Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles)

by Ervin II, Terry W.

  “Warning lights on port engine,” called McAllister. “Recommend shutdown.”

  “Acknowledged. Shutting down. Continue to monitor.”

  We survived a rough ride to the surface and landed with a thump. Pilot Odthe climbed from the cockpit. “Keesay, with me.”

  I followed him to the exit ramp. “Wicked storm out there,” I said.

  “Here.” He handed me a nylon line. “Secure yourself with this.” As soon as I did, he opened the hatch and signaled to follow him out.

  The wind whipped rain into my face. “What are we looking for?” I yelled.

  “Hull damage.” Odthe struggled to read his portable scanner through the downpour.

  I staggered around the front with him. “Not good.” He pointed. Several 8-inch diameter holes marred the lower shuttle nose. He adjusted his scanning device. “Lift me up.” I locked my hands’ fingers, forming a step. Pilot Odthe stepped up and kept his balance despite the battering gale. “Damn, radiation,” he yelled before hopping down and tugging my line. “Let’s get inside.” We did.

  I leaned back to avoid dripping on the table. Pilot Odthe didn’t. His shuttle.

  “Team, we have a serious problem.” He didn’t close his eyes, but instead met each face. “The cascading engine containment has a hairline fracture. It’s leaking radiation. While the amount isn’t lethal outside the shuttle for short periods, it’s a beacon announcing our location.” He leaned back. “The Crax frigate should be able to locate us within hours.”

  “That’s if they know what to look for,” said McAllister.

  “Their surviving fighters will have recorded damage to our nose,” Shiffrah said.

  “It is unlikely they’ll approach until this storm abates,” said Pilot Odthe. “Dr. Shiffrah, any additional precautions we should take?”

  “Atmospheric readings indicate habitable. At this latitude, moderate temperature and an abundance of plant life, similar to Earth. As far as the potential latent bio-weapon? Our chances are better down here than up there.”

  “Does anybody have anything else to add?”

  The Chicher diplomat stood. “Not burrow from hawk. Raid enemy pack. Snatch ship.”

  Pilot Odthe nodded. “Thank you. The suggestion has merit. Anybody else?” No one spoke up. “Team, how are we doing on their codes?”

  “Not enough time to tell,” said McAllister. Guerrero nodded and the Chicher signaled, “Agreement.”

  “Final input?” No one made any additional suggestions. “Okay. Give me five minutes.”

  We all departed the meeting area. Skids followed me down to the lower deck. “What’s all that rain like outside?”

  “Kind of like being sprayed with a fire hose. Hard to see. So windy, hard to stand.”

  “I’ve never been in a storm like that.” His eyes widened in anticipation. “Think we’ll get to go out in it?”

  “I hope not, Skids. My coveralls are moisture repellant, but some got in. It’s uncomfortable.” He frowned. “What do you say we go to the dorsal turret and watch the storm?”

  “There’s only room for one, Specialist.”

  “I’ve seen enough of the storm,” I said, leading him aft. He sat on my shoulders while looking out and started asking questions about rain, clouds, and wind until Pilot Odthe called us back.

  “Team, we’re going to split up.” He didn’t wait for comments. “The LLTV is designed for four, but five, with a smaller passenger could get by.” He pointed. “Skids, you’ll go along with Guerrero, McAllister, Keesay and Shiffrah. The Chicher and I will remain with the Bloodhound III.”

  “What is the plan?” asked Dr. Shiffrah.

  Pilot Odthe closed his eyes and pressed fingers. “You five will work your way towards the research station. Break their codes along the way. Learn what you can. Guerrero should be able to handle that. If anything breaks or Guerrero needs assistance, McAllister. Shiffrah, your expertise will be needed should there be an issue with microbes. Namely, any residual strains from biological warfare. Keesay, you seem to be able to handle yourself in a fight, and there’s a good chance your skills will be needed.” He opened his eyes and stared at Skids. “Young man, I’ve no idea as to your identity. But you’re knowledgeable and brave. They’ll need your assistance.”

  He allowed time for the Chicher’s translator to catch up. “Diplomat, you and I will stick with the Bloodhound. Move around. Keep them off balance. You’ll assist with the decryption efforts here and man the dorsal turret if needed.” He leaned back. “We don’t want to know anything of your plans other than what I’ve outlined.”

