Prime Alpha (Planetary Powers Book 1)

by Joshua Boring

  This had been a costly day.

  Several heartbeats faded into silence before Nathen inhaled a fresh breath and straightened up.

  “Fiend,” he said, aloud. “Are you going to come out, or are you just going to skulk there all day?”

  Nathen turned his beaten face to his left, watching the empty outer passageway, waiting. After a moment, Jonathan Harper seemingly melted out of the wall as he emerged from a shadowy doorway, black Genesis armor biting under the light.

  “You didn't know I was there,” he said, in denial.

  “I knew you were somewhere,” Nathen countered, leaning Kyler's shotgun against the railing and crossing his arms. “Everything gets quieter when you're around.”

  “Lucky guess,” Jonathan said, swaggering over and crossing his arms likewise. “Well, here we are again. Are you surprised to see me?”

  Nathen looked the Elite Stellar Commando up and down, then shook his head.

  “No,” Nathen said. “No, you're not that easy to get rid of.”

  Jonathan looked out the window, his almost egg-shaped helmet looking like an eclipse against the brightly-lit hallway.

  “I cleared the bridge,” said Jonathan. “I had to make a quick stop before I returned. A sort of side errand.”

  “Like what?”

  “It’s not important,” the stealthist said, with an air that implied that it was. “I just fancied a detour.”

  Nathen was about to inquire further, until Jonathan's head snapped up. Nathen followed his faceless, alien-alloyed gaze until he locked onto a fast-moving bulk accelerating away from the Orbit Angel. At first, it looked like one of the ships had disengaged from the station to give chase to the fleeing carrier. A second look at its crumpled wolf's head bow told Nathen the truth.

  “It’s the Sledgefast,” Jonathan said, flatly.

  The false frigate belonging to the Rapture Brigade was moving at maximum acceleration. It looked like the frigate was trying to catch up with the Yew carrier, but Nathen knew that the surviving traitors on board couldn't get away from the station fast enough. By the time the orbital gunners realized the frigate wasn't coming back, it would be too late to stop it. Jonathan's fingers rolled in and out of a fist, hovering near his knife handle as if he could reach out and cut it from space.

  “They're really legging it,” the stealthist commented, more impressed than angry. “Cowards.”

  Nathen watched the frigate flee with a cold fury. He didn't mention to Jonathan anything he'd learned from Lupell, the late leader of the Rapture Brigade. How this was Nathen's second run in with the rogue group. How they'd targeted him because of their past. How they were responsible for the war. For Navpoint. He didn't need to say anything. Jonathan could read it in his stare.

  Nathen turned away and picked up Kyler's Pitbull, propping it on his shoulder.

  “There is no corner of the universe dark enough for them to hide from their sins.” The commander turned his gaze on the armored elite next to him. “Let them run today. They'll die every day for the rest of their lives.”

  Nathen limped off on his own, leaving Jonathan to stand alone by the window. The stealth expert waited, standing there, silent as the grave. Then he rolled his palm upwards and peered down at the remote detonator in his hands. His helmet lifted, measuring the distance to the fleeing Sledgefast, thinking. The ex-convict rolled the detonator in his hands, teetering back and forth.

  Then Fiend shrugged and clicked the switch.

  ***

  Aboard the black-streaked battle frigate, a traitor with a faded bruise across his face started to relax his grip on the captain's chair. The Sledgefast was as good as clear. All the MARCH platforms were busy tracking the Yew carrier, and there were no more ships or craft anywhere between them and the nearest jump point. The tension surrounding the various Rapture Brigade members eased considerably as everyone realized the same thing. Somehow, they'd done it. They'd gotten away, clear and free.

  The traitor sitting in Lupell's—no, his, command chair—reached up and rubbed his face. He wished he'd never seen that Marine ID pop up in Port Ive. He should never have tracked down Nathen Brampton, never followed him into that bar, never reported it to Lupell. Lupell, who was now dead, or captured, he had no idea which but it didn't matter. What mattered was that with Lupell gone, and Francis the Fanatic almost certainly gone as well, there was a vacuum, and right now he was in it. But he could manage. For the good of the Brigade. For the good of the cause. For peace, and a liberation from this accursed conflict.

