by Dark Knight
This book was only made possible thanks to the continuing aid of my good friends from Minds.com. Cerebrawl and Magnakanus who both spent a lot of their precious free time to proofread and edit my humble writings. One cannot be too modest when praising the wonderful hand painted cover of Niceguye, whose list of artistic talents is longer than my leg. Special thanks to GM Dave, The Man behind the screen for his timely assistance.
My offering to you dear reader is the gift of hope. Never forget that the future is what you make of it, and if you truly believe in yourself you will persevere!
Table of Contents
Prologue 5
The very definition of discretion
Chapter 1 8
Return of the Taz’arans
Chapter 2 19
Dancing snails
Chapter 3 28
An unfortunate meeting
Chapter 4 37
Space boxing
Chapter 5 51
Minor setback
Chapter 6 71
The Last Crow
Chapter 7 81
The Circle of Life
Chapter 8 93
Sword of Vengeance
Chapter 9 104
Bloody roots
Chapter 10 115
False flag
Chapter 11 133
No escape
Epilogue 154
Noble Ambition
Glossary 178
Copyright
Copyright © 2018 Dark Knight
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Prologue
The very definition of discretion
Mr. Spookums’s face tentacles were all in a bunch after tasting the foul mixture he was presented with. Yet common courtesy dictated that he should feign enjoyment and complement his host, the merc leader. That he did by forcing himself to devour the disgusting liquid and even extended some of his tentacles in a form that resembled a smile.
“Mister mercenary, sir. I hope you have got better news for me? My employers’ hearts are full of sorrow, and ache for their lost son’s return.” – after gulping so much of that swill Mr. Spookums’ eloquent way of speaking was somewhat disturbed. Not that the large, heavily-armed man sitting before him cared. He was wearing something resembling a super-heavy exoskeleton suit all stuffed with integrated weaponry. The merc’s triple jawed face twitched and head nodded, leaning closer.
“We were suddenly and maliciously attacked by the Terrans! My boys and girls dead, all of them are dead! What will I tell their families? And Flyffloff! Oh my dear, irreplaceable Flyffloff!” – a single line of yellow snot rolled down from what passed for a nose cavity for his race and dangled from the chest armor plating for a while.
Mr. Spookums was not as confident as he was before about the whole mercenary thing. In the beginning it all looked oh-so-convenient. You find the mercs who do the bounty hunting. You pay said mercs. The mercs then track that person you paid them to find. Then they capture the target, put him in a stasis pod and safely bring the wayward son back to Mr. Spookums. He then returns back to his own employers. Mission complete. Mr. Spookums gets paid the rest of the promised hefty sum, of course, keeping what he’d manage to shave off the operational expenses. Done and done, off to the next job, receiving stellar recommendations from yet another happy customer. Not this time. He could care less about that Flyffloff person his merc employee rambled so much about. If he was such a highly skilled bounty hunter why wasn’t the mission complete yet? Mr. Spookums’s skin spots changed place and color to indicate he was slowly but surely getting irritated. The mercs didn’t know it but... they wouldn’t like him irritated.
Not one bit.
“What happened dear sir? How could your most peaceful and non-threatening employees arose the ire of those dreaded Terrans?! I am amazed that such a thing might transpire, after you assuring me of the ease with which such an operation could be completed by your people.”
The merc raised his arms in a gesture universally understood around the Galaxy – “How the hell would I know they’d meet with the bodyguards that your dzenta’rii had hired to protect him? Not only that, but my people were provoked by local Terran security and had to defend themselves!”
“You do remember that our contract is devoid of a hazard pay clause, yes?”
“Ugh, danger pay... yes. After losing so many of my people I am forced to call for the very best, Mr. Spookums. And they will be needing a contract amendment, otherwise my outfit will not commit to taking any more needless casualties. These people have families, children to feed. Flyffloff alone had twenty three...”
The merc droned for a while, needlessly whimpering about Flyffloff’s six wives to Mr. Spookums, trying to provoke an emotional response. It was as plain as an open wormhole that he wanted his pay increased. Mr. Spookums produced another coin purse full of dzent’a dekats and waved with his delicate hands trying to point at a group, different than the usual scruffy looking bounty hunters lurking around that merc establishment. His contact nodded and typing something on his PDA called forth another team, probably already waiting in one of the back rooms. To his surprise when instead of a bunch of odd looking aliens, out of the side doors and into the bar walked a fully armed pirates acquisition team. Wearing the colors of Clan Push’va, their ominous looking, heavily-armed spacesuits were all scratched and dented yet in excellent condition. All were armed sparingly and each had a powerful stunner rifle mag-locked on their backs, a melee weapon, shield and integrated particle-beam shoulder rifle.
“Witness the ’Unluckies’! My best and tough-as-nails team of bounty hunters Mr. Spookums. These boys and gals have never failed me!” – the merc leader proudly exclaimed but Mr. Spookums was not convinced. Catching a glimpse of his spots changing color again, the merc waved at the toughest looking pirate, ordering him to come closer.
“This is Xim, war boss and leader of the ’Unluckies’. Xim, tell the good man here what your specialty is!”
