Prisoners of Darkness (Galaxy's Edge Book 6)

by Jason Anspach

  A chime sounded—twenty more minutes of gravity.

  Chhun pulled himself up again, and found that his muscles couldn’t carry him beyond halfway. He pulled, hanging as long as he could, and finally his arms failed him, and he dropped back onto the deck, his boots making scarcely a sound against the impervisteel. They were kitted out for stealth. He looked over and saw Bear, dripping in sweat, standing above a fuel recharge cell. The thing probably weighed close to five hundred pounds, and Bear had been deadlifting and carrying it in circles for the past half hour.

  Bear and Chhun shared a look, each indicating they were ready to be done.

  Pike had been holding a plank position for the last several minutes, a pool of sweat forming beneath him, ready to be reclaimed by the disc-shaped bots stored in the corner. They would activate when the room cleared in order to collect the moisture for later use.

  Fish called out Masters’s reps, his foot riding up and down with the legionnaire’s chest. “Two forty-nine. Two fifty.”

  Masters grunted with each rep, the two of them creating a duet of pain and hard work. Masters was the squad’s fitness fanatic, with a body sculpted from the heavens, and it was he who made the call for the team to halt. He was always the last one to quit, which meant he was the best man to push Victory Squad to its physical training limits.

  “Two fifty-five.”

  Masters locked eyes with Chhun and Bear as he continued his sit-ups. “Lemme get…” he went down and completed another rep, “…to three hundred…” down and back again, “and we’ll call it.”

  “You’re an animal, Masters.” Chhun lifted his shoulders up and down, a smirk on his face.

  “Don’t know if you heard the chime,” Bear said, his face still red and angry from the exertions, “but our grav time is almost up.”

  Pike jumped up from his plank and rolled his neck, sweat cascading down his face. “Seriously. Zero-gee showers are the worst.”

  “Two eighty-six.”

  Masters dug down and increased his pace, driving himself to rapidly meet his goal.

  “Three hundred,” Fish announced as he took Masters’s hand and hoisted him up. “Nice.”

  “Thanks,” Masters panted, slicking his drenched hair back with the palms of his hands. “I call first dibs on the shower stall.”

  “Fine,” Chhun said. “But make it quick or we’ll send the Bear in after you.”

  ***

  “I should’ve pulled rank,” Chhun mumbled to himself as he floated in the drying chamber. He had been the last in the showers, and was only about halfway finished when the gravity switched off. His face still felt oily and his hair and scalp felt tight, like he’d been baptized in salt water.

  He felt the surface moisture on his skin being wicked away by the chamber as a warm, penetrating breeze flowed around him. On a survival station, every last molecule of moisture was jealously held on to.

  A red square illuminated with a ding, signifying that it was time for Chhun to leave, before the process took more water than he could spare. This place would literally suck you dry if you stayed in long enough. It was designed that way. If a shipwrecked refugee died, the survivors were instructed to place the body in the chamber until all the moisture was removed, and then jettison the mummified corpse through the airlock… assuming the species wasn’t averse to simply eating the new batch of crew-jerky.

  All part of the heartwarming welcome message the station’s AI played on arrival.

  Chhun floated through the door and propelled himself by use of hand-grips and bulkheads toward the sleeping quarters. The doors whooshed open, and Chhun, still naked, pulled himself inside.

  The rest of the team was in a state of semi-dress. Most of them in their synthprene undersuits, a few already back in armor up to their waists. Shorts and T-shirts would be more comfortable, but Chhun had ordered around-the-clock mission preparedness. Just in case the Republic got word of what they were planning and sent in their own Nether Ops or point kill team to put a stop to it.

  Chhun inwardly laughed at the thought of a point kill team. They’d probably shoot themselves in the confusion.

  Masters was sitting on a bunk, his boots anchored to the deck with magnetic grips, as Chhun floated by. Bear, standing on the opposite side, called out, “Hey, Masters!”

  The timing was perfect, and Masters turned at the sound of his name just in time to get an up-close view of his captain’s little captain.

