Prime Alpha (Planetary Powers Book 1)

by Joshua Boring

  They'd knocked out the White Dash, and the Titanic. The Colossus, in its disabled state, had taken a direct hit, and had lost all hands to a reactor explosion. The only Human destroyer left was the Red King, and it was limping on one engine, suffering from multiple armor and hull breaches. Out of the twenty-plus Demolisher and Gladius assault frigates that had entered battle, only nine remained. The thirty-plus Stormbolt sub-frigates all showed signs of battle damage. Only eight were left fully functional. The Yew Xylas Interceptors were running low on ammo, but they had all but wiped out the Human's corvette wings. Only a few dogfights dragged on, with most fighters on both sides retreating in need of rearming and refueling. It was a slug match now. And the Humans were about to collapse.

  Over at the dark Guardian space station, the battle group’s flagship super carrier had just managed a difficult manual dock with the powerless station. Rotan knew what they were doing. He didn't care. Let them send their Marines to their deaths. When he was finished here, he'd figure out what to do with their precious carrier. He had options, and time was on his side.

  Rotan rolled his talons in and out, watching the battlespace burn on the war helm. His remaining ships had the enemy battle group completely outmatched now. The only thing the Humans had going for them entering into this fight had been superior numbers, and a ferocious attitude. Those were both gone now. The Dreadcraft captain estimated the battle would last a few more minutes, no more than five. He would finish off the last destroyer, mop up the support ships, hunt down the last of the annoying AVIAN starfighters, and then?

  Then. He was going to take a long, well deserved, and most satisfying strafing run across the starshield, while the trapped crews watched on, helplessly, burning in the void.

  And he would smile when that happened.

  ***

  The bridge of the Orbit Angel echoed the sound of nervous pacing.

  Starlight filled the low-powered bridge through the front viewport, as miles away fire lanced across space in bloody battle, glinting across the starshield. The body of Admiral Kiles lay where it had fallen, on the floor. The body of the aide who'd fought back lay untouched as well, lying as a bloody example to the futility of resistance. Any members of the bridge crew who were left alive were sitting with their backs to the walls, hands tied in front of them with cords. They were being carefully watched by Lupell’s men, following their orders closely. They had no idea the man they reported to wasn’t coming back. Near the command console, the Rapture Brigade member who'd stabbed the admiral—a man named Francis—couldn't stand still. He paced, wearing down the deck with his boots.

  “Blast it, where's Lupell?” snapped Francis, angrily. “He said he was coming nearly a half hour ago!”

  Casually sitting in the dead admiral’s command chair, messing with a portable datapad on his lap, another traitor looked up.

  “You don't suppose something happened to him, do you?”

  Francis clutched his head, breathing in frustration and continued his pacing.

  “I don't know,” he groaned. “Everything's gone wrong.”

  Another traitor watching over the prisoners, still dressed in an Infantry disguise, turned halfway around.

  “What are we gonna do? We saw that super carrier coming to dock with us. What's gonna happen when those Marines find us here?”

  “Relax,” Francis said, not relaxed at all. He looked down at his twitching hand. “Everything's going to be okay.”

  “No its not!” the faux soldier said, losing his cool. “Lupell promised us a clean revolution, but everything he's done has turned from bad to worse!”

  Francis turned, eyes dilating angrily. “Are you saying you're going soft? This is for the Rapture Brigade!”

  “The Brigade can go to Hell!” the soldier screamed, throwing his assault rifle on the floor and pointing at Francis. “I ain't hanging for this!”

  Francis snapped. In a second, he'd covered the length between them and buried his knife screaming into his fellow traitor's chest. The fake soldier looked shocked and tried far too late to fight back as his legs gave out, folding him onto the floor with Francis on top of him. Francis was so wound up he looked like a tension cable about to snap.

  “You ain't hanging for this?” he wheezed, twisting the knife handle sporadically in the gurgling dead man’s chest. “You ain't hanging for this!?”

  Another turncoat hurried forward and grabbed Francis' shoulder. “Hey, hey! Ease up, alright? Ease up. He's dead.”