The pirate slid open his faceplate revealing his highly cybernetically-augmented and scar covered face. His raspy voice was emitted by a speaker that was most probably part of his cybernetics. After a short look, Mr. Spookums suddenly realized that this person no longer had lungs or other natural, internal organs.
“My team and I specialize in ’persuasion’ tactics, sir.” – he and his people chuckled. Mr. Spookums found himself feeling ever more disquieted by their very presence. For their Clan had a reputation most foul – the Push’va were slave catchers. Their starships were scouring the starlines, raiding backwards colonies all in search of sentients to be sold on their slave markets. True, their skills were known far and wide. Even in his part of the Galaxy the Push’va were sometimes seen raiding remote places in search of exotic... merchandise. It was something that he had to think about very carefully lest his employers find out. The Dzenta’rii noble houses, even the foulest ones, were known not to spare any pirates who were caught practicing their trade on Dzent’a territory.
“I, as your new employer must state this and reaffirm it before any action is taken.” – Mr. Spookums’s tentacles
spread forming something of a frown before he continued, spots again changing both color and location – “This person is very precious to me. He is not to be harmed. Any restraint or ’persuasion’ should be attempted with the utmost discretion. And, they are to be returned to me safe and unspoiled.”
Mr. Spookums looked at his holo-notes and added – “Mostly unspoiled.”
“I have been made aware that he’d hired a number of Terran bodyguards. Those are fair game and in fact I do not care what you do to them or.. with them. That, you may decide for yourselves.”
Mr. Spookums noted somberly, while using his considerable skill examining the pirate’s body language. Measuring Xir’s reaction he fixed his neon green holo-suit, slowly standing up and put his hat on. Today it was reflecting and bending all light into a blue halo that graced Mr. Spookums head. As expected the pirate was successfully baited. His cybernetic eyes glinted slightly and Mr. Spookums could wage the leftover dekats that he had stashed – the pirates were already planning what to do with the money they’d get from selling those Terrans. Moreover, since it was his job to know these things, pirates, all pirates, detested Humans greatly – them and all of their Clients. He cared not.
It wasn’t his job this time to do so, and being the paragon of effectiveness that he was, Mr. Spookums made sure that this time the mercs were properly motivated to complete the job that they were most handsomely paid to do.
“I will send you coordinates for rendezvous good sir Xir! And let us all hope that you will quickly find your target – the boy’s poor parents are withering away with worry.”
Push’va acquisition team quickly stomped out from the establishment’s back entrance, their waiting starfighters soon trailing into outer space.
Mr. Spookums also gracefully walked out of the bar and into his colorful shuttle, which on full burn soon left the atmo and hyper-jumped. Yet he did not do so before sending one highly coded link through G-net to a certain profile. Mr. Spookums was indeed the very definition of discretion but the one he called wasn’t in any way shape or form subtle.
She was Doom over dead men. And women. Others too. Whoever he required to be deadened. Mr. Spookums’s reputation for excellence had to be preserved. No loose ends.
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Some time later another ship slipped out of hyperspace on the other side of that same planet. It was a dropship and behind it followed two more. Descending rapidly through the atmosphere those unmarked ships landed virtually on top of the mercenary establishment. From their insides poured three full Terran star marine squads, who, guns blazing melted their way in directly through the walls. The heavily armed marines stormed the place in the fastest, most vicious way that any alien onlooker had ever seen in their criminal lives. In a manner of counted seconds all who resisted were shot dead, blown to pieces or shredded by railgun fire.
The Terrans were relentless and all but merciless in their attack. Their aim peerless, the marines killed everyone except one single merc. Soon their leader was holding the mercenary boss by the throat, legs dangling in the air. His faceplate opened revealing an old, pipe smoking human, who in a gruff, angered voice screamed in the alien’s face:
“Tell me, you slimy piece of shit, why exactly did you send your butter-fingered, mayonnaise-brained morons to shoot, burn and otherwise ransack MY restaurant?!!”
Chapter 1
Return of the Taz’arans
The taz’aran warship slipped out of hyperspace, and slowly moved its one kilometer long hull near the huge debris field floating in and around the orbit of Carrola Prime. The dark red outlined hull glowed, menacingly reflecting the light of Carrola’s twin suns, as the starship navigated directly towards the center of the field. Armed to the teeth, protected by thick angled armor plating, the light frigate of advanced taz’aran design was built with interception in mind. The first of a new line of fast patrol ships, she was sorely needed on the Taz’aran Fringe Space borders, in light of the stubborn Terran defiance and frequent raids against Imperial convoys and military installations. Highly maneuverable, the starship boasted an advanced hyperdrive engine for quicker response times, and even a vector thrust module, factory built into its main engines. It resembled a long, blackened fish, with protruding sharp ’scales’ on its dorsal, bow and ventral sections that housed its main weapons. A long needle-like spike atop the ship’s mid section was the towering command deck, bristling with extra point defense armaments, shielding and more of that angled armor. If need be, the ship’s Lord Captain could order the bridge lowered into the ship’s superstructure. In all of its glory, the warship was reminiscent of a vicious shark on the prowl, ready and able to quickly overtake its prey.
