Starflake (T'aafhal Legacy Book 3)

by Doug Hoffman

  Starflake

  Doug L. Hoffman

  Copyright © 2016 by Doug L. Hoffman

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN 978-0-9974781-0-5

  Published by

  The Resilient Earth Press

  http://resilientearthpress.com

  Books By Doug L. Hoffman

  The T'aafhal Legacy Series

  Ghosts of Orion

  The Queen's Daemon

  Starflake

  Pleiad Found

  The T'aafhal Inheritance Trilogy

  Parker's Folly

  Peggy Sue

  M'tak Ka'fek

  Non-fiction (with Allen Simmons)

  The Resilient Earth

  The Energy Gap

  Preface

  This is the third book in the T'aafhal Legacy series—the continued adventures of the officers and crew of the starship Peggy Sue. Once again we find Captain Billy Ray Vincent in command of the Honorable Orion Arm Trading Company's vessel Peggy Sue. After being bushwhacked in the Alpha Phoenicis system, chronicled in The Queen's Daemon, more than a year has passed and the merchant explorers are about to take delivery of a new starship, the Peggy Sue II. After becoming embroiled in war and revolution far from home they realized they need a stouter ship and more Marines, many more Marines.

  This time they are going far afield, headed for the Pleiades, a star nursery with a number of blue-white giant stars. They are following a hint from the T'aafhal AI they found on the planet of the Ant Queen, telling them to “find the missing Pleiad.” With their new ship and expanded crew they head out on a journey that will take them more than 400 light-years from home. A journey far beyond human space and the protection of the fleet. Naturally, things do not go as planned.

  As usual, all units of measurement—distance, mass, time, etc—have been rendered in familiar human terms. It is much easier to do that than have the reader trying to translate what a hundred ferniks per wizbat means. Most of the characters are still referred to by rank, at least on occasion, even though the Peggy Sue is now a civilian vessel sailing for a merchant company. As always, I have tried to make the science as realistic as possible, given our current understanding. Some speculative liberties are taken, particularly in the realm of faster than light travel.

  As usual, the text is sprinkled with quotations, some from historical sources, others from contemporary humans. Not all are attributed in the story itself, people tend not to do that, but I will say that there are lines from all sorts of folks—from Kenneth Grahame to George R.R. Martin, from George Washington to Joan Nosuchinsky. I hope you enjoy finding the “hidden” ones.

  I would like to thank the following early readers and editors of this novel. Most of these have been with me from the beginning of my writing career and without them these adventures would probably never have seen the light of day. Special thanks to Rik Faith, Bobby Johnson, David Metheny, and Clayton Ward, who help keep my science honest and my phraseology understandable.

  Lastly, if you read this book and you like it tell your friends and please, please take the time to write a review on Amazon or Goodreads. Like any other author, I sometimes need encouragement to keep on writing. Nothing motivates like a good review.

  This, of course, brings us to the obligatory disclaimers: all the characters in this book are fictional, not representations of any real person, living or dead; Any mistakes in the science, cosmology, engineering, etc. are purely my own and not the responsibility any of those thanked above. The book was written using LibreOffice and the cover art done using the GIMP. Ebook formatting was done using Calibre.

  Regards,

  Doug L. Hoffman

  Conway, Arkansas

  April 18, 2016

  For my grandfather,

  Lester Kreisher

  Prologue

  Hyades Open Cluster

  Starlight glinted off the station's faceted exterior. Faint glimmers of orange with hints of red, reflecting the spectrum of the orange K-type giant that was this system's central star and the much smaller M-type red dwarf that closely orbited it. In all, an empty system in a scattered open cluster of similar stars. Here, far from its sun, orbited the reason for the Fleet's presence—a space station keeping a lonely vigil on the edge of nowhere.

