The Terminal War: A Space Opera Novel (A Carson Mach Adventure)

by A. C. Hadfield

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Atlantis Ship Preview

  The Atlatnis Ship Chapter Two

  The Atlantis Ship Chapter Three

  Support the Author

  About The Author

  The Terminal War

  A Carson Mach Space Opera

  By

  A.C. Hadfield

  Copyright

  First published in 2015 by A.C. Hadfield

  Copyright © A.C. Hadfield 2015

  The moral right of the author has been asserted. All characters and events in this publication, other than those

  clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Chapter One

  Something was wrong—very wrong. The warning alarm hadn’t sounded for over a thousand years. Its tone pulsed through the smooth white corridors of the habitation and control center. Afron, a vestan Guardian, thrust his spindly black foot against the hatch of his meditation pod and sprang out, his emotions transforming from a blissful calm to immediate concern.

  Usually, the system reported minor defects around the fringes of the controlled area of Terminus, a dwarf planet with a distant weak sun. But the nature of his job, as one of the twenty Guardians, meant he couldn’t take risks. He needed to see what had triggered the alarm, as it was likely to be something more than just a simple structural defect.

  A line of small pink lights on the ceiling flashed with every pulse. Afron crossed through the brightly lit hexagonal central area of the complex and headed for the control center to investigate. The electronic metal eye of the form-recognition system authenticated him as he approached, and the door slid open.

  Kortas, the head of the vestan Guardians, also dressed in his green meditation gown, had already arrived and was scanning data on five screens that stretched the full length of the wall.

  “What’s the problem?” Afron asked.

  “Just the usual: a crypt breach on the boundary.”

  “But the alarm…”

  The dark sullen expression from Kortas told Afron that it wasn’t anything major, yet the beginnings of panic crystallized within Afron. He glanced at the floating green holomap in the center of the room and immediately spotted the location of the breach. An orange blip halfway between two of the four fusion generator facilities that kept the rest of the planet’s ice at bay flickered. Afron knew this to be a typical location for a structural compromise.

  The map perfectly plotted the fifty-klick-wide area. A facility stood in each corner, powering the heated flexible underground rods. Old vestan crypts cluttered the space on the outer edges. Thousands of newer generation mausoleums in formal rows lined the insides. The most important location was dead center. A pyramid containing the Saviors of the vestan race. Sensors in each location and motion-detecting drones in the air provided live updates.

  “I’ll carry out a damage assessment,” Afron said. “Inform the rest of the Guardians to continue their studies.”

  “Very well,” Kortas replied.

  Older crypts on the boundary had been constructed out of a less flexible compound and often developed cracks through the ages. The vestans initially built them below the surface of Terminus, according to custom—until they realized the problem. Part of a guardian’s mission was to ensure the integrity of every mausoleum, crypt, and vault. Afron guessed it would be another old-fashioned repair job, unlike some of the complex data corruption problems they could get in the newer mausoleums.

  Kortas led the way back through the complex corridors to the transport bay. He stood by the operations console, waiting to open the external door.

  Afron stood between two metallic plates and a gray self-assembling nanosuit and helmet built around him. Despite Guardians spending the majority of their lives on Terminus, they still kept a form suitable for a vestan atmosphere. If they didn’t, respectful communications with the dead would be impossible.

  Once the helmet’s digital display activated and confirmed a successful operation, Afron climbed into one of the four oval hover-pods. He configured the coordinates of the breach on the touchpad and synchronized the vehicle to the control center network. The pod smoothly lifted off the ground; he brushed his gloves across the pad and drifted into the airlock.

  A thick transparent door closed behind the pod. Ahead, the brushed steel external doors parted, revealing the inky black star-studded sky surrounding the planet. A special feeling of privilege crept over Afron, just like every other time he traveled between some of the greatest minds in vestan history.

  The breach had occurred between zone one and two. Afron guided the pod between two rows of modern mausoleums toward the fusion facility. It wasn’t the most direct route, but it avoided weaving through the cluster of tightly packed crypts on the fringes of the vestan world of remembrance.

  Each closely spaced stone building had a monitoring pad attached to the entrance under a protective shield, confirming internal power and providing dim light. Afron kept the pod’s front beam focused along the middle of the dark pathway until he drew level with the location of the breach and turned for the boundary.

  Most of the older crypts were smaller and more elaborate. Decorative statues of ancient gods and creatures jutted from the roofs, plants and weeds wrapped around the walls. Vegetation grew thicker in the outer areas and brushed against the underside of the pod. Afron focused and wound his way around them toward his destination.