  “In case you’re captured?” Guerrero asked. By the expression on her face she already knew the answer.

  “Affirmative. I suggest you get packing while I instruct the Chicher in turret gunnery.”

  Two hours later we’d selected and stowed gear in and on the LLTV. The storm was letting up. We’d decided to travel along the ocean, using it and terrain for cover. The LLTV could submerge. It couldn’t supply oxygen for long, but had snorkeling ability. About 1400 miles to the research station.

  Pilot Odthe called one last meeting. “Team, storm’s abated. Time to move. Keesay, I’m putting you in charge of the LLTV team. You think fast on your feet and that’s the most important quality in a leader. Dr. Shiffrah, you’re second. Any questions?”

  I saw McAllister holding back. Too bad.

  Pilot Odthe offered his hand. “Specialist, good luck.”

  “Same to you, Pilot.” We shook hands even though we both knew his fate was to be hunted, ending in death. Capture might be part of the equation, leading to the same result by way of interrogation and torture.

  “Better get your team moving. I’ll need to consult with Dr. Shiffrah a moment.” He’d already said his goodbye with Guerrero.

  I looked around and slung my shotgun. “Engineer McAllister, assist Guerrero deploying the LLTV. She’s driving. Skids, you double-check to make sure everything is locked down.” I strode down the ramp before McAllister could complain. The Chicher followed.

  We stood in the stiff breeze off the ocean that brought in the salty air. It also carried the remaining clouds inland, away from the gritty beach that ran into the rough surf fifty yards away. “Security Man, different trails. Still surrogate pack member.”

  “Agreed. We will fence and play dominoes again.”

  “No. Pilot Leader and I will nest and run until cornered.”

  I offered my hand. “Chicher Diplomat, you never know. Us R-Techs are tough to kill.” I craned my neck to view the front of the exploration shuttle. “Let’s get moving,” I yelled. “Radiation won’t do us any good.”

  Two shadows shot from the cliffs and sped out over the ocean.

  “Fighter’s, two!” I shouted. “Get that LLTV clear.” Into my com-set I called, “Pilot, we’ve got fighters.”

  The Bloodhound’s dorsal turret spun to life. The shuttle ramp retracted and the hatch slammed shut. The LLTV deployment platform elevated. I was three steps behind the Chicher, dashing for a rock outcropping.

  The pair of fighters, one Crax the other human turned and accelerated in on the deck. I pulled my revolver and ejected the hollow point rounds and loaded armor piercing. The thudding roar of pulse laser and cannon fire mixed with the sizzling impact of corrosive pellets.

  The Bloodhound’s engines sputtered. The Crax was on target and its corrosive chewed into the shuttle’s rear. Pulse lasers tore at the beach, raked into the nose, and erupted up the cliff face.

  “Engineering’s gone!” I said. Rocks and debris rained down on the shuttle. I pointed to the north. “Dorsal turret, on your six, circling toward three for another pass.”

  “Thanks, Keesay,” called Shiffrah and rotated her turret to engage. “System’s down. I’m manual.” She engaged at long range.

  Pilot Odthe dropped from the emergency hatch, toting a heavy-duty laser and tripod. A power cable trailed behind. “Keesay, get your team out of here!”

  “
Guerrero, go north,” I said. “Will follow on foot.”

  “Negative,” called McAllister. “Preparing to engage.”

  “Your pulse laser won’t punch through,” I said.

  “We’ve got tracking,” said McAllister. “Enough hits will.”

  “You don’t have the energy reserves. Even I know that!”

  “Bloodhound is jamming, Keesay. If we don’t take them out now, they’ll be all over us.”

  “Agreed,” I said. The Chicher’s chatter transformed to a shrill clicking. “I agree with that, too.” They were coming about again. I rested my arm on a rock, estimated lead and waited.

  Lasers and caustic pellets crossed long before I could take my shot. Shiffrah focused on the Crax. Odthe and McAllister fired on the colony fighter. I prepared to combine my feeble firepower with theirs.

