The Powers of the Earth (Aristillus Book 1)

by Travis J I Corcoran

  It was a dozen kilometers away, but in the vacuum it was as crisp as if it were at arm's length.

  John's eyes returned to the inky darkness below him. Something about it wasn't quite right. There! Down near the center of the crater, something caught his eye. What? There shouldn't be anything in the darkness. There couldn't be. He dialed up the image enhancing filter, and a dim glow appeared, and then grew brighter. There were two of them; three; more. Glowing lines. Moving dots. All over the crater floor.

  He took a step backward.

  What the hell?

  He dialed up the light gathering further and digitally zoomed the view. After all the enhancement the picture was grainy and rough, but he could make out details. Smelters. Rail lines. Robots. Thousand and thousands of robots, all laboring in the dark of the crater floor.

  Something was wrong. Something was really, really wrong.

  By instinct he held up one fist and lowered it to the ground, before realizing the Dogs didn't know infantry hand signs.

  He turned to them and hissed: "Get down; radios off!"

  Chapter 32

  2064: bridge of AFS The Wookkiee, between Earth and the Moon

  Captain Felix Kear floated in the middle of the room. The unconscious PK - the lead one, Tudel - floated away, bounced off a wall, and floated toward him. Small spheres of blood - his own, the PKs’ - drifted through the room, collided, intermixed.

  His broken nose throbbed with each heartbeat, but he didn't have time to worry about it. Now he needed the keys to his cuffs - and Tudel was already stirring. With skill born of experience, Kear flipped in midair, aimed, and kicked Tudel in the head. The two men shot apart. Kear braced for the impact against the wall, hit, and kicked lightly off. He judged his course: yes, he was aimed at Tudel. He twisted at the waist to aim his back - and his bound hands - at Tudel.

  And then the impact. Kear grabbed frantically at the PK with his bound hands and managed to grab a handful of his uniform before they bounced apart. He held with a death grip as the momentum of the collision tried to separate them.

  And then it was done. Tudel was out, and Kear had him.

  The moment of victory passed and he realized how much further he had to go. He was floating in the middle of the room, his hands cuffed behind him, in a ship full of armed enemies. He had to free himself, get a weapon, and somehow take back the ship.

  He took a breath. There was no sense in worrying about the size of the problem. The only way forward was forward.

  He held Tudel with one hand and patted the man's clothes with the other. Slowly, carefully, he walked his hands down Tudel's body, never letting go entirely. He reached Tudel's belt and rotated the unconscious man, until he could reach the PK's pockets and pouches.

  Every second of searching - blind, by feel - seemed to take an eternity. Someone could walk in at any second. Kear could feel the sweat building on his forehead and in his armpits. This wasn't going to work. He didn't even know if Tudel had the -

  And then he touched it. The key ring. He pulled it out and felt each key...and there. He had it, between his fingertips - the handcuff key. He twisted his wrists. Almost. More. The metal cut into his skin, and one cuff was off. His hands were in front of him. The second cuff was off. He spun around. Tudel's cargo pockets held zip ties. Good; he'd need several. He pulled a handful out and then pushed off of Tudel's body. The two men flew apart. Kear grabbed a pipe and waited for Tudel to bounce back to him. Tudel hit the far wall and rebounded, but not close enough.

  Damn it. He needed to get this done, and done now. Sweat covered his face and stung his eyes. He ignored it.

  Captain Kear stretched his legs toward Tudel, and - there!

  He pinched the man's wrist between his own two ankles and pulled, and then quickly reoriented himself. A second later the PK, his face bloody from a split lip, drifted into range and Kear grabbed him and pulled him closer to the pipe. It was only a second’s work to zip-tie the man's hands together, locking them to the pipe. A moment later his ankles were bound as well.

  Kear let the rest of the zip ties go and they spilled into the room, tumbling as they flew. He looked at the door. Still no one. This had taken far too long. It was almost - he looked at the clock and blinked. Oh. Just three minutes? Still, he still had to move quickly; the PKs wouldn't be disoriented by the loss of gravity for long.