  Twenty ages ago, vestans were free to visit Terminus and construct the buildings for their family and friends. That stopped when one of the Saviors had his mind corrupted by modern thoughts. Data readings showed the savior had picked up images of humans and their weird customs. The vestan high council decreed only Guardians were allowed to remain after that. Saviors could only handle pure vestan thoughts, not ones poisoned by sights of people consuming an intoxicating drink, playing games, or gambling.

  Humans were allies now. After they won the Century War and offered protection against the vestans’ former colonizers, the horans. Every Guardian knew the horans presented their former pact as an Axis: a power to stop humans and fidians spreading across the galaxy like a plague of locusts, but it was never like that. They only wanted vestan technology to create their galactic empire.

  Afron stopped in front of the crypt that reported a
problem: a small stone rectangle wrapped in vines, right on the edge of the zone. He checked his comms screen to ensure there were no other issues before lowering to the ground.

  An alarm winked between the foliage on the crypt’s entrance. The pod’s hatch opened with an electric whine. Lights auto-activated on Afron’s helmet and shoulders. He approached the crypt and swept away the dark greasy leaves. This place belonged to an engineer from forty generations ago. It explained the vines. No Guardian would visit and communicate because his mind had been superseded by the advancement in technology and lacked the wisdom of a savior.

  Afron raised the protective shield and pressed a series of symbols, confirming an entry code. The locking mechanism clanked open.

  The thick metal door juddered and groaned inward, ripping apart the attached vines. A light blue glow came from the chamber at the bottom of twenty steps. Afron climbed down and surveyed the room.

  Everything looked normal at first glance. The engineer was suspended upright inside a transparent tube in light blue preservation liquid. A graphene cable led from the back of his head to a monitor on the nearest wall. Afron moved around the tube to the far side of the chamber.

  Rubble lay on the floor. A lower part of the wall had collapsed inward. It wasn’t any breach that he had seen before. Usually, it was just a crack or a chunk of internal plaster that had fallen onto a sensor.

  Afron crouched and directed his light into the darkness beyond the damaged wall. A rough tunnel, cut through dirt, extended into the gloom of buried frozen undergrowth long since petrified by ice. At the far end, it split off in two directions.

  A roar echoed in the distance. Afron’s black skin slithered in reaction to the dread sound. He wondered what it could have been. Only one explanation made sense, and Afron knew he had to get out of here as soon as possible and inform the other Guardians.

  A dark shape raced along the tunnel. Afron turned and ran, desperately pawing his way through the vegetation to get to his pod in time. His two hearts thundered together like a drumroll. A specter from the distant past breathed down his neck, bringing with it centuries of pain and regret.

  He scampered up the stairs.

  Footsteps raced across the chamber behind him.

  Afron rushed out of the entrance and extended a hand toward the pod’s hatch. He activated the transmit button on his comms device.

  Something wrapped around his neck and tightened. It dragged him back down the steps at high speed, past the engineer in the chamber. Afron thrust out his arms in an attempt to stop himself being taken through the tunnel.

  It was no use. He couldn’t stop it.

  And he knew he’d never see the surface of Terminus again.

  Chapter Two

  A pair of swallow-shaped fighter drones roared over President Morgan’s head and powered toward the atmosphere. Both cobalt engines quickly melted into the clear blue sky as they headed for their escort duty.

  Morgan shielded his eyes from the sun and gazed across the landing zone at a distant row of twenty hangars. Three fleet destroyers were in for servicing and tiny figures and machines buzzed around them. Everything ran like clockwork.

  Morgan missed being part of the operation, rising through the ranks, commanding a squadron—and becoming an admiral. As president, at least the Commonwealth Defense Force had a man in charge that had their back.

  The Salus Sphere, a twenty-light-year-wide section of space containing over three hundred inhabited planets, faced an ongoing danger and threats from outside forces. The CWDF hadn’t seen large-scale battle since the Century War twenty years ago, but the moment they dropped their guard, an attack would come, Morgan just knew it; it was the way of things. The horans and lacterns, the Axis, surrounded half of the sphere’s frontier and had spies in many places and would strike at the first sign of weakness.

  A rectangular, graphite-colored vestan shuttle, the type that usually carried high-ranking dignitaries, thrust its engines, slowing its descent.

  Both CWDF fighter drones flanked it all the way down.

  The council members had arrived at least, albeit two hours late.

  Morgan straightened his dark blue admiral’s jacket. He still held the ceremonial rank and hated being out of this uniform. The former president, Steros, used to swan around in robes, attend parties, and had little respect for the military. Few respected him for it.

  The shuttle’s engines roared a final thrust. It gently landed to the left of a row of twenty fighter drones. Morgan had decided against letting his admin staff carry out the meet and greet. He preferred to be hands-on. The idea of constantly sitting behind a desk in the government building, or being followed around by fifty security bots never appealed to him. Although he had reluctantly agreed to a minimum security detail of four agents. Fides Prime still had an undercurrent of anti-establishment feeling, and it wouldn’t be beyond reason to expect that one of the underclass scumbags would make an attempt on his life.

