Prime Alpha (Planetary Powers Book 1)

by Joshua Boring

  Calico drew back and kept her fists up, but this time it did her no good as another wing-blow struck her in the stomach, doubling her over. Calico gasped for air, trying to keep her guard closed as she frantically searched for a way out of her predicament. Stelkan's had better night vision than Humans. It could see her. It could-

  She felt the Admiral’s claws wrap around her face from behind, feeling for her eyes in the dark. She screamed and shot her hands up, trying to grab the talons away just as the wingtips slammed into her back like baseball bats. She choked, feeling her own tongue gag in her mouth as her stomach wound into knots. One talon groped for her throat. Panic. Calico twisted hard just as the claws tore free of her hands, drawing jagged red rivers through her crimson hair and the side of her bare neck, barely missing her vital arteries as she stumbled forward. She made it one step before another slash cut her back open, shredding right through her uniform and rending her skin into ribbons.

  Calico tried to scream, but instead vomited up a mouthful of saliva and blood.

  He was killing her.

  Blood flowed from her brow across her face as her white and black mercenary uniform stained red at her shoulder. The claw wounds itched and burned. She held a hand to her neck, feeling like a talon tip had broken off in her skin. Calico forced herself through the dizzying pain when her foot found something in the darkness. Her toe struck the side of the Casper submachine gun, telling her where it was with a loud clatter. She immediately dropped on her weapon and lifted it off the deck, switching on the flashlight. The sudden brightness of the beam affected Calico only momentarily, and her eyes quickly adjusted to the new light. She spun around, just as the Stelkan Admiral sideswiped with his wings, knocking the Casper out of her grasp and back onto the deck almost as fast as she'd retrieved it.

  Something snapped inside Calico.

  For a flash second, the pain gave way to rage. This time, Calico had a good enough idea of where the Stelkan was and counter-attacked. Moving as fast as she could, Calico snapped a kick, burying the toe of her boot in the Stelkan's leg. The avian-raptorian alien let loose a startled squawk and fumbled sideways, back into the beam of light.

  Calico took her chance and snatched up her Casper, training it on the Stelkan and pulling the trigger. The dark room was filled with flickering light as Calico’s shots flashed at their target. Her panicked aim was rewarded as the Stelkan's left wing exploded with a crack of a .45 caliber bullet striking the bone, raising an agonized scream from her enemy. Still, the Stelkan was quick, and shot forward and ducked under Calico’s line of fire before any more shots could line up. Calico felt the Stelkan wrap his talons around the SMG and yank backwards, trying to tear it from Calico’s grasp.

  “Give me the weapon!” screeched the Stelkan in Albiac, pulling harder.

  Calico pulled back and kicked outwards, trying to hit the alien’s knees again but missing. She glared through darkness, feeling weaker by the second, struggling to stay standing as blood continued to trickle from somewhere in the back of her mouth. The Admiral fought at every step, despite his crippled left wing twitching at his side. In a flash, one hand lashed out, and four claws buried themselves into the girl’s head, stabbing through her skin and hooking into her bone.

  Calico screamed.

  The Admiral dug his talons deeper into her skull and pulled. The Human girl's head was about to pop off like a champagne cork. Blood ran down the sides of her face, mixing with her vibrant hair. Calico continued to scream in panicked, agonizing breaths, completely locked to her gun in terror. The Admiral's undamaged wing cocked back and swung up into her stomach, and Calico issued a pitiful shriek and stopped screaming. The girl’s body sagged, trembling. The Stelkan’s talloned grip tightened—harder, harder—until there was a muffled crnch as a talon just barely punctured the girl’s skull.

  Her grip on the Casper loosened.

  With a searing cry, the Yew Admiral gave Calico’s ensnared head a twist and a shove. The speaker’s fingers slipped away from the gun, and under a trance of absolute pain, fell backwards onto the floor, smashing her already ravaged body. Her head struck the floor, making her vision swim as warm blood continued to soak her shoulders, back and head. Her emerald eyes glimmered in the dark, unfocused, tearing over.

