Firestorm: The Relissarium Wars Space Opera Series, Book 4

by Andrew C Broderick

  Firestorm

  The Relissarium Wars Space Opera Series, Book 4

  Andrew C Broderick

  Copyright © 2018 by Andrew C Broderick

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  One

  Hundreds of voices rang out, in varying volumes of discontent. The circular chamber echoed with their concern. Senator Philo Nazir leaned forward, and pressed his thin lips closer to the microphone on the speaker’s podium. “We have seen the evidence that those fanatics will stop at nothing to pursue and pervert their power! If we stand by and do nothing, Carristoux will be just as much to blame for the carnage to come as the Yasta themselves!” He paused, trying to keep his temper under control. “We can no longer sit idly by. We have a choice to make. Either we mobilize a territorial militia to seize control of Relisse and this new mineral, or we condemn everyone to suffer under Yasta control. It is not a matter of ‘if.’ It is a matter of ‘when.’ A reckoning is coming. What side will Carristoux be on?”

  Murmurs slithered through the gathered members of the regional parliament. Carristoux had long been known as a meek outer planet. It was assumed that the populus would fall in line with the Emperor, because that was the way it had always been. The young men served their time in the Carristoux Regional Militia as part of a rite of passage. The women married and bore more children to continue the cycle. The distance from their planet to the Emperor’s base—along with their submission—had been enough to keep the Imperial soldiers from breathing down their necks too closely. Of course, that was what the population of Relisse had thought, too, and look where that had gotten them: engulfed in a planet-wide inferno.

  Senator Nazir clenched his fist. His nails bit crescent moons into his palms. This planet was on the verge of change. All it needed was a final push. He quietly wondered if his speech would be enough to tip the scales. One by one, the other members of parliament cast their votes. The ones who could not be there in person were represented via video conference. An overhead hologram tallied up the numbers. For a moment, Philo felt hope for their future, but it festered in the next heartbeat. The final tally was in: 352 votes to 118. Motion denied.

  Anger and frustration boiled Philo’s blood. Timid children and old men with their heads in the sand, the lot of them! He ground his teeth behind the long-practiced mask of civility that he had plastered on his face. With a flourish of his robes, he left the chamber. Chanta, his aide, was waiting in the stone hallway outside of the room. She wasn’t allowed inside the actual chamber. Only current members of parliament were allowed to sit in on the actual sessions. It was supposed to keep the senators from being influenced by others during the votes. Philo scoffed and pinched his thin lips into a tighter line. How many of them already have their pockets lined with the Emperor’s coins or their hearts lined with Yasta threats? He fought back the feeling of hypocrisy that tugged at the back of his mind. After all, wasn’t he in his position because of the Carbonari? It was the opposite side of the coin, but he was just as guilty of being in power because of his alliances instead of his politics as the others.

  “I take it the speech didn’t go well.” Chanta moved her long nail across the communications tablet that was cradled in the crook of her arm.

  “What gave it away?”

  “Your charming smile and boyish delight.” The light from her tablet lit up her prominent cheekbones.

  Philo felt his lips curl into a wry smile. She reminded him of a well-aged wine with her dry sense of humor, and voluptuous body. “Any word on our…shipment?”

  Chanta had worked with him—and under him—long enough to know that he was referring to the returning Strike Force Retaliation team. “It is still on track for delivery.”

  “At least one thing is going right, today.” Philo’s footsteps echoed down the stone hallway. The gentle, upwards slope signified they were nearing the surface. If you could count having a traitor on the most trusted team of the Brotherhood as something ‘going right.’ His mind was a flurry of upcoming meetings and underlying worries.

  Outside of the parliament’s entrance, the fresh, balmy air caressed their skin. The simple pleasure of it was lost on him. His eyes squinted along the waterside docks. At the end of the dock to his left was his private submarine. It was the latest top-of-the-line Aquacruiser, that had been featured in “Interstellar Transit” for three standard months in a row. Personally, he thought it was a waste of money, but the rest of the Brotherhood’s Grand Council thought it was worth the investment to keep up his guise as a frivolous-yet-forward-thinking member of parliament. Plus, it never hurt to have a high-end submarine at their disposal.

  Waves lapped against the wooden planks of the dock. Philo reached his hand under his robes to press the key fob tucked into his pocket. The top hatch of the submarine unsealed with a hiss and slowly raised up. He offered his hand to Chanta to help steady her. Well, if he was being completely honest, he also did it to get a good view of her hips swaying down the interior ladder, but chivalry was easier to palate than a lustful craving. Chanta knew what she did to him. Her exaggerated swaying and slower-than-necessary descent stirred his desires.

  A loud bang high in the atmosphere made him jump. The senator looked up at the sky, and had to shield his eyes from the bright magnesium fires of falling debris. Inside the submarine, Chanta’s tablet lit up with an incoming video call. The quality was riddled with static, but Philo recognized the voice immediately: Makram.

  “Mayday, mayday! We…apart…emergency land—” Makram’s voice cut out suddenly. The falling ship crashed into the water on the horizon.