  The colony-grade fighter broke apart on approach. The Crax fighter absorbed one hit from Shiffrah before popping up to release a rocket from its belly. “Incoming,” I yelled, and pulled the Chicher down with me. The concussion hammered us against the sand. I struggled to breathe in. Finally, breath came. I said to the recovering Chicher. “Crax don’t bomb with explosives.”

  The rocket had penetrated the Bloodhound’s hull before exploding. What was left resembled a blackened canister, jaggedly split across the center. I leapt from the rocky concealment and ran to Pilot Odthe. He’d been thrown twenty feet. I didn’t bother checking his broken body for a pulse.

  The Chicher had already reset the tripod and was struggling to lift the heavy laser despite the severed power cable. I hefted it in place and checked the power reserve. I held up two fingers and said, “Two blasts.”

  He signaled, “Understood,” and swung the weapon away from the smoking wreck and into the ocean breeze.

  I adjusted my headset and called, “McAllister, report.”

  “Thought you were dead, Keesay. We’ll swing back for you. Only enough power for a few weak bursts.”

  I reached into my breast pocket. “Swing back this way. Provide a moving target. Fire if you want, but don’t pick us up.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got an idea.”

  “This ought to be good.”

  “It will be,” I said. “Shut down and secure all vulnerable electronics equipment you can.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it, now. Here he comes.” I deactivated my com-set and set it on secure mode.

  I loaded one of my disguised shells, estimated the wind, stepped twenty paces from the Chicher, and held my shotgun at a thirty degree angle. The Crax swung around and again raced in on the deck. I pulled the trigger before anyone else opened fire. The shell’s rocket assist knocked me back.

  Pellets raced toward the LLTV. The vehicle spun around, throwing sand as it evaded. The Chicher opened up just before McAllister did. All missed. Any time, I prayed.

  A concussion of water erupted one hundred yards ahead of the Crax. The fighter slammed into the water wall. It broke through, skipped on the surface, flipped, and cartwheeled into the surf.

  The Chicher chattered, clicked and pointed at an ejection capsule rocketing above the waves, moving away. The Chicher pulled the heavy laser’s trigger. Nothing. I switched on my com-set. “McAllister! Take out that capsule.”

  “We’re out of power. What’d you do?”

  “Dump energy into it and take it out, NOW!”

  Seconds later blasts streaked from the LLTV’s roof turret. Three found their mark, bringing down the defense shield. The fourth sent it burning into the ocean.

  I climbed to the top of the rock pile and watched the Crax capsule sink. Nothing surfaced. “Over there,” I yelled. Off to the right a smaller capsule bobbed along the surface. “McAllister, can you get a fix on that?”

  “On what?”

  “Two o’clock straight out, four-hundred yards.”

  “Got it. There’s movement inside.”

  “Colony fighter pilot,” I said. “Ocean’s bringing him in. Jam his transmissions.”

  “Have been since the engagement started,” said Guerrero.

  “Odthe and Shiffrah are dead,” I said.

  “I know,” she replied.

  I stood on shore and watched the capsule approach. I held my shotgun ready. It bottomed out and tumbled with the next wave. “Out now,” I shouted.

  The hatch blew and the pilot dove out, under the surf. “She’s armed,” I yelled and dropped to the sand.

  She came up behind the capsule. The crack of MP fire echoed above the surf. I returned the favor. “Blam! Ca-Chunk, Blam! A wave swept into the pilot and the capsule. I couldn’t see her so I moved right.

  Skids ran up with his laser derringer.

  “Get back!” I yelled before spotting the pilot surfacing. I changed orders. “Get down!”

  Crack! Crack! Crack! Sand divots popped in front of me. I rolled. The pilot switched targets and exchanged fire with Skids, who’d mimicked my prone position.

  Skids rolled right, just before several rounds struck his former position. Rolled left to avoid a second volley. It reminded me of Mr. Habbuk. That pilot was a marksman.

  I took aim. Blam! A slug slammed into her ribs, knocking her back into the waves.

  Guerrero dashed forward, grabbed Skids by the collar and pulled him toward the LLTV. McAllister stalked forward with two laser carbines. She saturated the water around the pilot with fire. “Keesay, may not want to kill you,” she screamed over the surf, “but I have no problems with it.” She sent a few more blasts. “Hands up now or no quarter!”

  We both eyed the water. McAllister said, “I thought you were blood thirsty.”