  For a second, everything melded together. The darkness, the light, the Admiral, life, and death. Through a haze of moving spots and a ringing hangover, Calico saw herself from a disembodied position. She saw herself die in the seconds to come as the Admiral easily finished off the stunned, pitiful girl who thought she could compete with the elite. The girl who had so much to look forward to, and so much to look back on. And there she saw a strange balance as her arms fell heavy at her sides. Behind her moved the shadows of her brothers, watching her, waiting for her, reminding her of a simpler time. An easier time. And ahead, she saw a glowing pallet of auras, harsh in tone, promising nothing. She felt herself pulled back toward the familiar shadows as the fuzzy image of the Admiral turned the Casper around—so slowly, it seemed—and shone the blinding light into her eyes.

  Here is my final failure, Calico thought. This is how it should end.

  That, is when someone else took over.

  As the shadows threatened to claim Calico, all other thoughts vanished. Her arm moved on its own, in defiance of her defeat. She drew her pistol from her hip and pointed it at the light, dead center of the Stelkan, aim unwavering. The Admiral spotted the pistol in her hand, and in a freeze-frame heartbeat a look of confusion overcame his raptorian face.

  No, the translator thought, clearly. This is how it's GOING to end.

  She fired once.

  There was a screech, and the flashlight’s beam swung off of Calico as the Stelkan dropped the submachine gun.

  For a moment, she just lay there, head swimming. The blood ran across her face like warpaint, washing away her fear. She hardly realized what she'd done. After a moment, she struggled to her feet, hand still clasping her Denchura. Calico moved forward and scooped up her submachine gun, then slowly backstepped out of range, listening to the broken sobs emitting from the sad figure on the floor before her. She turned the flashlight around and located the Admiral, lying on the deck, bleeding from the dead center of his chest, creating a blooming flower stain on his uniform as the blood spread. Calico could only stare at the Stelkan as the alien struggled to breath. The Admiral turned his steely eyes toward Calico, flinching slightly against the glare of her flashlight. In spite of all the languages she had behind her tongue, Calico had nothing to say.

  Then the Admiral, despite his suffering, gave an approving chuckle.

  “Well played, H-Human.”

  The speaker did not offer a response as the Stelkan’s breathing slowed, becoming heavily labored. The fierce avian-reptilian eyes of Second Admiral Merthal finally flickered closed and with one last sigh, he died.

  And Calico died with him.

  Leaving an Elite Stellar Commando behind.

  Chapter 62

  Jason Denver listened to the hologram of General Viana as she spoke from deep within the Orbit Angel, locked under the Magnum Opus' bulk.

  “We're sweeping the Yew survivors now, Admiral Denver,” she said, speaking through her space assault helmet. “Central Command is cleared. The Infantry managed to hold out. We've already sent medical teams for the wounded.”

  General Iles Viana's airtight space assault armor gave her and her Marines a ghastly appearance on the transparent holographic display. The loose, tear-resistant material that made up their uniforms looked like wrinkled, shrunken skin capped in oversized scales, with tubular veins throbbing just under surface in time with the shallow breaths. Denver finished his tenth cigarette and tossed the stub aside, breathing out the last of the smoke.

  “What's left of the Yew?” he asked.

  Viana shook her head on the hologram. “Unknown. My scouts are reporting back regularly. Seems they're in full flight. We'll have the last of them dead or gone within the hour.”
<
br />   “See to it, General.”

  “Aye, Admiral.” Viana started to sign off, then faced the hologram again. “Oh, one other thing. There were some...” Viana paused, searching for the right words. “...Individuals, who were here when we arrived. Curious would be the word, I think.”

  Denver arched an eyebrow. “Curious? How so?”

  “I'll put this in my report later if you wish, but they seemed... fused with some sort of new technology. Nothing I could identify... or really describe, for that matter. Definitely not one of the standard metalheads.”

  Denver hid his expression by planting a fresh stick in his mouth. “Did you get their names?”

  “They appeared wounded at first, but the next time we turned around, they were gone. No one seems to know where, and the local Sergeant is remaining tight-lipped.”

  The Admiral pulled his nearly-empty cigarette pack out and masked his knowing smirk when he lit up. He took a drag and sighed.

  “Focus on the Yew,” he said, dismissively. “Forget the report.”

  “I already have. Viana, out.”

