The Dotari Salvation (Terran Strike Marines Book 1)

by Richard Fox

  Lo’thar turned away from their host and whispered, “You must try it.”

  Hoffman carefully tore open the pack, unsure of the consistency of the contents. “Smells like hay mulch.”

  Garrisongagged. “That’s being generous. Mine smells like motor oil mixed with toe jam…”

  “Garrison, please. We’re guests,” Adams said, grimacing as the aroma of her meal wafted into her face.

  Moz’in studied each of their reactions with interest. “These are soft rations. Good for baby teeth like yours.” Abruptly, he turned to the empty hammock. “I know that, Moz’in! I’m sure they have their own toddler mush.”

  Hoffman raised an eyebrow to King, who was supervising the repairs to Duke’s armor. The lieutenant plucked a sticky cube out of the pouch, popped it into his mouth, and chewed. His eyes watered, the muscles in his jaw and neck clenched, but he swallowed his first bite of Dotari rations.

  Adams sat near the door, feet dangling from a crate as she sampled Moz’in’s gift. “Tastes worse than it smells.”

  “There’s an aftertaste,” Hoffman said through a frown. “Like old blood.” He handed the food pouch to Lo’thar, who was nearly done with his meal.

  “There’s a spice combination I’ve never had before,” Lo’thar said.

  Hoffman addressed Moz’in. “How long have you been here?”

  “I’ve been on the ship since the grand launch. I don’t…exactly know how long that’s been. Nine Golden Fleets set off across the stars before the Xaros could reach Dotari.” He faced Lo’thar. “You were on the Canticle of Reason?”

  “I was born on Takeni, the world settled by the Canticle’s ships.” Lo’thar shook his empty ration bag, then raised an eyebrow at Hoffman, who thrust his bag to the pilot so fast some of the sauce sprinkled Lo’thar’s armor.

  “The passage of time is a mystery. How long has it been since the Grand Fleet set off? Moz’in and his nestlings were in stasis most of the trip. We were in stasis until our emergency repair team was woken up to deal with the asteroid strike. Such an event should have been impossible. What kind of asteroid could get through the fleet’s point defense systems? No amount of floating space debris should have been able to hit so near to the bridge of the Kid’ran’s Gift.”

  Hoffman, Lo’thar, and the others listened.

  “Moz’in’s people should have viewed the event as a warning.” His eyes glazed over as he stared at nothing for several seconds, then snapped into focus. “My repair team found a single Xaros drone that took up residence on the bridge. Lost half the team when it noticed us.”

  King sat to eat his Dotari ration as Garrison rose to his feet.

  Moz’in ignored the changing of the guard and moaned softly. “Ah, Moz’in. We did what we could. I ordered a retreat when the drone began co-opting the ship’s systems. All the way to the foundry. Moz’in got cut off from the bridge. But the drone was so fast. Knew our systems better than we did. Lost three more when it cut off a deck and flooded it with carbon dioxide.”

  “You’re still alive, Moz’in,” Booker said. “That isn’t easy against a Xaros drone. Nearly impossible most times.”

  The old Dotari narrowed his gaze, shifting his weight away from Booker. “We managed to set up a firewall the drone couldn’t get through. Got a few decks under control. Tried scouting around for another way to the bridge or some way to reach the other ships when the noorla appeared.”

  “How long ago?” Hoffman asked.

  “Hard to tell. Last clock I had broke a while back. What, Moz’in? It has not been twenty years. It must be at least twenty-five. No, you’re the one that got old!”

  Hofmann leaned toward Moz’in. “Do you think they turned all the passengers?”

  Moz’in slapped at an empty food packet. “Not enough food aboard to feed everyone for more than a year.”

  Lo’thar’s quills rustled with excitement. “We came through a working hydroponics bay.”

  Moz’in shook his head, then leaned forward, grabbing the edge of a crate. “Did you bring anything to eat?”

  “We were in a bit of a rush,” Lo’thar said.

  Moz’in seemed to think for a while, then looked at Hoffman. “Moz’in says the hydro bays were for seedlings, couldn’t feed more than a thousand people a year.”