  If only he could hold together a little longer, they could recover, like they had in the past. This was just a setback. They would need to act fast, though. Reports and bounties would be sent out for them… maybe even by both sides. The traitor leaned forward, pawing at his chin thoughtfully. They would have to forge new ID's for everyone, lay low, find a scrap yard that could quietly scuttle the Sledgefast... And then maybe, maybe, they would have another chance at giving Humanity the salvation it needed.

  “The Rapture Brigade will rise again,” the traitor said under his breath.

  At that moment, the plasmatic satchel charge from the bridge that Fiend had planted on the Sledgefast's reactor went off.

  In one sweeping chain reaction, the Rapture Brigade became liberated from their conflict at last.

  Chapter 63

  The Saperiah pinwheeled through space like a broken carriage wheel. The once mighty, elegant and powerful craft now could barely haul itself to the rally point. With every passing second, more of the dreadcraft died, slain away by the Humans and their despicable little Grade-C ships. Half of the guns were blown away, and the other half of the blaster batteries were malfunctioning. The mantle defense grid was in shatters, swatting down an occasional missile or torpedo for every ten that got through. Engines coughed and convulsed the craft across space. Casualty reports from dozens of breached decks continued to pour in. Even the bridge, buried in the center of the Nightmare like a protected brain, was littered with bodies.

  Captain Rotan looked down at his own bloody claws from where he'd rent his own scaly hide in shame.

  This called for desperate measures.

  “Warmaster!” he called. The warmaster was dead. “Pathfinder!”

  The Saperiah's navigation expert saluted, looking terrified. “Yes, Captain Rotan!”

  Rotan peered down at him. “What is our mobility status?”

  The officer looked at his console, which offered such distorted data corrupted by the virus that he immediately gave up on it. “We may be jump capable.”

  Perfect.

  The bridge jolted from another direct hit, unshielded from the shock since its concussion buffers were down.

  “Helm!” Rotan called, darkly. “Prepare the Saperiah for immediate light jump. Full charge!”

  The lead Stelkan helmsman turned, face remaining steady in the face of disaster. “Captain, at this range, we run the risk of pulling these smaller ships into our mass as we...”

  The Stelkan pilot stopped as he saw Rotan's expression, suddenly understanding his intention.

  “Yes Captain,” he said, grimly. “What destination?”

  Rotan sat, claws dug into his own legs. “Guardian Station, designation, Orbit Angel.”

  Yes, Rotan thought. Let this battle end this way, in an embrace.

  This was manic thinking. He didn't care. They were all dying anyway. With a single lightspace jump, the Saperiah could obliterate every ship within the diameter of its mantle. It would likely destroy them as well, but not before they fired the Nightmare at the cursed Human space station, knocking it from the sky! These Humans thought ramming was an elegant trick, did they? Very well. Then that is how it shall be!

  Rotan began to chuckle, eyes stretched into thin slits.

  Suddenly a cry went up from the one functional sensor station.

  “Captain Rotan!” the operator shrieked, excitedly. “Incoming fleet signals from the Haitus System! I'm reading a dreadcraft-class ma
ss among them! They're jumping in right on top of us!”

  The bridge ignited in jubilant warbles and sing-song celebration at the approach of Sub-Admiral Kotu and their long-overdue reserve fleet. The fear and reproach clouding the dying bridge was instantly lifted with the promise of re-assured victory. Rotan let the news sink in, shock-faced, then his eyes lit up with eager vengeance.

  “Finally!” he called with an icy cackle. “Now these Humans will learn the price they've amassed by crossing the Yew Alliance! Belay ramming command! Let us greet our brothers with open arms before we obliterate these animals once and for all!”

