You gilled Rass! You’re gunna burn for thad!”

  Dan reached down and grabbed the Coyote. When he tried to lift, it wouldn't budge. The bleeding traitor looked up to see that Nathen already had his foot on it, pinning the rifle down. Dan got a glimpse of Nathen's expression, and suddenly he felt very, very afraid. He let go of the weapon and held up his hands, shakily.

  “N-Now waid a m-minud.”

  Nathen drilled him in the face with his knee.

  The traitor fell backwards, coughing blood and teeth and kicking to scoot backwards as Nathen slowly followed him. He reached out with a gesture that was either pleading for mercy or denying his foe.

  “Loohg, man! I don even lieg the Yew! Eds just... I-I can egsplain!”

  Nathen stepped on the man's foot, preventing him from retreating or standing. The traitor's face turned white as Nathen coldly drew his pistol. The man tried to lean back further, shielding himself with one hand as the pistol leveled with his head. His voice cracked in terror.

  “Please! Y-You can't do dis do me! I-I god a family!”

  Nathen stopped. The man tensed, waiting for the shot, then slowly relaxed a bit as Nathen's cold expression softened. Several seconds passed.

  Nathen let out a tired breath.

  “Don't worry,” he said, looking the man in the eye. “I won't tell them what you did.”

  He pulled the trigger before the man could utter another word. The Denchura barked like a savage dog, biting. Nathen closed his eyes as he felt the body twitch under the toe of his boot, then go limp. He tried to shake off the buzz in his head as he slid his Denchura back into its holster. He had little sympathy for murderous cowards who hid behind their families. Nathen opened his eyes and looked down at the bloody-faced corpse for a moment, then turned to leave.

  “Don’t move.”

  Nathen snapped his eyes up, but froze when he saw how far away the threat was. Well out of his reach. The commando swore through his teeth as he held his hands at his sides, well aware of the heavy mag pistol aimed at him.

  Lupell, blood still crusting around his nose from where Nathen had hit him earlier, glared. Gordon's Karl 9 was in his hand, muzzle pointed straight at Nathen. The false captain looked at the bodies of his fellow traitors and his
sed something dark under his breath.

  “You couldn't leave well enough alone, could you?” Lupell asked. Nathen let his hands hang by his sides.

  “I would not describe what's going on as 'well enough'.”

  Somewhere else in the station, screams and gunfire continued to sound. Nathen cocked an ear.

  “It doesn't sound like the Yew are taking many prisoners,” Nathen stated. “Sure they got the memo that we surrendered?”

  Lupell tried to stand tall, despite his obvious discomfort. “It'll be worth it.”

  Nathen motioned at the bloody, body-strewn floor with a glint in his eye. “How many more lives need to end before it becomes not worth it?”

  “You killed them!”

  Nathen shrugged. “I just got to it before you did.”

  Lupell shook his head, never letting his eyes leave the sights of the mag pistol. “You still don't get it, do you? This is about the survival of Humanity. We are so blinded by pride we can't even see that we're racing to our own destruction. The Alliance cannot be beaten. I thought Navpoint Vantage would have gotten that point across, but I underestimated Humanity's resolve for war.”

  Everything froze.

  For a second, Nathen couldn't think. The words just repeated in his head, like a terrible dream. His eye twitched involuntarily.

  “What do you mean... you, underestimated Humanity?”

  Lupell looked surprised, like he hadn't realized what he said, but he quickly clamped down on his expression. Nathen took a step forward.

  “You've done this before, haven't you?”

  The cycled air seemed chilled. Lupell stood stone-faced for a moment, then gave a dismal shrug.

  “Sadly,” he admitted, aim never wavering. “A year ago we provided the Yew with critical tactical data to plan their sweep of our outdated Space Navy. We thought destroying Navpoint would evaporate any thoughts of war. We thought we'd won, watching those warships burn, counting the sacrifice for peace. But people stubbornly refuse to see the obvious. That the only way to survive war is to become liberated from it. To become taken up from the irresponsible bloodshed.”