  “So the Xaros may not have turned everyone aboard. Making them all into banshees just to have them starve doesn’t fit their programming,” Hoffman said.

  “Why bother changing us like that? The Xaros kill every intelligent species they find. Had some long talks about that. Moz’in say the Xaros might be assimilators instead of eradicators. But he’s an idiot. You heard what I called you!” Moz’in shook his fist toward one of the hammocks.

  “The colony on Takeni…encountered a Golden Fleet the Xaros found. They turned every last Dotari in the fleet against us,” Lo’thar said. “We would have lost the planet had the humans not rescued us.”

  Moz’in considered Lo’thar’s words. “Not enough mass to convert into drones. So they use us as their cannon fodder. Efficient. The Xaros…have they found all the other fleets?”

  Lo’thar shook his head sadly. “We don’t know. This is the only fleet we’ve found in deep space.”

  “You’ve never seen another drone?” Hoffman asked.

  Moz’in shook his head.

  Hoffman watched the refugee for signs of deception or insanity. “Then how are they controlling the other ships?”

  Moz’in snorted as though talking to a particularly dumb child. “There is a master station on the bridge of the Kid’ran’s Gift. All other ships are slaved to it.”

  Hoffman felt two short vibrations in the sleeve of his armor, an alert from King. He looked over at the gunnery sergeant.

  “Sir, come see this,” King said, waving him over to a bank of computer screens.

  ****

  Lo’thar carefully drew blood from Moz’in’s arm, then handed the small vial to Booker, who plugged it into her gauntlet.

  “Dotari is ours again?” Moz’in asked. “You say the Xaros were all but destroyed. Why is there still a drone on my ship?”

  “The self-destruct order went out from the Crucible gates across the galaxy at the speed of light,” Lo’thar said. “The Xaros kept small garrisons around their gates and sent armadas against the unconquered worlds. It takes time for the message to reach the drones. The last swarm charged into a star ten years ago. Some theorized that there might be a stray drone in deep space that has encountered the order…looks like they were right.”

  “But we’ve gone home? Through those Crucibles you spoke of? I miss the seasons…”

  Lo’thar clicked his beak at the sample readings Booker shared. “Going home is one thing, being able to stay is another. Your sample has a number of antibodies…but the count is so low.” He tried to touch Booker’s control screen, but she swatted his hand away.

  “Why do you look at me that way?” Moz’in asked. “Why do you click your beak?”

  “You’ve been in a sterile environment for so long. None of the environmental stressors that cause the phage exist here. We may need someone that is still in stasis, fresh from walking on Dotari before the Golden Fleets set off. Perhaps a deeper sample…” Lo’thar touched his pouch with the long needles and looked at Moz’in’s thin frame.

  “No rush,” Booker said.

  Lo’thar’s hand went to another pouch and he pulled out a shrink-wrapped bundle of wine-colored berries still on the branch.

  Moz’in’s eyes lit up. “What is…what is that?”

  Lo’thar leaned closer. Whispering in a conspiratorial tone, he hunched over and clutched the pouch to his chest. “When we lived on the human’s planet, Earth, we discovered a plant.”

  “They named their home world after dirt?”

  “They’ve begun calling it Terra now, which also means dirt. They aren’t the most imaginative species. But this plant, a coffee bush, had the most amazing fruit.” Lo’thar opened a pouch, selected
a bean, then pressed it into the old Dotari’s hand. “Eat. Eat.”

  Moz’in stared as Lo’thar snuck one into his own mouth and bit down on it, closing his eyes to enjoy the sensation.

  Moz’in sniffed the bean, then tossed it into his mouth and chewed slowly. A moment later, his eyes glazed over and the tension ran out of his muscles.

  “That is…incredible,” Moz’in said.

  “The euphoria lasts just a few minutes. Don’t eat too many at once. The gastrointestinal distress is rather strong.”

  Moz’in scratched at Lo’thar’s bean pouch and Lo’thar gave him another.

  Moz’in’s head lolled to one side as he savored the second bean. “The humans don’t want you to have this because it makes them feel the same?”