  The Humans continued to attack, either unaware of the incoming fleet or uncaring. Rotan flinched as another weapons station burst into electric needles as the virus strangled his ship slowly to death. He couldn't care less now. He couldn't wait to see the surface of the Saperiah's sister craft; Sub-Admiral Kotu's Jeringdiah.

  Rotan started to laugh. It was not a good laugh, but he couldn't stop himself. He was just too uplifted by the thought of watching these little ships vaporize before the wrath of the Yew. Rotan calmed his laughter and focused on the distorted war helm, chortling. Space rippled as lightspace energy became visible. Rotan smiled to himself, smugly.

  The Sktish Man-O-War erupted into realspace before his eyes.

  Rotan's face turned to stone.

  That's not fair-

  The titanic battle dome of the station-sized warship flashed with the light of a thousand moons as its annihilator beam cut through the Nightmare with one blast, stopping Rotan's thought in its tracks.

  ***

  Nearing the fringe of the planet's gravitational influence, the Celestial Wind watched the distant Sktish Man-O-War cut their invincible dreadcraft apart like a ripe melon. The dreadcraft didn't even have a second to react. The incredibly large domed warship finished the job the Humans had started, outmassing the Saperiah by nearly double. The first annihilator beam cut the core from the mantle, leaving little behind at the near point-blank range. Then the spokes lit up as the Man-O-War methodically cut apart the quickly-breaking pieces with its crystal cannons. Explosions mixed with implosions as the remaining Human ships scrambled just to get out of the way like mice fleeing before a lion. The Man-O-War let them go, finishing the Yew dreadcraft off with one final sweep of its guns, brushing the pieces under the rug.

  Then the scattered debris field started flashing like comets as a hundred Sktish ships poured into realspace, flooding the now-silent battleground.

  General Scizzor Synks stared out the front viewport, a look of intense transfixion carved on his face.

  The Celestial Wind moved of its own accord, quickly soaring ahead from a powerful burst of its ion engines. The bridge crew surrounding him was silent, none wanting to be the first to break the General’s concentration. There was a look in the wounded General’s eyes that repelled those around him, though no one could identify the specific reason. As usual, Scizzor’s emotions were shrouded in a cloud of mystery.

  After a while, a Stelkan bridge crew officer gathered enough courage to speak.

  “General Scizzor. In the face of Second Admiral Merthal’s disappearance, as well as the confirmed death of Sub-Admiral Danter, you are in command. What are your orders?”

  Scizzor offered no response. The Vorch warrior continued to stare at the war helm, seated in the admiral's chair that was not fitted for him. The surrounding crew began wondering if the General had even heard. After a second, the officer tried again.

  “General, we…”

  “If I have orders for you I will give them to you,” Scizzor said, voice taking on a threatening monotone. “You are not to approach me and demand I give you orders unless you feel the urge to be blasted out of our mine chutes.”

  The officer tripped over himself in his hurry to put some desperately desired distance between himself and Scizzor. “N-No sir! Absolutely not!”

  “Then learn a little patience,” the General said, taking a deep breath. “Rushed decisions are not worth anything. Remember that, the next time you approach me.”

  The stunned officer did not reply. Scizzor finally turned to the Flogs steering the ship.

  “Turn us out-system and prepare to make the jump to lightspace.”

  “What of the Human’s orbiting station?”

  “Ignore it,” Scizzor said, distractedly. “It can't harm us. Firing on that station would be a waste of ammo. It’s suffered many hard blows today, and it will take them considerable time to repair it anyway. If they can repair it at all.”

  None questioned Scizzor’s reasoning, but a far off look in his eyes told those around him that there was something more to his decision. They were all too busy working to hear the General mutter under his breath.

  “Interesting,” he said as he watched the Sktish fleet take defensive positions around the Humans. His encounter with the Human had left a bloody dagger in his stomach, a wound that remained open and untreated. His fingers moved in a trained dance over the handle of the knife. Bearing the marks of a true adversary. For the first time in a long time, Scizzor smiled genuinely enough to bare his canines.

  “Very interesting...”

