Text copyright ©2016 by the Author.
This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Nick Webb. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Legacy Fleet remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Nick Webb, or their affiliates or licensors.
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For Byron
A Pew-Pew Space Opera-Loving Geek
In the Making
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Afterword
A Word to My Reader
About the Author
Avenger
The First Swarm War – Book Two
by
Chris Pourteau
Cover Art by Tom Edwards
Formatting by Polgarus Studios
Also by Chris Pourteau
Books
Tales of B-Company: The Complete Collection (Military Sci-Fi)
Stormbreak: The Serenity Strain, Book 1 (Apocalyptic Horror)
Ironheart: The Serenity Strain, Book 2 (Apocalyptic Horror)
Shadows Burned In (Psychological Thriller/Family Saga/Horror)
Anthologies
Tails of the Apocalypse (Apocalyptic Sci-Fi)
Tales from Pennsylvania (Dystopian Sci-Fi)
Other Legacy Fleet Kindle World Titles
Invincible: The First Swarm War - Book One by David Bruns
Tripoli by Aaron Hubble
Vigilance by Will Swardstrom and Paul K. Swardstrom
Meridian by Moira Katson
Ascendance by Saul Tanpepper
Hammerfall by David Adams
Alt.Chronicles: Legacy Fleet by Samuel Peralta
Vengeance by Michelle Garza and Melissa Lason
Chapter 1
Lunar Base, Sol System
Crater Joe’s
The music was too loud for his liking. It was some goddamned random-rhythm synth crap without a beat to tap your toes to. And the air smelled like someone had blast-tested thruster engines through dirty underwear.
The man in the corner motioned to the waitress, putting two fingers in the air. The drink he’d ordered before sat as-yet untouched on the table—but two more couldn’t hurt. Maybe he could drink his senses dull.
“Same thing, sir?” she shouted as she walked up. He nodded and received her customer-tip-me smile in return before she retreated to fill his order.
That must be the guy now, he thought, leaning back in his chair. The man just entering the bar was nearly as wide as he was tall. He stood looking from side to side, searching, until he found the dark figure eyeing him from across the crowded room.
Approaching the corner table, the fat man yelled over the music, “Name’s Barstow!” and stretched out his hand. It hung in the air a few seconds, then dropped. “So, one of those, eh? All stink and no suave.”
Good call, Fats. Goddamn, that synth crap was grating on his nerves.
“Mind if I sit down?” asked Barstow. “My lower back’s killing me.”
I’ll bet it is, thought the man in shadow as he stared at the fat man’s belly. He tossed his hand toward a chair and Barstow sat down.
“Am I addressing the famous—or should I say infamous—Codeine?” Barstow’s bushy eyebrows danced with drama. “Why do they call you that anyway?”
Codeine inhaled slowly, then leaned in so he didn’t have to shout over the shrieking that passed for music. He smelled the fat man’s cheap cologne. Sweat seemed to be the main ingredient. “Because I take away the pain.”
“What … like the drug?”
Codeine stared for a moment. “Yeah, like the drug.”
The folds in the fat man’s neck ballooned as he dropped his head. “Wait—I get it! A bounty hunter named Codeine. I get it!”
“Keep your fucking voice down,” the hunter hissed. He drew in another breath. Let’s get this business over with. “You have something for me?”
The waitress was approaching with the drinks. Codeine sat back to allow her room.
“Hey, thanks!” said Barstow, grabbing the second shot before it hit the table. A quick flick of his wrist and the glass was empty. “How about another, honey?” He slapped her on the ass, making her jump. “You hear me?”
Her face took on that look—the one that debates the merits of keeping your job versus the virtues of teaching someone manners.
Codeine saved her the decision. He leaned forward again, placing a hand on the fat man’s arm. “She heard you,” he said. Barstow tried to withdraw, but Codeine’s grip held him like iron.
“Sir,” she said, addressing the hunter, “would you like something else?” Her smile was one hundred percent for her hero.
Codeine nodded. “Bring him whatever he wants. And me another one of these.” He finally downed the whiskey in front of him. Before the fat man could commandeer it, he reached out to claim the remaining shot the waitress had just set on the table.
She looked to Barstow. “And what would you like, sir?” The question was standard. The tone wasn’t.
“Give me an Armstrong A-hole. Extra bitters.”
She made a note and walked away. The jerky synth-jazz seemed to score her movements.
“Gonna give me my arm back?”
Admiring the waitress’s swinging hips, Codeine let go and sat back. “You got my package or not?”
Barstow nodded, smiling with his teeth on parade. “I like to get to know my partners a little before I do business.”
“I don’t.”
The fat man drew himself up. “You hunters are all alike. No manners.”
“Hand it over or I walk.”