  He rifled through the rest of Tudel's pockets and pouches. There: duct tape. He needed Tudel quiet if he was going to have any chance of taking his ship back. He pulled a length of tape free, and then paused. If he gagged Tudel the man could asphyxiate, especially if he had a bloody nose. Shit. Shit. He couldn't just murder the man - but he needed him silent. Kear let go of the tape and turned the PK's head to get a better view. No, the nose seemed OK; the blood was from a split lip.

  But there was still no guarantee.

  Tudel began to stir. That settled it. Kear had to make sure that Tudel couldn't give the alarm.

  Kear wrapped his legs around Tudel's torso to steady himself, and then stretched the tape. And - shit. It wouldn't stick to the man's blood-covered face, would it? He dropped the roll of tape, letting it hang in the air, and used his own sleeve to wipe the man's cheeks clean. Then he reached out, snagged the roll of tape, and peeled a length of it. The loose end went onto the pipe behind Tudel's head, then around to the front and -

  Tudel moaned and opened his eyes. Kear quickly passed the roll around the front of Tudel's head and the pipe behind it, completing the first loop. Tudel began to thrash and made muffled noises, but Kear ignored him and completed two more circuits before tearing the tape and pocketing the rest of the roll.

  Kear looked at the PK. "Tudel?" He spoke thickly through his broken nose and the bolus of clotting blood. His own voice sounded odd in his ears.

  "Tudel, can you hear me?"

  From behind the gag Tudel glared at him. Glared at him. For some reason it was that that set Kear off. "Where the hell do you get off coming onto my ship and assaulting me and my crew? You think that just because you're more powerful than us, you get to do what you want? We've got rights, you piece of shit."

  Kear made a fist, and then unclenched it. Shit. If he punched the man the blood could end up asphyxiating him.

  Shit.

  And then, without even realizing that he was doing it, Kear pulled his right leg back and then snapped a knee into the PK's crotch. The lack of gravity robbed the blow of some force , but the impact was still solid. Tudel uttered a muffled scream behind his gag and crunched forward as against the restraints.

  "Monopoly of force my ass. Fuck you, you statist asshole."

  With that, Captain Kear let go and pushed himself to the door. He touched the handle. In this room he was safe - at least for now. On the far side of the door, out in his ship, there were six armed PKs holding his bridge crew hostage, and another four men roaming the belowdeck areas, looking for the rest of his people.

  He was outnumbered and outgunned.

  But if they hadn't finished rounding up his crew, he might - he just might - have some allies.

  He took his phone from his pocket, typed a text, and sent it to Iosif, Luka, Nymabura, and Benedikt.

  Next he needed to get to the weapons locker to get a rifle or a shotgun. But getting there? He swallowed. It was a long way in an occupied ship, and he was going to be defenseless the whole way.

  And then he remembered something.

  He turned and looked at Tudel. The man was still crunched forward, straining against his bonds.

  And there, on his hip, was a pistol.

  Chapter 33

  2064: Engineering decks, AFS The Wookkiee, between Earth and the Moon

  Iosif floated upside down next to the equipment locker and cursed the navigators as he struggled to fit the velcro booties over his work boots. Those idiots on the bridge had changed the launch schedule - and did they remember to tell the men who actually did the work on the ship? No, they did not. And when the drive had switched on he
'd frantically packed away his lunch, but hadn't finished before it cut off again - and it had taken five minutes to vacuum up the floating balls of soda, and another five to change his shirt.

  Those idiots deserved a good yelling at, and once he got these booties on he was going to go there in person - no damned phone call - and swear at them face to face.

  The second bootie slipped on, and Iosif pushed himself to the floor. He stalked across the carpet to the door.

  Those bridge bastards thought they were better than the mere engineers who -

  Was his phone vibrating?

  He pulled it from his pocket. He looked at it, and blinked. Jesus. Was this real? That's why they'd launched? He shouted for Luka, but the other man was already looking at his own phone.

  Luka looked up at him. "Is this a joke?"

  "They wouldn't joke about this."