  Two lines of Marines, in their formal light blue uniforms, holding their X50 rifles across their chests, formed a guard outside the shuttle. Its side door slid to the left. A chrome ramp extended to the ground, hitting with a dull thump.

  Two black-skinned vestans stepped out. They stood seven feet tall and wore their usual plain cream robes. They made their way down the ramp on their stiff legs. Morgan had met some of their council before, but from a distance these two looked unfamiliar. One nudged the other, and both stared at the jagged mountain range beyond the hangars.

  Morgan cleared his throat loudly enough for both to hear. They turned and hobbled between the marines, chatting in their native tongue.

  “President Morgan. Welcome to Fides Prime.” He extended a hand.

  Both aliens abruptly halted.

  The one on the left, wearing a silver data-bracelet, a vestan version of the Salus Sphere’s smart-screen, shuffled forward. “I’m Ferban, council member for defense, and this is my colleague, Desolt.”

  “You have a beautiful planet,” Desolt said. “My compliments.”

  “Thank you. I’ll escort you to the conference room if you follow me.”

  Ferban’s leathery face scrunched around his mustard-colored eyes. “That would be most gracious of you, President.”

  Morgan was already late for another appointment and decided not to mention their lack of punctuality; they appeared nervous already, which Morgan expected of former enemies during the war.

  Although their species didn’t make great fighters, they had provided the means and technology to the Axis, giving them a critical edge. Bringing the vestans into the Commonwealth, via a new peace treaty, was a particularly good move on Morgan’s part, giving him a free run at the CW presidency.

  Four marines surrounded them as Morgan led the way back to the conference room. His secretary, Emma, a young human in a sharp white suit, sat at the long glass table holding her smart-pad, ready to take minutes.

  “Please, take a seat,” Morgan said and held an arm toward the chairs. Both vestans raised their robes and sat. “Can we get you any refreshments after your trip?”

  “No, thank you. We replenished a short time ago,” Desolt said. “May we get straight to business? Our requirements are pressing.”

  “Of course,” Morgan replied, “Although if the priority is so high, you could’ve arrived sooner, or just communicated your request through our secure ansible link.”

  Ferban inclined his head to concede the point, then added, “Some things require personal communication. We would prefer to conduct business face-to-face, to build our relationship on strong foundations,” he said, blinking slowly in that hypnotic manner of theirs. “We have two requests, but the second is for your ears only.” The vestan smiled at Emma, an apologetic but firm request.

  “My ears only?” Morgan sat back in his chair, maintaining eye contact. “You don’t have to be worried about what you say in this building.”

  “We’d prefer total secrecy on this subject,” Desolt said.


  Morgan sighed and nodded at Emma. She picked up her things and headed for the door. He remembered the paranoia of the vestans during the treaty negotiations, often over trivial matters, or at least they were to humans and fidians.

  The conference room’s opaque glass door whined shut, and both vestans leaned forward. Desolt glanced at his smart-screen bracelet and manipulated its controls with elegant gestures.

  “Anything the matter?” Morgan asked.

  A few seconds later the vestan looked to his partner, then to Morgan, blinked, and then inclined his head in an awkward facsimile of a human nod of agreement. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I expect my actions may seem untrusting, but I needed to make sure there are no listening devices or scanning fields within distance. I exaggerate not when I say this is the most important issue the vestans have ever entrusted to an outside party.”

  Morgan’s neck prickled. A cold shiver crawled through his guts. The anticipation of their request made him tap his fingers against the desk’s surface.

  “The horans and lacterns have stepped up their aggression since we left the Axis. They continue to raid our outer planets,” Ferban said. “Three of your Fides days ago, they attacked a mineral mine, rendering it beyond salvageable. They retreated after taking hits from our surface-to-orbit cannons.”

  “As part of your treaty obligations—” Desolt added.

  “I know our obligations,” Morgan interrupted, holding up his palm. “I haven’t seen any reports through the official channels. If we don’t know about the attacks, what do you expect us to do? You have to start being more open with us. These kinds of requests are better off going to my commanders, who can then act accordingly—and quickly.”

  Both aliens stared at him. Morgan remained silent and waited for an answer. His level of hands-on didn’t extend to micromanaging Sphere security.

  The vestan council had been told several times to report any hostilities immediately. As part of a newly extended frontier, they were of equal priority to the rest of the Salus Sphere. Providing a show of force to eliminate these types of raids was a standard operation for the CWDF. The Axis couldn’t gain confidence at any point, lest they believe they could mount an attack.