  Francis gritted his teeth until they threatened to crack, and then pulled his knife out of his comrade's body. He stood and turned without another word, hand shaking like a detoxing drug addict. The turncoat who'd come to his side looked at the body of his comrade with hesitation, then turned and followed Francis.

  “Look,” the traitor in the admiral’s seat said. “I’m not too happy about this either. And I don't feel like waiting to see who's pissed off at us more; the Alliance, or the URH. I say we go to contingency.”

  Francis turned, somehow less manic than before. “You mean blow the bridge?”

  The traitor stood from the admiral’s chair and pointed to the stack of plasmatic explosives sitting near the console. “It’s better than sitting twiddling our thumbs. Let's blow all the evidence and head back to the Sledgefast. We can escape and start over.”

  “Start over!?” screamed Francis, exploding again. “Don't you get it? This was our last chance! We threw everything into this mission!”

  The traitor with the datapad backed up. “Hey, it’s not my fault the HSN was waiting for us. Look, just calm down. If we act now, maybe we can-”

  Something pounded on the bridge door three times.

  The three traitors gathered in the bridge spun. Francis stared at the metal surface for a second, wishing he had x-ray vision, then turned to the traitor with the datapad.

  “Did you call someone?”

  The datapad traitor shook his head. “No. Maybe its Vince.”

  “Maybe it’s the Yew,” the other said, nervously. “Lupell was supposed to greet them when they arrived.”

  Francis turned toward the door, still clutching his bloody knife like it was fused to his hand. After a second, he jerked his head at his comrades. “You guys get over here. I don’t want any surprises if I’m going to open this door.”

  The other two traitors reluctantly carried out Francis’ orders. The prisoners watched with a silent mixture of emotions ranging from guarded hope to reserved fear, depending on what was on the other side of the door. All three of the traitors surrounded the door, holding their weapons ready. Francis, his knife hand trembling like it had a mind of its own, reached for the door’s manual controls. The doors whirred and strained before sliding apart, running on backup power. The three high-strung traitors lowered their aim once they identified the figure standing in the emergency lights just outside the bridge.

  “Um…” Vince said, looking at the assault rifle aimed at him. “Hey guys.”

  The traitor with the Coyote lowered his aim. “Geeze, Vince. What is it? You were supposed to be watching the approach corridor. Get in here, before someone comes along.”

  Vince didn’t move.

  Francis frowned, eye twitching suspiciously. “What's wrong?”

  Vince gritted his teeth, hissing his response. “Everything’s… fine…”

  Francis knew better. He looked his fellow traitor over for a sign. That's when he noticed that their guard's hands were empty. Francis arched an eyebrow, scrutinizing his comrade's face.

  “Vinny,” he said, suspiciously. “Where's your gun?”

  Vince looked rigid, a trickle of sweat running down his forehead. “I ca-”

  Pfft! Pfft!

  The traitor's words suddenly became broken with choked gurgles as two bullet holes ripped into his back.

  “Urk…”

  Everyone jolted, surprised as their friend started seizing in place, head lolling like a ragdoll puppet. Vince’s arms thrashed limply like
he was being possessed by a body snatcher. No one had time to so much as utter a confused curse before two lean, muscled black arms sprouted out from under the dying man's armpits. Francis saw the glint of gun barrels in the low light and threw himself down just as each pistol fired off a flurry of silenced shots.

  The first shot from the left gun hit the nearest traitor in the body armor, sending the one wearing it stumbling backwards in pain. The second shot blindly hit and shattered the datapad in his hands, while the third shot hit the man in the throat, killing him before he could scream. The turncoat on the other side lifted his Coyote to open fire, yelling at the same time.

  “Holy spit!” he cried, pulling the trigger. The Coyote chewed away at its target with 5.56 rounds, but most if not all of the bullets were stopped by Vince’s body, which was still twitching in a strange, four-armed stance as if it wasn't supporting itself. The right arm swung around and squeezed off two more shots, hitting the man once in the armor and once in his right arm.