  Denver leaned back in his command chair, gently rolling the cigarette between his teeth, thoughtfully.

  “Admiral!” someone shouted. “I'm picking up heavy hyperspace emissions from the Haitus sector.”

  Denver felt his face sag at the news and looked down at the report screen. It showed a map of the system, where the current battle was, and their position relative to it. Out on the outer fringes of the system, hyperspacial energy was ripping through the void, triggering the Magnum Opus' superluminal sensors.

  “How much of a disruption is that?” he asked, unable to instantly see what was coming out of hyperspace.

  “Heavy emissions, sir,” the officer insisted. “And very large gravity masses. Larger than us. And far larger than anything we've got left.”

  Denver sighed. That could only be the Yew reserve fleet. Dozens of emissions were popping across the map, indicating a substantial force had just arrived. And the heavier the emission, the bigger the craft, which meant there was another bloody Nightmare dreadcraft on the way. And it was going to be just as big, if not bigger, than the one they were still struggling to defeat. Denver groaned, trying to think clearly. They'd just gotten the Saperiah on the ropes, and now it was getting full reinforcements. And a lot of them, by the sounds of it. It would take the new forces a few more minutes to reach them at light speed, but at this point, it didn't really matter.

  There was nothing left to do but fight it out.

  ***

  Nathen limped along the corridor, right eye swollen black, left leg dragging stiffly, hand holding weakly to the Pitbull in his arms. His medivest was gone, discarded, and his body beneath the replacement Infantry uniform was coated in bruises. The smell of dried blood and spoiled bandages clung to him like a bad memory. He looked more dead than alive.

  Nathen reached the end of the corridor and stopped, listening before he advanced further. The section of the station was beginning to empty of conflict, but better safe than sorry. As he listened, Nathen thought for a second that he heard voices, but when he tried to sort them out and determine which direction they were coming from, they ceased. Nathen frowned and grasped the Pitbull’s handle in his burned, battered, and blunted left hand, trying to not white-knuckle his grip on it. Being tense wouldn’t help him.

  Though the whisper-quiet voices made Nathen suspicious of an ambush, he couldn’t just stand around waiting for something to happen. Staying alert, Nathen advanced down the right corridor, staggering toward the glow of starlight through the window at the end of the passageway. Warning lights continued to dance in circles overhead, but the sirens had long since fallen silent. This part of the station had become a ghost-like shell, hollow and cold.

  Nathen stumbled against the guardrail, leaning on his elbow as his working eye drank in the scenery beyond the glass. The starshield spread out before the Orbit Angel like a grand, silver welcome mat, shining in the light of the stars. In the distance, little more than a backdrop object by now, the Yew's massive Nightmare dreadcraft spun in the void, twinkling with explosions as it battled the surprisingly ferocious Grade-C fleet. It could have been a beautiful view, save for the graveyard of shipwrecks.

  Nathen sighed, chest aching with every breath. Things were so quiet, so steady. He felt like he could finally breathe, just a bit. Looking at the distant dreadcraft, the battle seemed so far away now. A dangerous thought, since at any moment a threat could come from

  Behind.

  Nathen's first instinct was to whirl around, bring the shotgun up, crack off a few shells. But for some reason, he didn't. Instead, he very tiredly turned and looked past his left shoulder at the troop that had approached him while he'd been stargazing. His face may have been swollen up several different colors, but Nathen could still see the red and black uniform that lingered several feet away.

  Gordon Bryor stood in front of a squad of five Infantrymen, arms held at his sides, gawking at the commander with guarded shock. The Captain looked Nathen up and down, jaw unhinged slightly. There was no telling if he was surprised to find Nathen alive, to find him in this condition, or to find him at all. Nathen merely shrugged, as if to indicate he had no explanation. After a few seconds, Gordon shook his surprise off.

  “Commander,” he said. He started forward, then quickly turned around and motioned his squad of apparent bodyguards back. The Infantry complied, whispering amongst themselves at their impression of the unknown man waiting for them. Gordon quickly approached Nathen as if to assist, then stopped himself, unsure what exactly he could do. Nathen just waited for him to say something, and at last, he did.