Meticulously scanning its surroundings and moving away from the most dangerous debris, the ship reached its destination and came to a full stop. From its hangar a multitude of smaller craft launched, as the starship prepared for battle, crew and officers dutifully manned their assigned sections. Once parts of taz’aran spaceships, the charred, molten, and twisted debris field slowly floated around in the dead of space. It was not only a graveyard, but an enormous loss for the taz’aran Frontier Fleet, and a monument to one person’s vanity – the local border Count. Although the taz’arans could potentially salvage some of the slagged hulls, the loss of thousands of trained personnel and equipment was a notable blow. More importantly, the overall prestige of the Empire took a hard hit; defeated by the “colonials” didn’t sound glamorous. Not at all, it didn’t!
Soon after the defeat, rumors began spreading that the orbital superiority, achieved by taz’aran forces so quickly and decisively in the beginning stages of the invasion was swiftly snatched away by one small, token strike force. A force consisting primarily of space-born mecha led by the local Terran Colonial Navy commander and backed up by a single modified carrier corvette. Apparently, that was more than sufficient to split enemy forces into isolated pockets and crush them piecemeal. This debris field was what’s left of three warships, their fighter, and bomber support squadrons. It was also the last resting place to as many as three thousand crewmen, pilots and star troopers...
This new, imposing starship was named “Empress Throne” and shrouded by debris it prepared itself to wage war. The space-paint coat hadn’t had enough time to dry properly before this vessel was rushed into action. After the disastrous failure that the taz’arans had suffered due to the local border Counts haphazard invasion of the Carrola system, the Imperial high command quickly intervened. Multiple high staff analysts were tasked with investigating all of the data links that were sent by the local troops who fought on the ground and in orbit above Carrola prime. Why he decided to use the local sub-sector patrol force, and star troopers equipped with spacesuits instead of a proper land invasion force was now clear. The Count was an inbred imbecile – like most of those old, degenerate, and already failing noble houses, his position was immediately vacated and he himself executed for gross negligence and incompetence. The Taz’aran Empire was big, its bureaucracy’s arms were sometimes slow to react, but when things like this happened, action was swift and decisive.
After facing many a Terran ship in a major battle some years earlier, the taz’aran Fleet command ordered this new design to be equipped with fewer, but rapidly turning main gun turrets. They were still using particle beam cannons for her main armament, although this time perfected and upgraded to increase their range, rate and fields of fire. The ship also had port and bow torpedo tubes, giving its Captain that much needed heavy firepower which was sorely lacking on the older patrol ship designs. Terrans had tough armor protection – their ships were able to survive, and even after devastating barrages from multiple particle beam guns, return fire. The addition of those armor-piercing heavy ordinances would negate that and make the crafty Terrans think twice, before brazenly raiding Taz’aran Imperial space. Although the new heavy missile weapons heavily tasked the taz’arans’ Frontier flee
t supply chain, Imperial high command was adamant when ordering this new design feature. They were eager to win the so called “Backwards arms race” as most core races and others were calling it now – it mattered not for the taz’arans though. Their Empress was pushing them hard to succeed, and to defeat once and for all the uppity, annoying humans and their clients.
Despite what most Core, and other races thought of them, taz’arans actually had good strategists occupying high positions of power. There was also the continuous upwards mobility of ambitious Star infantry officers, and Fleet commanders promoted from the ranks up. Those taz’arans would grab any chance they could, and back-stab many an inept and foolish noble, who’d purchased their officer’s commission, but lacked the skill needed to command soldiers in battle. It was only on a lower level, when overambitious officers led poorly, were troops then lost in their thousands. Incompetence could be found amongst all races, although not that rampant. The repercussions of that military blunder, however, were already affecting all adjacent border sectors – local garrison troops faced slave rebellions everywhere. Fleet command needed somebody capable, properly equipped, and able to wrest at least some form of victory from those blasted Terrans!
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Fresh off the assembly line, ’Empress Throne’ was looking impressive both on the outside and on holo-file. In reality, those who followed the design specifications sent down from Imperial Fleet command and built the damned thing, had practically left their “legs” all over. Pion base engineers boasted the quickest build times in the whole Fringe border sector of the Empire. Unbeknownst to the high command back on Taz’ara prime, however, they were cutting corners. So much so that even the most basic of starships that came out of their hangar bays were something of a let-down to see, never mind using them in battle. The low command echelon officers stationed here on the border knew this, but as it was common amongst the taz’arans there was a miscommunication between them and the higher-level officers. Force-conscripted pilots dreaded seeing the Pion base stamp on the hulls of their assigned craft, praying their commanders were apt enough to either fix those hastily constructed flying coffins, or dispense with them altogether. Some even conspired and plotted, crafting mischievous plans resulting in them not being assigned to these craft anymore. They replaced themselves with other, more foolish taz’aran pilots and crewmen instead. Survival of the wittiest and the insidious, a form of artificial selection that was known amongst some of them as the “Pion lottery”.