  The traitor dropped his weapon, crying in pain until another silenced 'pfft!' put an end to his protests. After a second had passed and the two traitors settled on the floor, a third body joined them as Vince's corpse was finally allowed to fall. The black, sleek arms holding the silenced pistols withdrew, and the lifeless corpse of the traitor hit the floor, revealing the shadow that had been controlling it.

  And that's all Francis could see. A shadow. There was a ripple here or there like shifting smoke, but the traitor could barely make out any other features. The horror before him was an incomprehensible blur, staring him down without so much as a word. Francis couldn't control the shaking of his hand any more, knife trembling as his arm burned. He was breathing fast, so panicked he was seeing spots before his eyes. The dark figure in the doorway silently lowered its weapons. It turned its body partially to the side, offering its right shoulder toward Francis as it holstered its silenced Sachlar pistol and drew a glinting silver blade from under its arm. Then, it just waited. Francis didn't know what to do, panicking, furious, afraid. But in the end he knew, his only solution was to stick his knife in this thing before it stuck its knife in him.

  “Alright,” he breathed, voice rasping as he dropped into a fighting stance, knife hand shaking like a rabid dog on a chain. “Alright! You wanna play it that way! Let's play!”

  Francis charged, concentrating on the figure's knife, and throwing all his strength into his sta-

  Pfft!

  Francis stumbled mid-charge as the nine-millimeter pistol round burrowed into his gut. The shadow lowered the muzzle of his concealed second pistol as it took one step forward, flipped its knife, and cut once.

  Momentum carried Francis forward another step and then he hit the floor, dead. A thin line appeared across the traitor’s bleeding throat. The super sharp blade flicked once before it disappeared into its hidden sheath. The black figure strode into the bridge, faceless mask fixed straight ahead, never so much as uttering a cold gasp as he effortlessly killed the traitor. The prisoners never moved, afraid of this unexpected visitor, wondering if they'd be next. But the fiend ignored them, walking straight to the command console, standing next to the cold body of Admiral Kiles. The figure took a moment to read the screen, which was still flashing a warning.

  Do – Not – Resist

  The shadow tilted its head back and looked out the front viewport. Miles away, the space battle raged to a climax as the Alliance moved in for the kill, about to let the axe fall on the overwhelmed Human battle group.

  The dark figured reached down, slowly, and touched the command console, deactivating the Rapture Brigade's override.

  ***

  Captain Rotan watched as the Saperiah's escorts moved in to finish off the Human fleet like a pack of scavengers picking the bones from a larger predator's kill. He was already counting the kills he'd have to add to his dreadcraft's battle log. Another Gladius frigate exploded on his war helm, and Rotan felt himself sigh in contentment, rattling his wings as he settled in for the show.

  Then one of his operator's shrieked.

  The Stelkan's sing-song voice was a rushed raptorian scream. “The docking override has been lifted! Everything's loose!”

  Rotan looked wordlessly at the war helm, showing him the Saperiah from an outside perspective, hovering over the blank starshield.

  Then over a hundred green triangles powered up across the board, highlighting his dreadcraft with a wall of hostile contacts.

  Rotan practically launched himself off his perch, claws sinking into his console with charged panic.

  “Evasive maneuvers!” he squawked, desperately. “All craft, shift fire! Gun crews, target the starshield and unload with maximum-”

  His orders to destroy the starshield came too late as a hundred outdated Grade-C tugs, transports, and warships swarmed straight up toward their enemy, weapons setting the void ablaze.

  Chapter 52

  Phillip slowly ebbed back into consciousness from a blazing void of his own.

  His head throbbed in pain like a vengeful migraine. He took a shallow breath and choked at the pain that came with it. Broken ribs, possibly. Phillip started to open his eyes, but felt dizzy at the attempt and stopped.