  Lo’thar shrugged and ruffled his quills. “They get a mild stimulus from coffee, but they don’t eat it raw. They scorch the nuts, crush them into powder, then torture it with scalding water, dextrose additives, and bovine secretions.”

  “What is wrong with them? Are you sure they’re on our side?” Moz’in asked.

  “Sometimes they remove the stimulant, creating ‘decaffeinated’ coffee, which the Strike Marines call ‘bitch water.’ Don’t drink it.”

  “Will this grow on the home world?” Moz’in took a third bean, sniffed it, and worked it into his mouth like Duke did with his chewing tobacco.

  “It will, and the humans are so stupid. They didn’t even try to stop us when we brought the bushes back to Dotari. We’ve had the most success growing them in orbital gardens. Tishara beetles love the berries more than we do. Different soils give the coffee other flavors. The humans like Kona. I prefer the Blue Mountain strain from a place called Jicama. Jammies-Ka. Their language is impossible. Most of the time, they use something called English, which is several languages melded together. Then they’ll just use a different language for some places. Or mottos. Very inefficient.”

  Moz’in snorted. “Damn tisharas ruined my morning-dew flowers back home.” He stood abruptly and pointed at Garrison. “Hey, you!”

  Garrison stood in front of the still, a small beaten metal cup in one hand, his lips held tightly together, eyes wide with innocence.

  “You drink my reprocessed urine, you better piss it back into the still!”

  Garrison spat a cloud of the greenish fluid into the air.

  Moz’in shook his head at Garrison and looked back to Lo’thar. “They beat the Xaros?”

  “Had I not seen it with my own eyes…humans are tenacious, clever. And these Strike Marines are some of their best. Plus, we have the Breitenfeld, the ship that saved us all on Takeni.”

  Moz’in’s quills fluttered. “Seven overgrown children and one ship…best thing that’s happened to me in years.”

  Chapter 12

  “Looks like the first real break we’ve had,” Hoffman said as he studied several grainy video feeds. Several of the video boxes showed long hallways like those they had recently traversed. Pairs of banshees patrolled them.

  “They look even bigger when they’re not charging at us.” King kept his voice low. “Not all have weapons. Most have armor, but some of it looks better fabricated than others. I’m not sure if this is a factor of resources or time.”

  The rest of the team gathered closer as they cleaned and repaired weapons and armor. No one spoke, but they wall watched and listened.

  Hoffman nodded. “Moz’in has been evading these things for a while, so I’m not sure time is a factor.”

  Moz’in pushed King out of the way. “Don’t touch anything. She’s temperamental.”

  Hoffman stared at the crazy old Dotari. “How are you getting this?”

  “We had access to the air ducts for a while, before the noorla showed up, and managed to shunt life-support systems away from the bridge’s control. We put cameras up to know where the noorla were about to attack. Took us a while to realize vacuum was the only thing that kept them away.”

  “Can you see the bridge?” Hoffman asked.

  “Never got close,” Moz’in said, pointing to another screen displaying a cryo chamber. “The stasis pods are under a—what do you call it?—hard lock and have many layers of backup. The drone can’t cut power or life support to those still sleeping. But Moz’in can’t wake them up to prevent them from becoming noorla. Stalemate.”

  Booker shouldered her way in to point at a screen, a half-assembled rifle in one hand. “Is that engineering?”

  Moz’in shook his head violently. “The noorla are always there. At least a dozen of them.”

  “Can you get us there?” Hoffman asked.

  “Did you hear me?” Moz’in squeaked as he tapped his earpiece. “A dozen noorla, many more ready to come running when they smell a target.”

  Hoffman held his gaze. “Yes or no?”

  Moz’in made a low noise in his throat. “Come all this way just to get ripped to pieces? Fine! What do I know? I’ve just been on this ship so long my nest has grown into a gar’udda tree.”

  Lo’thar raised a hand to explain, hesitated, then lowered it.

  “Moz’in can get you to engineering. If he can find my old vac suit,” Moz’in said.

  King clenched his jaw as he thought through the changing events. “One, are we sure this is the guide we’re looking for? Two, we take engineering, then what?”

  “The Xaros drone has the rest of the fleet slaved to it from the bridge. What happens when we destroy it?” Hoffman asked.