  Philo leapt into the Aquacruiser, and pulled the hatch shut behind him before she turned to Chanta. She already had a secure communication link on her tablet, established with the secret Carbonari base they were supposed to be heading to. Philo snatched it from her fingers.

  Seneca answered the call, “We saw it, too.”

  “Get a recovery team over there, now! Find that ship before someone else does. I don’t need to tell you that if any of the crew are not recovered, I will have your head!”

  “Already on it.” Seneca’s eyes betrayed the terror he felt, but he somehow managed to keep his voice relatively calm.

  Philo shut down the comm link and tossed the tablet onto the nearest cushioned seat. Agitation pulled his thin lips once more into an almost imperceptible line. “They are quickly falling out of my good graces. First the mission is an utter failure, and now they can’t even do a reentry properly! I have half the mind to demote them all.”

  Philo checked the navigation system to make sure the proper destination was programmed in. If he wasn’t worried about being followed to the crash site, he would have personally navigated to the fallen ship just to have the satisfaction of pulling Makram out of the water himself. That boy had gotten a pretty big head over the years. Maybe it was time to knock him down a few pegs. Unfortunately, Philo had only gotten so far in the Brotherhood and in politics by being careful. An official’s personal craft investigating a crash would be too suspicious. If anyone could identify even one of the members of the Strike Force Retaliation team as part of the Carbonari, and he was spotted with them, it would be the end of his long political career. No, some things had to be delegated—no matter how badly he wished to take care of them on his own.

  “Later you
’ll be busy with interrogations.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. That was one of things he liked about her. He sat down in the chair opposite the screen and propped his feet up. “Go over it with me one more time.”

  “The Relisse mission? We’ve gone over it multiple times already.”

  “Refresh my memory. Humor me.”

  Behind the screen, Chanta let a sly smile settle on her lips. It was no secret that business and efficiency was something of a turn on for Philo. She lowered her voice and slowed her speech, letting each word drip like honey from her lips. “The Strike Force Retaliation team was sent to Relisse to derail the Yasta mining operation. The mission was a setup which confirmed what we had already suspected: there is a leak within the Carbonari. In order to narrow down the suspects, the Grand Council of Masters changed the SFR team’s mission objective at the last possible minute. The only people who knew about the change were the members of the Strike Force, the inhabitants of Shelter Number Fifty-Six on Sirsette, and the Grand Council itself. If the new mission was compromised, it would mean the traitor was in one of those three groups. As suspected, the team fell victim to a Yasta trap. Shelter Number Fifty-Six was later discovered to have been destroyed. There was only one survivor.”

  “I think we can rule out a member of the Grand Council as suspects. A lot more damage could have been done if the traitor was that high up.” Philo steepled his fingers in his lap thoughtfully. “My instincts are telling me the traitor has to be in the Strike Force.”

  Chanta perched herself on his lap and allowed one hand to rest lightly on his upper thigh. “Your instincts are usually correct.”

  Just as he was about to lean in to kiss her, a chime interrupted them. An exasperated sigh hissed from between his lips. “Go see what that’s all about.”

  The screen on the communications tablet lit up to show an incoming call. Chanta picked up the thin rectangle, and initiated the proper sequence to allow the transmission to come through. Seneca’s furrowed brow filled the screen. “The recovery team just contacted me. I’m afraid the news isn’t good.”

  Two

  Theo’s ears were ringing. Waves slapped him. He felt himself beginning to be swallowed up by the water. A hand hooked under his armpit and pulled him towards something. It was hard and jagged. The person in front of him was moving their lips, but he couldn’t hear any words. The glassy expression in Theo’s eyes earned him a scowl from the man who was trying to communicate with him.

  “I can’t babysit you! Hold on to the damn wreckage!” Makram put his hand over Theo’s, and made him grab the floating debris. He was wasting precious time with this green recruit when he could be helping the other members of his team.

  Red swirled and bobbed from behind another chunk of the crashed cargo ship. Makram’s heart hammered away in his chest. Blood? No. His brain tried to make sense of it. The texture was wrong. Blood would be diffusing into the surrounding water. Cherish! He swam towards the mass of red hair writhing in the water.

  “How bad is it? I-I can’t run a self-diagnostic.” Cherish looked at Makram with one eye. Half of her head was dented in an unnatural way. The skin of her cheek hung in tatters. Scarred metal underneath her flesh glinted in the light. Her voice was distorted. Each syllable jumped from too high to too low.

  “Pretty bad.” It was hard for Makram to see her like that. She was a member of his team. He blamed himself for the damage she had sustained. “Can you keep yourself afloat?”

  “Y-y-y-y-y-y-yes.” The mechanical stutter was accompanied with a glitchy head twitch.

  Makram pried himself away from her to look for any other survivors even though it pained him to leave her like that. He caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye. Hojae was treading water. One set of his arms worked to keep him afloat. The other set was busy holding on to Hubard and Cierra.

  “I have them.” Hojae noticed Makram looking at them and waved him off with one of his hands dedicated to swimming.