  Where am I? He thought, trying to remember what had happened. Phillip groaned and tried again to open his eyes. This time he succeeded, but all he could see for a moment was blurred images. He felt horribly disoriented, too. Phillip had no gauge of where he was and no sense of stability. It was this last thought that clicked in Phillip’s mind. Oh yeah. Zero gravity. That means I’m either in heaven, or still in the Orbit Angel's core. Phillip groaned and tried to move, and his efforts were met with more pain. He coughed and spat up some blood, which spattered against the cracked visor. Phillip fought to stay conscious as his head swam.

  Come on, weakling. You’re not doing yourself any good by floating here. Pick yourself up and get going.

  Phillip blinked several times and managed to clear his sight a little. Everything was pitch black. Hands shaking weakly, Phillip reached up and touched the sides of his helmet, praying he wasn't about to break open his cracked visor. A second later, his helmet's chin light snapped on, and Phillip took a look around. He was in free float, as he’d suspected, and he was surrounded by debris from the explosion. Without atmosphere to burn, the explosion had only lasted a second. Enough plasmatics had been used in the detonation to knock Phillip unconscious, however, which meant there was some serious damage, to him and the room. Phillip braced himself for more pain and tested each of his limbs, seeing how injured they were. Both of his arms seemed okay, just sore from the fight, and his legs were also unharmed. Phillip twisted about, trying to figure out which way he was facing. The ESC tech rolled about in an uncontrolled manner as his helmet's weak directional light cut across the darkness, but it got him what he wanted. A good idea of where he was in relation to the core that had been his home for days.

  Phillip tried to see past the cracks and spattered blood covering his visor so he could get a better grip on his surroundings. He spotted a nearby piece of debris, a shard of metal that had been blown off the core, and groped for it. He managed to snag it and pull it in. Phillip took several breaths, picking out where he wanted to go. He decided his best bet would be to head back to the consoles, or what was left of them. From there he could work on finding a way back to the rest of the station.

  Phillip turned and chucked the piece of metal as hard as he could, trying to stay level so his back was to the core. The toss sent Phillip sailing backwards toward the core. Phillip took a second to relax, to plan what to do next. He took several deep breaths as he drifted, relaxing himself and trying to work his way through the mess he was in. After several seconds, Phillip twisted around to stop himself from crashing into the core’s dead shell.

  He struck the surface and fumbled to get a grip on something that would hold him in place. He had nothing to snag, however, and began drifting back away from the core. Phillip groped around him, try
ing to somehow stop his unwanted side-trip. Then, he managed to snag a safety line that had been severed at one end. Phillip gave it a tug, unsure of where the line went. His efforts were rewarded as his trajectory changed back toward the core.

  Phillip pulled himself hand over hand back to the core, this time with something to hold onto. Phillip hit the surface, and held the line taunt so he didn’t bounce off. Phillip quickly reached out and grabbed a handhold, wrapping his gloved fingers around the grip and pulling himself in. The wounded tech cast the safety line back off into the core and took a moment to catch his breath. A simple task like the one Phillip had just done had winded him to the point of exhaustion. While Phillip caught his breath, he reached up with his free hand and felt around the side of his helmet for the radio. He found it and switched it back to ‘on’ status.

  The radio popped in his ears and shrieked with static. The model was old, and had taken some abuse from recent events. Phillip recoiled and gritted his teeth at the noise. The shriek subsided after a second and Phillip tried to relax. That was about as easy as if an elephant had been standing on his chest.

  “H-Hello?” the tech ventured.

  No answer.

  He tried several more times, tweaking the radio, but at that point he realized the only thing he was accomplishing was wasting his air a little faster. He soon gave up on the radio. It was either broken on his end, or there was no one to hear him. As it stood, he had no idea how long he'd been out. With no promise of help, Phillip turned to working on his own solution.

  Phillip drew a deep breath and took inventory. He had very little to work with. The gun he'd wrestled from the traitor was nowhere to be found, and neither was the traitor's body for that matter. Then again, he was pretty sure there wouldn’t be anything left after that satchel charge had gone off. Scratch that, he didn’t want to know. He had no tools, and his datatech was gone. Without those resources, Phillip decided he'd rather take his chances with whoever was outside.