  The Fleet Commander watched the mopping up from the bridge of her flagship. They had come to this otherwise useless system for the specific purpose of reducing the population of it's only habitation to servitude. That phase of the operation was complete. The few space borne assets of the station inhabitants were scattered, drifting atoms, and the creatures who sent them decimated. They could have at least made it a challenge for us.

  The warriors of Uxoreeza faced little real opposition when they boarded the station. The motley collection of races who opposed them mounted only feeble resistance—in the Fleet Commander's mind they were pathetic. At least one species had been totally eradicated and several others severely reduced in number. Reduced to the point their continued survival was questionable. It didn't matter, they were all animals, with no purpose except to provide food. Many were not even good for that.

  A light on the console indicated an incoming call.

  “Fleet Commander. Report.”

  “Hail, Fleet Commander. Sub-commander Fzixeera reporting that we have cleared a habitable section and the station is ready to receive the occupation force.”

  “Acknowledged. Proceed with the transfer from the transport ship.” This part was distasteful. The Fleet Commander would have preferred totally depopulating the station but the Dark Lords said no. And we all have our masters.

  “Commencing the transfer of the vermin, Fleet Commander,” reported the Sub-commander, disgust in her voice. “We are withdrawing by sections. A number of the warriors are bringing fresh carcases with them, will you allow this?”

  Sigh. Vat grown protein is just as nourishing and arguably safer, but there is no substitute for something that you killed with your own claws. A poor replacement for decent plunder but better than nothing. “It is allowed.”

  That her race existed at all was because the Dark Ones occasionally need proxies to keep other warm-life species from rising. The Fleet Commander had no illusions, if the galaxy stopped creating new warm-life species, or the masters simply grew tired of them, her race would be eradicated as thoroughly as any her kind had exterminated. She might not feel reverence for the Dark Lords, but she could admire their thoroughness.

  The thought of turning the station over the miserable little grubs in the “occupation force” churned the Leader's stomach. Puny, weak and totally lacking in honor, the occupiers were only strong enough to keep the other inhabitants in line. That they gladly preyed on each other was proof they were soulless scum. But the masters did not want the station left empty, allowing some new race of parasites to claim it for their own. With the occupying scum in place the station would remain in a miserable stasis for the foreseeable future.

  The Fleet Commander longed for the day when her warriors could rid the Universe of this particularly loathsome species.

  The Spirits of the Void know this was not a glorious battle of the kind true warriors dream of—a battle for the ages that would assure our souls admission to the great beyond. Instead of glory we have slaughtered weaklings and infest the conquered ground with vermin of our masters' choosing. If only a race worthy of battle could be found, but that was the one thing the Dark Lords are at pains to prevent.

  Unknown to the alien commander, another battle was about to take place. A battle fought with unsophisticated weapons and on a much smaller scale than the Fleet Commander longed for.

  * * * * *

  Forty seven parsecs away,
on an insignificant planet orbiting an unremarkable star, a war party worked its way silently toward their enemy's encampment. In the camp there were twenty-nine in all: thirteen males, ten females and six young. Gathered around a central fire, the interlopers were bedded down for the night, with one distracted guard staring at the embers.

  They had chosen a site on the edge of the great lake. Not a bad location for a band of hunter-gatherers, close to water and with plentiful game nearby. The only problem was that another tribe already claimed this hunting ground, the tribe whose warriors surrounded the slumbering trespassers.

  The warriors waited patiently in the darkness, using the same skills they used to hunt wild beasts. The leader of the band trilled a bird call, the signal to attack. Clutching wooden clubs and spears tipped with razor sharp blades of obsidian, the war band rose as one in the darkness and descended on the unsuspecting sleepers. Spears thrust and clubs bludgeoned. Several of the victims cried out in pain, but it was done quickly.

  The interloping tribe lay dead or dying; twenty seven men, women, and children slaughtered, including a babe in arms. A few moaned or moved feebly. They died where they lay, given the mercy of a quick death. Better a crushed skull than lingering pain and the inevitable arrival of predators. Only two young girls survived, taken as mates by attacking warriors.