Barstow blew out spit with his disdain. “You can’t. You were specifically requested. And you don’t say no to these people—”
“I say no to whomever I damned well please. Now, hand it over or I walk.”
“Fine,” grumbled the fat man. He felt around the numerous pockets of his heavy coat.
“Payment is one million credits,” Codeine reminded him. “Half up front. Half on fulfillment.”
“Right.”
“This would be the up-front part.”
“Check your account.”
Codeine dialed it up. Sure enough, he was five hundred thousand credits richer.
“All good?” Barstow leered as he handed Codeine a personal access data device.
In answer, the bounty hunter took the PADD. Flipping it around, he swiped his thumb across the access button, half expecting Barstow to have to unlock it for him.
Identity confirmed, the readout showed. Access granted.
It was already coded to him? That gave Codeine a moment’s pause. So, his client was
n’t any guttersnipe gunrunner, no colony black marketeer. Whoever they were, they could afford to throw away credits on impressive encryption. And they knew enough about him to have bio-tailored the device to him ahead of time. He was about to ask Barstow who their mutual employer was when a shadow fell across the table.
“One asshole,” said the waitress with emphasis. It wasn’t clear if she referred to the drink. “And here’s your drink, sir,” she said, nodding to Codeine. “And, sir?”
“Yes?”
“You asked me to let you know if any badgers showed up.” She edged to her left by a foot or so. And there they were, talking to the bartender. Two military police with the newly minted IDF insignia displayed on their arms. The bartender was nodding as they asked him questions.
Never a good sign, thought Codeine. “Thanks,” he said, producing two gold sovereigns from his pocket. Her eyes went wide. “These’ll cover things, right?”
She stared at the United Earth Federation symbol on the back of the coins. Even in the Crater’s dim light, she could see the old-fashioned gold eagles glittering yellow. Handheld money was rare in an age of digital transactions. And hundred-credit sovereigns were stories-after-work worthy.
“I—I can have Joe credit you the difference, I suppose—”
“Keep it. Call it an asshole handling fee,” Codeine said, dipping his head at Barstow. The fat man sneered, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was none too subtly eyeing the MPs over his shoulder. “What’s your name again?”
“Wanda.” She smiled, and her eyes softened from courteous to inviting.
He’d seen the look before, the one wondering whether or not he’d still be around when she got off shift. No time for that now, he reminded himself.
“Wanda, I’d suggest you take a break for a few minutes.”
“Oh, thank you, sir, but I can’t. I’ll get fired.” Her server’s smile became a wicked grin. “But, um, I might be able to get off early—”
“Take a break. Now. And do it away from here,” said Codeine. His eyes flicked at the restrooms in the back.
Wanda held his gaze a moment, but what she found there seemed to chase away the hope for a hookup. “Um, okay then. Sure.” She backed up from the table and headed for the restrooms at the back of the bar.
“They follow you here?” asked Codeine, shooting the last whiskey.
Barstow took a long draw on his A-hole. “Impossible. They can’t—”
Codeine shushed him. The two MPs had finished up with the bartender. One of them stepped out among the tables, eyes scanning the patrons.
Codeine dropped his hand to his thigh and loosened his .45 blaster in its leather holster. The MPs were taking their time asking questions, so he thumbed the PADD again. Its display spun up. A dull, green glow lit up his face, framing it sickly in the shadows. His eyes traced the client’s request. Two simple sentences. Instructions. The second line forced an eyebrow up his forehead. With a smile, he looked toward the door in the back where the waitress had disappeared.
“Yeah, she’s a piece, ain’t she?” said Barstow. His swollen face jiggled, his eyes flashing with fantasies.
Codeine ignored him. The soldiers were headed their way. He propped his feet up on a corner of the table, executive style, and tucked the PADD inside his jacket.
“You gentlemen locals?” asked the first MP as he walked up. He was an officer, the senior of the two both in rank and age. The younger man, a foot soldier, hung back playing bodyguard, one hand poised on his sidearm.
“No,” said Codeine. It had been a stupid question. No one was a local at Lunar Base.
“Where you from, then?”
“Mars,” said Codeine.
“Oh, yeah?” The officer sidled up behind Barstow. The fat man’s eyes moved nervously from side to side, trying to see around his own head. “I have a sister lives on Mars. Athena Colony. Ever been there?”
The bounty hunter blinked. “There’s no Athena Colony on Mars.”
“What?” The grayhair waved his hand at the noise, a gesture that apologized for having old ears.
Codeine leaned forward and caught another whiff of Barstow’s sweaty cologne. “There’s no Athena Colony on Mars.”
“Oh, yeah? I must be thinking about one of the other planets. Macedonia, maybe.”
“Must be.” The hunter dropped his hand below the table as the bodyguard moved farther to the officer’s left, opening a second line of fire.