  Moz’in huffed, almost bored now. “The other ships revert to their own control and awaken their emergency crews.”

  “And we can control this ship from engineering, correct?”

  Moz’in nodded at the lieutenant. “The trip isn’t pleasant. We have to go through the sewage sumps, which have been worse since the noorla showed up.”

  Garrison threw up his hands. “Oh good. Another shit show.”

  King slowly turned his narrowed gaze on Garrison and held it. Garrison sat down and turned his attention to cleaning his rifle.

  “Not a problem,” Hoffman said, crossing his arms over his chest and putting a finger across the side of his face. “What is a problem is our teams—Captain Bradford and the rest.”

  “You think they secured the bridge?” King asked.

  “No. The fleet wouldn’t have fired on the Barca if they had. The drone will be alert, ready for another attack. We move on the bridge first, we’ll have one hell of a fight.”

  “Divide and conquer,” King said.

  Hoffman nodded. “Divide and conquer. We hit engineering, draw defenders away from the bridge. A second team hits the drone while it’s exposed.”

  Moz’in shifted his gaze from Hoffman to King, following their conversation with wide eyes.

  “Let me get this straight, Moz’in,” Hoffman said. “The banshees, ah…noorla, won’t move through vacuum. They’ve been here awhile, so they must be set in their positions. We can expect them to dominate certain areas but not move to others, right?”

  “No, no. The ship’s tube shuttles are still active. They can move the noorla around the ship in a few minutes.”

  Hoffman smiled. “Then we shut it down while they’re in transit. That’ll keep the assault element at engineering from being overwhelmed, and keep them from going back to the bridge when they realize what we’re doing.”

  “Most bang for our buck,” King said. “But you’re talking three different things that have to happen almost simultaneously across this giant ship, and we don’t have any way to communicate if something goes wrong.”

  “You think we can pull it off?”

  “We can do it, sir. We just need to have our shit wired tight.”

  Moz’in raised his hand, his face inquisitive, his quills quaking and eyes narrowed.

  Lo’thar put his hand on the oldster’s wrist and pushed his arm down. He shook his head. “Don’t ask.”

  “Moz’in definitely needs to check the air scrubbers on this deck and stop hallucinating,” Moz’in sai
d.

  “Do Dotari believe in miracles?” Adams muttered.

  ****

  Hoffman checked his air tanks and ran a systems check on his armor. Glancing at the ammo counter on his rifle, he felt the weight of full magazines locked to his armor. He had enough bullets and charge packs to end several dozen banshees, but not much more.

  Lo’thar rushed his own equipment check and started working on Moz’in’s environmental suit. Ill-sized, patched in three places, and faded from a chemical burn, the gear looked like it would provide as much protection as threadbare pajamas compared to the Strike Marines’ armor.

  Hoffman moved food boxes and small storage crates around on the worktable, stepped back, eyed his work, and held his chin with one hand.

  “Not bad, sir.” King said. “You’ve created a generic ship layout.”

  “Not in front of the kids, Gunney,” Hoffman said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Finish your inspection and bring it in.” Hoffman adjusted his crude mockup of the Kid’ran’s Gift interior. The doors to engineering were made from a cut-up food packet. A chipped plate rested on top of the cardboard “ship” to represent the bridge.

  “Ammo and power cross-leveled,” King said. “Good to go as we can be.”

  Hoffman aimed a laser pointer from his gauntlet at the engineering section. “Gunney King will take Duke, Opal, Booker, Adams, and Moz’in to engineering. You’ll launch your attack and secure engineering forty-five minutes after we step off. Opal, try not to break anything in engineering. We need it intact to get control of the ship.”

  “Go with you,” Opal said, tapping the butt of his rifle against the deck.

  “Gunney needs your firepower, Opal. I don’t.”

  When Opal ground his teeth and growled low in his throat, Adams, Garrison, and Max backed away from the doughboy.

  Hoffman continued. “Garrison, Max, and Lo’thar will come with me. We’ll set a denethrite charge on a power coupling on deck seventeen—”

  “Nineteen!”

  Hoffman stared at Moz’in as tension filled the room. “You told me it was seventeen.”