  “Gah!” Masters quickly turned away, shielding his eyes with the flat of his hand. “Put some clothes on, Captain. I don’t need to see this. And in zero gravity… holy strokes.”

  Bear, whose synthprene undersuit was rolled down to his hips, exposing a broad and hairy chest, laughed uproariously. “You know you love it.”

  “Must… resist… the temptation to stare,” said Masters in a mock struggle. The men laughed as he shut his eyes, plugged his ears with his fingers, and hummed the theme from Iron Dragoons, and old holofilm they all loved.

  As Chhun dressed himself, he thought about what to do next. Life aboard the survival station had become a cramped series of routines. Chow was thirty standard minutes away, the next big event. He didn’t feel like reading. His blaster pistol and NK-4 were as clean as they’d ever been. Probably cleaner than they were when shipped from the factory. Maybe he’d strip and reassemble Fish’s SAB. He wasn’t quite as quick at that as he’d like to be.

  The other men settled in for naps, or took to swiping letters home. Pike was bobbing his head to music and drumming on his leg armor in time, his headphones bleeding out just enough sound for Chhun to identify the type—Sorkesian death metal.

  Back in full gear except his bucket, Chhun walked over to Fish’s bunk. “Mind if I have a look at your SAB?”

  Fish had settled in for a brief nap. He opened one eye and looked at Chhun. “Sure, Cap’n.” He closed his eyes and placed his hands on his chest, exhaling as he nestled his head into the hard pad that served as a mattress.

  Chhun picked up the heavy weapon, thumbed off the safety, and released the fallback charge pack, which he placed neatly on the floor. He sat down cross-legged and set the weapon before him. He checked the main charge-feed, the one that attached to the big pack that Fish humped into battle, inspecting the feed assembly. His fingers came back spotless, no blaster charge residue. Fish had kept his weapon every bit as clean as the rest of the men.

  As Chhun pulled the upper retaining pin at the rear of the receiver, a deep alert chime sounded from above, and the room lights flashed amber.

  Fish sat bolt upright. “What’s that?”

  Everyone looked up to the ceiling, watching the lights alternate between soft daylight and amber. They listened as the AI announced, “Docking sequence initiated.”

  Immediately Victory Squad grabbed their weapons and threw on the rest of their kits, faces disappearing behind expressionless black buckets. Chhun reassembled the SAB, thankful he hadn’t gotten any further. He handed it over to Fish. “Okay,” he said, “let’s see who’s coming to join us. Could be an actual shipwrecked crew, but let’s be ready for anything.”

  “Docking sequence initiated,” repeated the congenial AI.

  The station had a single airlock. Unless you came with an assault shuttle to pierce the hull itself, there was only one point of entry. The kill team hustled to the blast door, taking up firing positions and getting behind what cover they could manage. There wasn’t much of it except for a personal shield wall Masters set up for Fish and his SAB.

  The station had no exterior windows, and there was no way to determine what sort of craft was docking outside. They could only listen to the heavy metallic clicks and resounding booms of the vessel adjusting itself to form a seal with the airlock.

  “Dock coupling achieved,” announced the AI. “Airlock integrity one hundred percent.”

  Chhun steadied himself on a knee, positioned to fire into the center-right of the airlock should the need arise, with Pike taking the center-lef
t and Bear in reserve of each man. Fish had his SAB aimed for dead center, with Masters ready to handle any fraggers or ear-poppers that might make their way inside. This could all be for nothing—the survivors of some hyperdrive malfunction might be in for the scare of their lives just when they thought they’d reached sanctuary. But if it was someone looking to do Victory Squad harm, they would catch hell instead.

  “Prepare to receive survivors,” the AI said, whether to itself or to the crew already aboard, Chhun didn’t know.

  The blast doors rattled and banged as the safety mechanisms protecting the station from the merciless vacuum of space released. Each man on the kill team readied and raised his weapon.

  The doors drew apart, revealing a lone figure draped in leather. Thin and short of stature, his black hair was styled in long braids. He stepped out of the airlock, seemingly oblivious, looking up at the ceiling, his mouth open. His teeth sparkled, golden.

  He looked down and saw the array of blaster rifles aimed at him.