  The war band quickly gathered any items of worth—a few weapons, a string of beads, several water gourds. A basket of fish was kicked over, its contents spilled around the legs of one of the female victims. The leader of the war band signaled and as quietly as they had come, the warriors departed, leaving only the dead behind.

  Both the victims and the attackers were animals. Phylum Chordata, Class Primates, Family Hominidae, Genus Homo. Eventually they would call themselves Homo sapiens, or more informally, human. They were in the process of subjugating the planet of their birth and all the creatures that dwelled there.

  They were smart, adaptable, and aggressive. Makers and users of tools, able to communicate and cooperate, they hunted everything large and small, fierce and meek. Deadly and avaricious, they were the most dangerous creatures on the planet. They were so savage that the only real threat they faced was each other. So it was fighting each other that honed their skill at organized violence, to the point that they gave such violence a name. War.

  One of the members of the band looked up at the clear night sky and saw a scattering of bright orange stars that someday his descendants would place in the constellation of Taurus. One of the stars, Delta 1 Tauri, was the star that the lonely space station orbited.

  It was in that distant star system where the bored Uxoreezan Fleet Commander beseeched her gods for a race of great warriors to contest with. Perhaps the Fleet Commander didn't realize: One should be careful when asking a favor of the gods—they might grant your request.

  Part One

  A Ship In A Harbor

  Chapter 1

  The Drunken Crab, Farside

  The Drunken Crab was one of the less reputable drinking holes that existed in the shadow of Farside Shipyard. It catered to sailors and dockyard workers, transforming their pay into alcohol and cannabis e-cigarettes. It was mid-shift, and as a consequence there were few patrons bellied up to the bar and scattered among the tables in the dark interior. Mostly dedicated drinkers left over from the end of the night shift and a few getting fortified for the afternoon shift.

  At a round table in the far corner were four humans—three men and a woman. All four wore the plain dark blue jumpsuits of those who sailed on spaceships, be they Navy or civilian. This was a bit of subterfuge on their part. Though they were, in fact, sailors they did not belong to the Navy or any normal civilian shipping line. They were crew from the Orion Arm Trading Company ship Peggy Sue II. As such they normally wore more distinctive uniforms to distinguish themselves from the military and average dock-front rabble. On this occasion they were in mufti, trying to maintain a low profile.

  They were all seated around the far side of the table, backs to the wall, with clear views of the entrance and the other patrons. Farthest to the left, a small weather-worn man raised a heavy beer mug to his mouth and took a deep draught. His perpetually squinting eyes darted around the dimly lit room. Returning the mug to the table he spoke.

  “They're late.”

  Next to him a much larger man answered without looking at him. “Wasn't a hard and fast time, Chief.”

  “Damned frogmen got no sense of punctuality,” the older man muttered.

  “Relax, Chief,” said the other large man. “Matt's right, we didn't have an exact meeting time.”

  “I knew this was a bad idea,” said the woman, seated on the far right. Her short cut hair framed a serviceable face—not beautiful but attractive enough when she wasn't scowling. She had one thing in common with two of the men, they were larger and more muscular than average human beings. The Chief, at five foot four, was odd man out in the size department.

  “Come on, Gunny,” said the one called Matt. “You've been cooped up on board the ship for a month. We thought you'd enjoy going ashore and grabbing a couple of beers.”

  “Don't use my rank, shit head,” she whispered harshly. “I checked the net and the Navy still has me listed as AWOL.”

  “Really, Rosey?” said Matt's friend, Steve Hitch. “That was like more than two years ago.”

  “The Fleet's got a long memory,” Rosey replied, taking another pull on her half empty beer. Even though the Crab was not located on one of the main passageways leading in and out of the yards there was still way too much traffic for her liking. “Oh shit.”