  "What do we do?"

  "Get ready. The peakers will come for us next."

  Luka nodded grimly.

  * * *

  The "Pride of Enugu", as she was named on the forged paperwork, or the “Wookkiee", as Captain Felix and his crew called her (after a minor character in a century old movie, apparently), was a Handymax class mixed cargo/tanker.

  The front five-sixths of the ship was open deck: 130 meters of flat steel studded with massive hydraulically controlled hatches, two cranes, miscellaneous hardware, and a stack of dozens and dozens of cargo containers. The volume beneath the open deck was taken up by three massive cargo holds and two huge tanks, now full of seawater for the trip home.

  Aft of the cargo areas, the bridge structure towered above the deck and continued down into the ship's hull. Above the deck the bridge was simple: four stories of bunkrooms, storage rooms, bathrooms, and common areas. Below the deck line the structure was more complex and less regular. The engineering areas were laid out not for the convenience of humans, but for the convenience of machinery - machinery that was long gone. Catwalks twisted around empty spaces that had once held diesel engines. Staircases, a dumbwaiter, and an elevator rose to the bridge above and continued to the machine shop and storage areas below. Tanks of oxygen, air processing equipment, and more were wedged in where fuel tanks had once sat before being torch cut, removed in pieces, and sold for scrap.

  This was the engineering space where Iosif hid. Iosif looked at his phone again, hoping for more information from the Captain...but still nothing. He pocketed it and looked around the deck one more time. The port hatch was closed and locked. That would channel the PKs through the other door. Hopefully, when they came they'd orient themselves to the "floor" and not realize that he and Luka could be hidden up "above.”

  Eto piz dets!

  It would be nice to have a shotgun, but the ship's armory was levels above them, so he was stuck with just the pistol that he always carried. A fucking pistol. Against soldiers. He shook his head.

  It could be worse. He looked at Luka, armed with just a meter-long box wrench, and caught his eye. Once he had Luka's attention Iosif made a show of looking at his own pistol and then raised an eyebrow. Luka scowled, and Iosif smiled.

  Calling me paranoid was hilarious last week, but not so funny now, eh?

  Luka's scowl turned into a sigh and a nod - even he could appreciate the humor of the situation. That, Iosif knew, was the glory of the Russian character. Americans, Nigerians - they didn't understand the value of black humor. Americans, they were always smiling, always pushing away bad thoughts. But when the world turned to shit, the ability to deal with that shit was -

  There was shouting outside the hatch. The PKs.

  Iosif ducked further back into the tangle of duct-work and steel beams, leaving just one eye clear. A PK stuck his head through the open doorway, surveyed the gray-painted decking, catwalks, and hulking machinery, and then floated through the door. The soldier pulled himself hand over hand along a railing for three meters, and then stopped and looked around. Iosif felt his palms growing clammy. He wiped his left hand on his t-shirt, transferred the pistol, and then wiped the right, keeping an eye on the PK's head the whole time. Derr mo. The soldier had a carbine strapped across his chest. This was all very very real. Armed men wanted to kill him. This wasn't theory - they were there. Right now. Just meters away. He felt his breath coming more quickly. They wanted to kill him - and so he had to kill them.

  As he'd hoped, the PK oriented himself toward the floor and looked around, but didn't look "up.” The scene seemed to play out in slow motion, and in hyper detail. The first PK moved further into the room, and then a second soldier came through the hatch.

  Iosif realized that his palms were clammy again, but he didn't dare move - the PKs were too close.

  It was almost time.

  Iosif touched the safety with his right thumb, and then snapped it off. In a moment he was going to lean to the left, extend his arms, and fire. He had a magazine of twelve rounds, with one more in the -

  "Hey!"

  The first PK was looking straight at him, and was raising his carbine. Iosif pulled his head back behind the I-beam. A moment later the impossibly loud sound of rifle fire in a confined space assaulted his ears and hammered at chest and gut.