  Chhun took a step forward. “Keep those hands where we can see them.”

  The man did so, scowling at each legionnaire individually. “Oh,” he said impetuously. “This some welcome. Keel right about you. You rude.”

  Synth Mines

  Herbeer

  Owens smiled at the two men, obviously former Legion, as they stepped away from him. He wasn’t sure if he was getting used to pat-downs, but he had nothing to hide except for his rock. And they’d left that in his pocket.

  “He’s clean,” announced one of them to the flat-topped man.

  Flat-Top nodded and looked to the elderly Crux. “Any problems with him?”

  Crux shook his head. “No, none. He was good company. Says he was in Dark Ops before the Republic shipped him here.”

  The men, all possessing that Legion swagger Owens could identify in a crowd, seemed to hum with tiny conversations at Crux’s report. Evidently Owens was the only legionnaire here who’d made the jump to Dark Ops. Maybe that would be a good thing. Maybe not. Owens knew that he had been sentenced to the synth mines for a bogus reason, but that didn’t mean the same was true of everyone else. The Legion had its own share of bad men, same as anywhere else in the galaxy.

  “That true?” asked the man with the flat top.

  Owens nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. Served as a major in Dark Ops right up until the House of Reason decided I needed to take the fall for them losing Tarrago.”

  The cavern erupted into shocked discussion.

  Flat-Top hushed the men, waving his arms down. “Tarrago’s fallen? That’s news.”

  Owens nodded grimly and said, “Yep, we’re at war, boys. The Republic just doesn’t want to admit it. House of Reason is as clueless as ever. Points running amok… probably not too different from when you were last in buckets.”

  This garnered nods and grunts from the assembly.

  “Different from my time,” Crux said. “Back in the Savage, we’d have fragged a point if the House of Reason tried that stuff. Don’t know why you leejes put up with it nowadays.”

  “I wonder that myself sometimes,” said Owens.

  It might have seemed that Owens was being careless in his speech. Certainly, on a destroyer or space station, loose, honest talk like that would surely make its way to some point, who would pass it up the command chain. Owens was probably already on a list somewhere, but talk like that would solidify it. Points were always looking to gain the favor of the House and Senate handlers.

  But in this case, he made disparaging remarks against the Republic for a reason. He wanted to know what sort of legionnaires he was dealing with. Were they real leejes? Or points who’d gone too far? Lapdogs trained to trust the House and put their faith in the men the government said should lead them, despite their combat deficiencies?

  Points and their lackeys could rarely resist an opportunity to defend their favorite institution. Even if it counted for nothing, like in an abandoned cavern on the synth mines of Herbeer.

  No one spoke up to disagree. Good. That was good.

  “I’m Major Ellek Owens, by the way.” Owens held out his hand.

  The man with the flat-top accepted his hand and shook it. “First Sergeant Robert Cosler. Just call me Rowdy, though.” He gestured at the rest of the men. “I’ll introduce you to the boys in a second. But first, let’s talk about what you’re doing here, Major.”

  “I was hoping we might.”

  “What’s before you is the Legion’s garrison on Herbeer. None of us belong here, but here we are.”

  “How do you mean, ‘none of you belong here’?”

  Smoothing his mustache, Rowdy said, “Probably not all that different from you, Major. A lot of us, like Senton over there, took the fall for a point who got too many men killed and the House didn’t want to risk a public trial—lest the truth come out. Others disobeyed unlawful orders.”

  “And some of us just know too much,” Crux muttered.

  Owens made a mental note to ask the old leej what he meant by that. He asked Rowdy, “How about you?”

  “Me? I’m guilty of murder. Shot a point in the face after he ordered my men into a meat grinder for the third time in a row, trying to earn himself a silvene star. I volunteered for Herbeer when a point-heavy squad of leejes got into a standoff with my men. No sense in any more of them getting shot up. And now, here I am.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” said Owens. “Can’t say the thought of blasting a point never crossed my mind. Nearly choking one to death was as close as I ever got, though.”

  “So how about you?” Rowdy asked.

  “I had my kill team blow up a quadrillion-credit installation even though the Republic told me not to.” Owens looked around the room. “And… I’d do it again.”