  All eyes turned to the open doorway from the corridor. Entering the bar were several large figures, framed by the bright lights outside. Their jumpsuits were dark green and around their waists were wide belts made from white webbing. On their arms were white armbands emblazoned with two black letters—SP.

  “I thought you said the shore patrol didn't come in here, Hitch,” the Chief growled at Steve. More of the Marines pushed into the bar, clumped together at the entrance, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the gloom. The one in the lead, evidently impatient, pulled out a small flashlight and began examining the bar's patrons.

  Most hunched their shoulders and concentrated on their drinks. A few mumbled things like, “fuck off, jarhead.” The Marines ignored those who were obviously civilian dock workers, their jurisdiction only extended to Fleet personnel—sailors and other Marines. The man with the flashlight approached the table where the four crewmates were seated.

  “You shine that light in my eyes, gyrene, and I'll kick yer balls up around yer ears,” the Chief said in a conversationally menacing tone.

  “Put a sock in it Pops, and show me some ID,” the Marine said, shining the light in the older man's eyes.

  “Oh, crap,” Matt said under his breath and readied himself for what was surely to come.

  The Chief stood and looked the Marine up and down. Stepping forward, the grizzled little sailor put his fists up in front of him, like an old time prize fighter. The Marine, towering over the smaller man, snorted.

  “Listen you little shit...”

  The Chief kicked the Marine square in the testicles.

  The Marine dropped the flashlight and sank to his knees. When he was down to the Chief's shoulder height, the old sailor hit him in the nose with an open palm strike that knocked the man over backward.

  Things began happening quickly. Matt and Steve stood, their chairs crashing backward. Rosey made to rise as well when another Marine pushed down on her shoulder with his left arm.

  “Stay put, lady.”

  “I ain't no lady!” Rosey hissed, moving her right arm forward then wrapping it over and around the Marine's extended extremity. She stood, twisting at the waist while jerking her arm upward. The Marine's arm dislocated at the elbow.

  The Marine's eyes bulged with pain. Rosey released his now useless limb, drew her arm in front of her, elbow out, fist to her chest. Striking back v
iciously, she planted the backside of her elbow in the Marine's face. Something crunched and the Marine went down.

  While a next Marine reached for Rosey, Matt slipped around her and executed a skipping side kick that struck the man in the solar plexus. The Marine doubled over, flying backward several meters.

  At the same time Hitch launched himself onto the table and into a forward somersault. Springing off the end of the table he flew into an airborne kick that would have done Jet Li proud, landing a booted foot in yet another Marine's face.

  The Chief jumped up in front of the fifth Marine. The low lunar gravity helping his hang time, he pummeling the man with at least a half dozen blows before touching back down. The Marine swayed and toppled. Behind him, the last of the shore patrol drew a stun pistol.

  Rosey scooped up a beer mug from the table left handed and hurled it at the Marine brandishing the stunner. Her aim was dead on—the mug bounced off the man's head with a hollow thunk and he dropped the pistol, falling to the ground like a marionette whose strings had been cut. The mug did not break when it bounced off the floor.

  “Damn, what do they make those mugs from?” asked Steve.

  “The same stuff they put in shuttle windscreens,” answered Matt. “They got tired of the glassware getting busted up every time there was a fight—which is practically every night in this place.”

  “Heads up,” Rosey warned her companions, “we got more company.”

  At the entrance, three more large figures in dark jumpsuits entered the bar. The bar's other patrons looked on with interest, waiting to see what would happen next.

  Fleet HQ, Farside

  Walking abreast, four people climbed the wide stairs in front of Fleet Headquarters. Their uniforms marked them as officers in the service of the Orion Arm Trading Company—commonly just called the Company. From their body language it was clear that they were two couples, one pair topping six feet in height the other pair roughly four inches shorter. The taller couple and shorter man wore black and grey suits, indicating ship's officers, while the shorter woman's suit had deep burgundy trim, designating her a science officer.