  ***

  Jason Denver let his twelfth cigarette smolder in his hand as he stared out the viewport at the Sktish Armada.

  The bridge crew of the Magnum Opus was completely silent, robbed of words at the sudden, unexpected arrival of victory. The surviving Human ships turned toward the newcomers, reforming battle formations, but confusedly not knowing how to react otherwise. The powerful, battle-weary Sktish Armada dominated the edge of the battlefield, facing the Humans coldly and silently. The massive domed Man-O-War controlled the center of attention, looking from the front like a crystal moon. For a moment, the two fleets just… faced one another.

  Captain Wesler stood, slowly turning toward the Admiral.

  “Admiral Denver,” he said, solidly. “There is a private hail for you.”

  Denver tossed his half-finished cigarette away before hitting the comm. switch. The hologram flickered before him, forming on the misty command deck of the Man-O-War. Even the bridge of the deadly ship looked massive. Crystal armor reflected everywhere, like a carved palace of glass. Glowing bioluminescent cables reached from the walls and ceilings, feeding data and power to the various stations. Capsules of globular water that housed the crustacean Aquaranetic crew littered the image, marked alongside half-pool batho-spheres where the Squlashers manned their stations. Spires of reef-like quality stretched up and out of view of the hologram, making it seem as though Denver was looking at a city instead of a warship. And sitting on a soft, sponge-like war couch sat the leader; an orange-tinted Squlasher Sky Marshal.

  Denver exhaled the last breath of smoke from his pursed lips before speaking.

  “Greetings,” he said, simply. The Sky Marshal inclined his rubbery head, shifting in his crystalline battle armor. His murky pool eyes glimmered brighter for a moment.

  [Greetings,] came the rippling response.

  Denver tapped a finger on his armrest. “Welcome to the Vetrus System. Is there, ah… Any help I can offer you?”

  The Squlasher Sky Marshal waved a two-tentacled hand in polite dismissal. [There is no concern on our part. We were merely passing through on our way from Junction and we… detected some distressing signatures.]

  “I see,” Denver said, trying not to smile too obviously. “And these signatures were…?”

  [A Yew kill fleet,] the Sky Marshal said, sorrowfully. [Regrettably we mistook them for pirates and… disintegrated them.]

  “Ah,” Denver said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “An unfortunate mistake.”

  [Unfortunate,] agreed the Sky Marshal, head bowed in shame. [We merely entered your system—with neutral intentions—in order to make use of your hyperspacial communications array, so that we might adamantly apologize to the Yew for the destruction of their war craft.]

  “And the, ah, Dreadcraft?”

  The Sky
Marshal raised his blunt porpoise-like nose to the ceiling in thought. [Oh. That is what it was? We were under the presumption that it was a rogue asteroid. A pity. Now we shall have to apologize to the Yew twice.]

  The innocent sense of Sktish sarcasm was sweet butter in Denver’s ears. “I will gladly pass the message on for you.”

  [We are obliged,] the Squlasher said with a bow and a wave of its muscled arm. [May I offer my personal act of contrition for interfering in your skirmish. As a duly elected representative of the Sktish Armada, I would never knowingly engage in a conflict unrepresented by a concurrent joint military agreement between our species.]

  “Just as I would never, as a duly elected representative of the Humanity Space Navy, acknowledge that such a selfless endeavor of self-sacrifice would be welcomed between two mutually respective militant powers.”

  There was a strong, restrained silence over the comm. between the two leaders. Denver finally took a deep breath and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his fingertips together before looking up.

  “That being said, I’m a retired representative of the HSN. So… Thank you.”

  The Squlasher reached up and smoothly ran a suction-cupped hand across his glossy carapace.

  [If we may request permission, our fleet may recharge here before continuing our journey. Our way is long, and we are… weary.] The Sky Marshal glanced into his mirror pools, images of the shattered starshield reflecting in his murky eyes. [Of course, we can compensate our rent by assisting in the repairing of your shipyards. Fuel will of course be requisitioned only after the fair negotiation of payment.]