  “You're... you're a mess,” Gordon said, shaking his head. Then he chuckled, lightly, crossing his arms behind his back. “You never cease to amaze me. Sometimes, I wish you would.”

  Nathen turned his head toward the window again, watching the far off space battle. It was like watching a forest fire, miles away, burning strong.

  “I almost ran out of surprises today,” Nathen muttered, jaw sore. “Feels like it’s been days, not hours.”

  A long pause lingered between the two men. Neither could think of much else to say on that note. Nathen heard the whispering of the Infantry behind him. Then Gordon turned, serious faced, toward Nathen.

  “So. Do you think we'll finally get to go to war tomorrow?”

  Nathen turned his head, raising an eyebrow. Gordon stared out the window for a few more seconds, then he lost control of his expression and unwillingly cracked a smile. The two men burst into exhausted laughter together before quickly shushing themselves, aware that the station was still not safe. Nathen lifted an elbow and snorted once into his wrist, waving a finger discouragingly at the captain.

  “A sense of humor like that is going to get you shot,” he warned, grinning inwardly. “Especially when this 'waiting' is what's killing me.”

  “Yeah,” Gordon said, like he didn't doubt it. He glanced over his shoulder. “Is your team still-?”

  A deep, hollow clang followed by a heavy vibration rumbled through the corridors. Nathen and Gordon looked at each other, knowingly.

  “Uh-oh,” Gordon said. “That sounds familiar.”

  “Hm,” Nathen agreed, still leaning heavily against the guardrail. The deck rumbled constantly under them for a minute, making the nearby Infantrymen nervous. Nathen leaned in close to the window and looked toward the lower half of the station, seeing a great, silver mass sliding into view. In seconds, the Yew carrier Celestial Wind was powering away from the lower scaffold, pushing with its engines and making the station shudder. Gordon placed both hands on the guardrail and looked down as well.

  “There they go,” he said, surprised. “How did they embark so quickly?”

  “Sacrifice,” Nathen said, shaking his head. “I'm sure they stranded a good deal of their troops in the lower hangar. They're in a hurry to leave.”

  Gordon sneered, standing back and watching the
carrier leave. “I should feel elated to see my enemy fleeing with his back to me. But it just feels... unfinished.”

  Nathen watched the carrier blot out the distant space battle with its mass, transmitting jamming countermeasures to throw off the deadly MARCH platforms that were actively tracking it now. Gordon took a deep breath and let it out through his nose.

  “Better get going,” he said, turning away. “Enemy reinforcements are inbound, and there's no telling yet what they plan to do. Let’s go back to Haven. We don't need to go down with this ship, Commander.”

  Nathen closed his eyes and sighed.

  “You go on ahead,” he said. “I'd like to watch this while I've still got a minute.”

  Gordon eyed the Commander, then turned and motioned to the squad he'd been leading.

  “You're dismissed,” he said, with authority. “Report in to your departments.”

  The soldiers hesitated, and one stepped forward, hesitantly. “Are you sure, sir?”

  “Certainly,” Gordon said, grateful for the concern. “See to yourselves now.”

  The Infantrymen shrugged and turned away, looking over their shoulders as they quickly picked up the pace and jogged off. Gordon waited a moment longer, hands behind his back, then started to walk away as well.

  “I'll see you back on the mobile headquarters, Nathen.”

  Nathen turned around, reaching behind his back. “Captain.”

  Gordon turned, then reached his hand out and caught the incoming object Nathen tossed to him. The Captain looked down at the majestic Karl 9 in his hand, Yew Alliance peace medallions glinting in his eyes as something flashed inside him. Gordon looked up at Nathen.

  “He's dead then.”

  Nathen nodded, still leaning on the guardrail. Gordon looked again at his recovered treasure and shook his head.

  “I suppose I should feel happy.”

  Nathen knew what he meant. “You don't have to.”

  Gordon dwelled for a second longer, then rotated the heavy mag pistol around his hand and dropped it into his holster with a practiced flourish. He walked away, the complete picture of the Ambassador. Then he was gone. Nathen turned back to the window, watching as the MARCH platforms tried, and failed, to hit the now distant Yew carrier. The Celestial Wind plowed through the graveyard debris field, passing disabled ships and shattered hulls along its exit route.