  Over the skull-slapping sound of rifle fire Iosif thought he heard smaller splat sounds. Were the bullets hitting the I-beam and the equipment he was hiding behind? Then more rifle fire from the far corner of the engineering deck. Shit - the other soldier must be firing too. Iosif sucked in his gut, shrank his shoulders - anything to make himself smaller as he hid, one knee and one ass cheek in the narrow chimney between the I-beam's flanges.

  A piercing pain in his heel - was he shot? He ignored it. Another dozen shots - and then silence. Then shouting.

  Iosif muttered a quick prayer and peeked out from behind the beam. Both of the PKs hung in midair, facing away from him. What? Why?

  Then he saw. They were spinning. The fools hadn't anchored themselves before firing, and the recoil had spun them. They cursed and tried to reach for railings.

  Now.

  Iosif took a deep breath and pushed himself out from behind the beam. He braced himself with his legs - one on the I-beam and one on a condenser. The PKs were continuing to rotate and in another moment they'd be facing him again. Iosif pushed his pistol out in a double-handed grip and tried to flip the safety off, but it wouldn't move. What the fuck? He looked down - the safety was already off. Damn it! Back to his target. There. His breath came quick and shallow, and everything in his peripheral vision was black, like he was staring out from the bottom of a deep well. But there, in the center of the image, was the PK. Iosif lined up the sights.

  And squeezed the trigger once.

  The carefully aimed shot took the PK from behind, just below the lip of his helmet and above the stiff projecting flange on his spinal armor. The body went limp and the foot that he'd managed to hook around a railing released.

  Without intending it he fired again.

  Iosif had expected to hear his own shots, maybe impacts, but it was as if his head was wrapped in wool. The world was silent.

  Now, the second PK. Where was he? Iosif swiveled his head. There!

  The soldier was facing perhaps forty five degrees away and had his carbine raised.

  Concentrate. His own pistol - there it was. Sights just below the PK. Move it. Get it on target.

  The PK was spinning. He'd be pointing at Iosif in a moment.

  Rear sight.

  Front sight.

  And then he had the PK's head in the sight picture... and a sharp shooting pain in his arm. His pistol dropped from lifeless fingers and spun away. He tried to reach for it, but his arm wouldn't move.

  And there, in front of him, a small cylinder about the size of a can of Coke, spinning. What the hell? Is that what had hit him? What -

  The grenade exploded.

  * * *

  Sergeant Morioka saw the detonation. Yes! He'd aimed perfectly - the grenade had hit the expat dead on and bounced only a bit before exploding.
The recoil from the grenade launcher had added to the spin he already had. He needed to grab something -

  His rotation brought him face to face with another expat. Shit! The man was huge, bearded, and grimacing like a savage. His arms were back to one side, holding something... And then he swung.

  "Wait! Don't -".

  * * *

  Luka had never swung so hard in his life. The meter long box wrench connected under the PK's helmet, smashing hard into the side of the PK's face, just under one eye. The PK convulsed and coughed as he died, spraying a mist of blood from his ruined face. Luka recoiled as the spray of hot gore hit him.

  Luka blinked away the blood. The PK hung lifeless in the air, spinning slowly as strands of blood slid from his face. Luka glanced up where Iosif had been hiding and flinched; then his eyes landed on the PK. The carbine. Once he had that he -

  * * *

  In the open doorway Sergeant Frodge aimed at the expat. His finger was tightening, but he was too late. The expat's wrench smashed into Morioka.

  The impact of steel on bones was horrific.

  The force of the strike moved the expat back a handsbreadth.

  Frodge moved his aim slightly and then his rifle roared.

  The expat's arms jerked as the bullet punched through his skull. The bloody wrench flew away as the body spasmed.

  The recoil pushed him back and Frodge grabbed at the hatchway and steadied himself, and then looked around the engineering space.

  Two of his men dead.

  Two expat corpses.

  Empty brass floated and rebounded off surfaces.

  Sprays of blood splashed against the walls.

  The smell of smoke and burning insulation.

  Fuck.

  What a train wreck.

  Frodge keyed his mike. "They got Santiago and Morioka, but we got two of them."