  Rowdy smiled. “Well, Major, you’re the highest-ranking leej on Herbeer, so far as I know. There was a point colonel a year ago—did something even the Senate couldn’t abide. We ended him. We end every leej that dishonored the Legion, point or otherwise.”

  The other legionnaires nodded in agreement.

  “I’m willing to hand over command of this outpost—we call ourselves Synth Company—if you’re willing to lead us down here, Major.”

  This was unexpected.

  Owens pulled on his beard, lamenting how short it was after his in-processing. They’d buzzed him evenly from top to bottom. “What’s your mission, First Sergeant?”

  Rowdy smiled again. “Make like hell for the guards, and make the Gomarii pay for their slaving. That’s why they’re here, you know. They cull the herd of prisoners and sell them wherever the Republic turns a blind eye.”

  Owens nodded appreciatively. This would be a fine pursuit until rescue came. “KTF, then.”

  Rowdy gave a salute. “KTF, sir.”

  11

  Victory Squad

  Deep Space Survival Outpost Tully 3

  “Okay, so let me get this straight,” Chhun said to the thin man who went by the name of Lao Pak. “Captain Keel sent you to pick us up and take us to Herbeer.”

  “That what I say four times already,” insisted Lao Pak as he struggled against the synth-cord the kill team had tied around his arms. “And then you tie me up like some slave. You worse than Gomarii. This too tight.”

  “I dunno, Cap,” said Pike, shaking his head. “You know Captain Ford better than most of us. This seem like something he’d do?”

  “Yes, it is!” Lao Pak shouted. “He do stupid things that get Lao Pak into trouble all the time. It his favorite thing. I kill him already if he not make me so much money.” Lao Pak paused. “I don’t have money with me. Nothing to steal, okay soldiers?”

  Bear leaned in close to the captive. “You’ll be better off speaking only when spoken to.”

  Lao Pak turned away. “Okay, okay. You legionnaires all so grumpy. You need find pretty girl. Then you be happy.”

  “He’s not wrong about that,” said Masters.

  Chhun thought over Pike’s question in his m
ind. Was this something Ford would do? If Lao Pak was telling the truth, the absent member of Victory Squad had arranged for the op to be pushed forward by two weeks. That was nothing to sneer at. But when he’ d left—gone AWOL if Chhun was honest about it—he hadn’t seem remotely interested in helping out. Was this a case of remorse? A peace offering?

  “Getting to Herbeer now instead of waiting another couple of weeks for the armored shuttle appeals to me,” Chhun said. “I don’t think Wraith would double-cross us.”

  Lao Pak’s face went pale. “Wraith involved? I thought it just that dummy Keel.” The pirate laughed nervously. “Okay, you tell Wraith, I friendly to his friends, okay? Say, ‘Lao Pak a real nice guy. He help us a lot.’”

  “Wraith and Ford—or Keel, whatever he calls himself—are the same person,” Masters said.

  Lao Pak rolled his eyes. “No way stupid Keel same guy as Wraith. You take too many hits to helmet, Legionnaire. Make you go crazy.”

  “Untie him, Fish,” Chhun ordered.

  Fish unfastened the cord’s knot and pulled it off Lao Pak, spooling the rope back into his utility belt.

  Lao Pak rubbed his arms. “We friends now? Good. We have to leave or I miss deadline. They no invite me back then.”

  “You said your ship was empty,” Chhun said. “If I send two of my men on board, are they going to find out you’re lying?”

  Lao Pak shook his head vehemently. “Send them all! We all go together. You not find any crew. This just me. I would bring crew, but Keel pay me to make room for you soldier boys. So hurry up or stay here, I get paid no matter what.”

  Chhun nodded at Fish and Bear. “Go check it out.”

  The pair jogged off, weapons in hand.

  “You no steal my stuff!” Lao Pak yelled as they departed.

  Bear spoke over L-comm. “Please someone find a reason to dust that twerp.”

  “Pike, Masters,” Chhun said, “gather up our gear. As long as we don’t find any trouble on the ship, we’re leaving to rescue Major Owens early.”