  Nodding, Makram looked around for the last three members of his team. Coughing and spluttering behind him caught his attention. Makram turned himself around in the water. Irane and Rix clung onto a floating cushion from one of the acceleration couches. Even though he couldn’t talk because he was coughing up the water in his lungs, Irane gave Makram a thumbs-up.

  The water around the wreckage swelled. Something was surfacing not far from them. Makram looked around for a blaster or an impact gun. They were sitting ducks out in the open. None of his team was in any shape to fight, if this was another sabotage attempt by the Yasta. His eyes managed to spot one of the yoke columns from the cockpit. Makram’s bruised and stiffening fingers wrapped around the metal rod. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was better than nothing.

  A submarine bobbed to the surface. The dark metal was designed for stealth. The ship could have belonged to anyone. Who had found them first? Did the Council even get Makram’s distress signal?

  The Strike Force Retaliation leader prepared for the worst. No one was going to take him without a fight. The top hatch hissed and opened. A familiar face popped out of the vessel. Makram almost cried with joy. Janus. Makram had seen Janus around several times at different shelters and bases. He worked closely with Hubard to improve the Brotherhood’s technology.

  Janus slid down the curve of the hatch to the sub’s surfacing deck. A few more men that Makram didn’t recognize followed suit. Several of them jumped into the water and began rescuing the battered crew of the wreckage. “It’s good to see you, cousin.” Janus reached out his hand towards Makram once the commander had swum into range of the deck.

  Clasping each other’s forearms, Makram was able to lever himself out of the water. His body was shaking from a powerful cocktail of cold, shock, and adrenaline. “Man, am I glad to see you.”

  One by one, the other members of his team were pulled out of the wreckage by the recovery team. “Is this everyone?” Janus scanned the injured crew. A gurgling noise issued from Irane’s throat. It was clear the boy was still struggling to rid his lungs of water. Janus took a step closer. “What? I couldn’t understand what you said.”

  “Kurga,” Irane forced the word out of his stinging throat.

  Kurga. Makram looked around in panic. He hadn’t seen Kurga at all since the crash. “Kurga? Can you hear me?” His voice echoed off of the water that surrounded them, but there was no reply.

  The wreckage bucked and turned in the waves. As one of the larger chunks rotated towards the submarine, they saw it. The red in the water was unmistakably blood. Kurga’s body was impaled on a jagged portion of the hull. His white hair was matted and ruddy with his own blood.

  “Kurga!” Makram started to jump back into the water, but Janus held him back. The world shifted as Makrum’s knees gave out from under him. The impact of his body on the hull let out a dull, lifeless ringing noise.

  Two members of the recovery team dove into the water and swam over to their fallen cousin. Blood swirled around their waists in the water. One of them reached up to check for a pulse. His face fell. Makram watched as the diver moved his hand from Kurga’s neck to his eyes. In a silent moment, the rescuer’s fingers gently closed Kurga’s eyes for the last time.

  Three

  Senator Philo’s submarine emerged into the underwater base’s docking bay. Climbing out of the hatch, he talked over his shoulder to Chanta. “I want all of the remaining members of the base to take the SFR’s personnel into custody the moment the recovery team gets back with them. Split them up. I don’t want to give them the opportunity to sync up their stories. The ones that need to be healed should be under constant supervision.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He had half a mind to disband them immediately. They couldn’t even handle returning to base without messing everything up. “I want Makram taken to interrogation room ‘C’ when they arrive. From the reports we received, he seems to be the one in the best shape.”

  The Carbonari symbol of the pickaxe and the shovel ove
r the flame was carved into the wall above the tunnel that lead to the rest of the base from the docking bay. Years of foot traffic had worn the floor smooth. Without the proper footgear, the passage often proved to be slippery—especially if the person passing through had not bothered to be careful enough to keep their feet dry when disembarking from their vessels. The damp smell of the docking bay faded the deeper into the compound they went.

  “How did the parliament meeting go, cousin?” A recruit whose name Philo couldn’t quite remember.

  “They are stuck in the past and unable to see anything past the end of their own noses. It’s a miracle Carristoux has survived this long under such leadership. We might as well just fling open our doors, welcome the Yasta inside, and say, ‘come and get it, boys! Here we are on a silver platter!’”

  The recruit seemed a little shocked at the crudeness of the reply. Chanta stepped in to smooth things over. “The senator has a lot on his mind right now. Perhaps it would be best for you to return to your duties so that he may attend to his.”

  Philo watched as the recruit closed his slack-jawed mouth, and scampered off to find something useful to do. “Too much?” He cast a sidelong glance at his aide.

  “Perhaps just a little.”

  “At this rate, I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to retire. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.”

  “Rebellion rarely has room for retirement, unless it comes in the form of death.” Chanta checked that the orders she had punched in on her tablet had been received by the division leaders. They used a trickle-down effect to manage a base this size. Each of the Grand Council masters and their aides had a distribution list for the division leaders. Orders were sent out to those designated people, who were then responsible for the personnel in their departments.