  “You’ve been misinformed,” I said. “Besides, I just nailed her. See, there she is.”

  The pilot had raised her left hand. Her right cradled her ribs. She’d shed her equipment belt and weapon. I fixed my bayonet and escorted the injured pilot to shore.

  McAllister accompanied us. “You’ve been itching to do that,” she said.

  “Do what?” I asked. “Keep moving.”

  “Use your fancy new bayonet.”

  “PhD in R-Tech psychology?” I chided, before motioning with my bayonet. “That’s it, past the man you killed.”

  “Man I killed?” said the pilot. She turned and whipped her dripping bangs aside. “How many of my squadron did you kill?”

  “Remorse from us? For killing a pack of traitors?” Proper gesturing with my shotgun halted her reply. “Over there.”

  McAllister said, “See why you don’t have any friends.”

  “Stop,” I ordered the pilot. “Off with your coveralls.” To McAllister, I said, “Jealousy rears its ugly head.”

  “Just looking in the mirror, Keesay.”

  “Pilot, I suggest you comply. My slug may not penetrate your flight coveralls, but it’ll split your skull. Boots, too.” I took a step back. “McAllister, I’ve got friends.”

  “The rat and kid don’t count.”

  The pilot disrobed and stood in soaked undershirt and shorts. “Socks, too. McAllister, you get to make a new friend. Search her.”

  “Bashful?” asked McAllister with a wicked smile.

  “Polite. Besides, who knows what tech stuff I might miss. They’ve sided with the Crax, remember?” That motivated McAllister.

  Despite the fact that the pilot was a half foot taller and fifty muscled pounds heavier, McAllister was anything but gentle. After working her way down, she reached up and snatched a handful of the pilot’s pageboy-cut hair, and yanked. “See this ring?” She held it in the pilot’s face. “Your Crax buddies killed my only friend. Only reason I tolerate that Relic is because he’s good at killing Crax.” She spat in the pilot’s face. “And traitors.”

  The pilot’s lip curled, but she gritted her teeth and remained silent.

  “I know,” I said. “Thinking your pals will rescue you. And if not that, avenge you?” I looked over toward Guerrero who was rummaging through the washed up capsule. “Don’
t count on it.”

  “Got a name?” McAllister asked. No reply. “Give me a name or I’ll let Keesay name you. And he’s not too bright.”

  “Bright enough to bring down that Crax fighter,” I said.

  “How’d you do that?” asked McAllister, again pointing her carbine at the pilot.

  “Popcorn nuke.”

  “Popcorn nuke? Where’d you get that?”

  I didn’t want to tell her the truth, during the Colonization Riots. “Skids,” I yelled. “Get some clothes for...What’s your name?” No answer. “Loser. Pilot Loser. Sit down, Pilot Loser.”

  She refused.

  I walked behind her and swung my gun’s barrel at her calves. I caught them tensing at the last second, pulled the swipe and leapt back. Pilot Loser spun and landed. Her leg’s reach was inches short.

  I took another step back and leveled my shotgun. “Forget the clothes,” I yelled. “McAllister, keep your eye on our Pilot Loser.”

  “Where’d you get those?”

  “What competent security specialist would be without handcuffs?”

  “Now I see how you keep your friends around,” said McAllister.

  “I’m done playing now, Loser. On the ground. Face down and spread them or this spot’ll be your grave.”

  “Keesay’s a lot of things, but squeamish about killing isn’t one of them.”

  The pilot complied and I handcuffed her. “Commerce raiders,” she spat.

  “Incorrect,” I said, and reached into my pocket and unspooled a small cord. I tied each ankle with about ten inches of play between them before pulling her up.

  “Why do you carry that?” asked McAllister.

  “So my friends can’t get away.”

  “They must’ve known you had it.” McAllister grinned broadly. “Is that how you convinced Captain Tilayvaux and Chief Brold to let you carry popcorn nukes?” Before I could berate McAllister for divulging information she held up her hand. “Hey, I think Pilot Loser knew the captain.”

  I picked up her flight coveralls and located a Firewings patch. “Pilot Loser flew in the Red Phoenix Wing. Didn’t Captain Tilayvaux?”

  Pilot Loser spat. “Tilayvaux’d never captain a commerce raider.”