“Why don’t you bring your hand back up where I can see it?” asked the older man without even glancing down. “My young friend here gets nervous in places like this. All the noise and booze and women.” He laughed a these-kids-today sound.
“Sure thing,” said Codeine. He met Barstow’s eyes. They were wide with the fright of a man who knows death is standing right behind him and he dare not turn around.
“Now,” said the officer. He wasn’t laughing anymore.
Codeine pulled the trigger with his sidearm still in the holster, and a .45 slug took the soldier in the upper thigh. As the officer pulled his piece, the hunter stood quickly, flipping the table over. Barstow tumbled backward into the older MP, whose shot went wild. Codeine fired a second time, plugging the wounded soldier in the gut. He fell lifeless to the barroom floor.
The hunter ducked and turned, a second shot from the officer whistling past his head. The crowd was screaming and diving under tables, the minor-keyed synth music screeching all around them. Codeine rolled the table aside and turned his barrel on the grayhair.
Two sharp reports finally gave a downbeat to the jazz. The bullets punched the officer backward. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Codeine scanned the room. Frightened customers, down low with their hands over their heads. The bartender nowhere to be seen, probably below the bar.
Barstow rolled around on the floor, struggling to get to his feet. “Holy shit!” he said between labored breaths. “No wonder they wanted you!”
Codeine leveled his .45 at the fat man’s chest and fired.
A stunned look at first, then pain ripped across Barstow’s face. “God, it hurts,” he said. And after a long, wheezing moment, he cried louder, “It hurts!” His knees buckled, and he crashed into the table behind him. Cowering patrons scrambled away from his dying bulk.
The hunter moved forward. The breathless Barstow’s stare widened helplessly, hopelessly as Codeine approached.
“God, it hurts,” the fat man gasped. “I’m on your side! Please don’t—”
A shot, and a third eye weeping blood opened wide on the fat man’s forehead. Barstow ceased his complaints about the pain of dying.
“You’re welcome,” said Codeine. The music had stopped, he noticed. Maybe someone kicked a plug out of the wall in their haste to stay alive.
So, things were looking up.
“It was just business, Fats.” Codeine stepped over Barstow’s corpse. But that wasn’t quite all there was to it. He liked the waitress, and he hadn’t liked the fat man much. So—there was the silver lining in this very public shitshow.
With the IDF now sniffing close on his trail, it was time to beat feet. He angled after Wanda, heading for the Crater’s backdoor and repeating the client’s instructions in his head. Those two small sentences worth a million credits.
Kill IDF Captain Samantha Avery. Shoot the messenger.
Half the contract already fulfilled. Half his compensation already in the bank.
Time to beat feet. Time to find this Avery woman and finish the job.
Chapter 2
ISS Avenger
On Maneuvers near the Asteroid Cloud Known as Devil’s Den
Captain Samantha Avery jogged the corridors of ISS Avenger, ear cocked to the red alert blaring all around her. She could feel the sweat sling off her triceps, trickle down the backs of her knees. It felt like she’d been running for hours.
“Weapons Officer, too slow! Too slow! You gotta get those rail guns reloaded faster!”
Avery h
ung on every word coming over shipwide comms but kept running. This is his ship for now, she told herself. His way or the highway.
Avenger shook, spilling Avery off-balance, and she caught herself against a wall. She paused to catch her breath between the whoops! of the alert klaxons.
The rapid fire of the mag-rail guns spat from the ship’s cannons on the port side. Avery could hear it, tinny and sputtering, through the ship’s speakers. She could feel it thrumming in the cold metal of the wall beneath her palms. The deck pitched slightly before the artificial gravity caught up. She leaned into the wall as Avenger came about hard to port, aiming its heavy laser turrets into the flaming hole created by the rail guns. The ship’s—her ship’s—hull groaned with the effort of turning at too tight an angle.
Goddamn it, Malcolm. What are you doing to my—
“Enemy disabled, Commander!” came the report from Sensors. The echo of the young ensign’s excitement sounded strained as it bounced along Avenger’s austere walls. Avery let herself relax and exhaled.
“And Avenger?” asked Commander Malcolm Brent.
Here it came.
“Um—we were destroyed fifteen seconds ago. Sir.” The ensign at Sensors, Buckland if she recalled the duty roster correctly, sounded downright disappointed to be dead. Even if it was only a simulated death.
“Damn it!” Brent’s frustration echoed around the ship. Broadcasting simulations was a choice Avery had made when they’d begun running drills a week after her commissioning as Avenger’s captain. It gave the active crew an audience, and that created competition between shifts. Off-duty personnel critiqued their peers and, likewise, endured critiques themselves when on duty. In the little time they had left, unit cohesion was being tempered in the forge of shared defeats and victories. Plus, it let her keep tabs on the drills while she jogged her own nervous energy away through the ship’s corridors.
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