Valiant (Jurassic War Universe Book 1)

by Kristoff Chimes

  This is no way for a man to die.

  He knew then what he had to do.

  Dax reached out to the sword sheath on his thigh. He drew the Xiphos and ignited it.

  What is a destroyer without its pilot?

  With that thought, Dax held the Xiphos above his head and leapt at the jaws. But the Rex seemed to know what he had planned.

  It headbutted him in the chest and thrust him against a wall. His visor’s health monitor’s spiked into the red. The collision automatically prompted a holographic image of his entire body. It popped up on his visor display. It highlighted functioning body parts in green. Damages parts in red.

  Four ribs turned red. He felt the T.Rex’s front teeth puncture one of Dax’s lungs. That entire side of his chest turned crimson on the holograph.

  The T.Rex pulled back a few feet. Dax tried to slide out of the way. But it was almost as if the best were toying with him. As soon as Dax twitched to slide out of the way, the Rex immediately rammed its great jaws into him again. Slamming him higher against the wall a second time and dislocating one of Dax’s shoulders. The Rex rendered one of Dax’s arms useless and pinned the other, the sword arm against the wall.

  Indicating the back of Dax’s skull, the holograph registered concussion. He felt a tornado of pain ravage his body.

  Damn it, when are the power-armor’s pain killers kicking in?

  Dax vomited into his helmet. He gritted his teeth. Bit down into his tongue. The edges of his vision blurred. Stars appeared in the center of his vision.

  Dear God, I’m blacking out. Not like this... Not like this...

  He thought of his wife and son trapped somewhere in the galaxy. Desperate. Terrified. Hopeless.

  I’m the only one who believes they are alive. If I die, how will they escape?

  Dax screamed with rage. The Rex jolted back its head a few inches, freeing Dax’s sword arm.

  Instinctively, Dax brought up the Xiphos. The glowing red flames shone in the T.Rex’s eye like a candle in a storm. With every last grain of his dying strength, Dax thrust the Xiphos into that eye.

  The Rex’s roar felt like a rusty razor blade slowly severing the mucous membranes of its vocal cords, as the screaming sound wave shattered Dax’s visor.

  The T.Rex pulled away. But Dax kept the Xiphos buried deep into its eye. Dax’s legs dangled in the air and swayed from side to side as he clung to the handle. The Rex shook its head violently as it pawed at him with its small arms.

  The Ursu raised his Cat o’light tails above his head and brought the laser tails cracking down on Dax. The power surge from the Cat o’light tails overloaded the circuitry in Dax’s power-armor. Again and again the Ursu flayed Dax. Each time, the laser-tails inched closer to his eyes.

  All the while, the Rex snapped its jaws at Dax’s dangling legs. Dax knew one or both of them would end him in a matter of moments.

  With the arm of his dislocated shoulder, Dax reached out to the chains of the harness. With his other, he drew out the Xiphos from the Rex’s eye. Using the momentum of his dangling motion, he pulled at the chain and swung himself at the Ursu. Kicking out at the Ursu’s chest, he slashed the Xiphos down against the rusty chain.

  Dax’s busted shoulder screamed out in pain. His grip on the rein slipped. As Dax fell, the Xiphos sliced the chain in half.

  The Rex tossed its head violently to one side and butted the Ursu, sending him tumbling out of his saddle. Dax landed on his back. The Rex turned its head to allow its one good eye to view Dax. It leapt at him, stamping a webbed foot, down on to his chest hard.

  The Ursu landed near Dax and leapt up onto his hind legs. He towered over Dax. He unleashed his Cat o’light tails. The tails wrapped around Dax’s Xiphos. Sparks sizzled up the tails. The Ursu tugged hard and the Xiphos ripped free of Dax’s grip.

  The Ursu charged at Dax.

  Dax kicked out. He pushed himself along on his elbows as he frantically reached for the holster of his side weapon and drew it as fast as he could. The Ursu bounded over and with the claws of one paw slashed at Dax’s weapon, sending it flying across the corridor.

  He stooped over Dax. His claws gripped Dax’s throat. Intense pain shot into Dax’s pectorals and deltoids, as one-by-one the claws sliced up and over his clavicle muscles and the broad sheet of his platysma, until the Ursu held Dax in the air. He studied Dax with curiosity.

  In a deep vice that resonated through Dax, the Ursu said, “Should have packed a back-up, dude.”

  Dax wasn’t sure what was more shocking. Hearing the Ursu speak English in a twentieth century west-coast American drawl, or the fact that he had reminded Dax of something fundamental with utter sincerity. The Ursu even sounded annoyed that Dax had failed to defend himself.

  The Ursu glanced at the rampaging T.Rex as it headbutted the remnants of Alpha and Beta squads.

  “Guess I owe you a slow death for messing up, Franky,” said the Ursu. “But you showed some true grit. So how about I snap your neck real quick? Any final words?”

  Dax whispered.

  “Say what, dude?” the Ursu said.

  Dax whispered again.

  The Ursu lifted Dax closer to one ear.

  “Say that again!”

  Dax reached behind his back to his utility belt. His hands felt a small medi-pack. He ripped it open and clutched a tiny syringe-gun. He whipped it around and stuck it up the Ursu’s nose.

  The Ursu’s eyes crossed together, meeting in the middle and focusing on the syringe-gun.

  “Thanks for reminding me,” Dax said.

  The Ursu smiled. “That’s your idea of a back-up weapon?” the Ursu said and laughed with a great booming staccato that shook his shoulders.

  “You want me to surrender to a toy gun?”

  “This ‘toy gun’ is a prototype head shrinker,” Dax said. “It will fry your fur-ball brains inside your thick skull quicker than an Ursu sneeze.”

  The Ursu’s nostrils twitched.

  “Bet I can snap your neck before you pull that trigger.”

  “Go ahead and try it,” Dax said. “On three?”

  The Ursu grinned and nodded.

  “One...” said Dax. “And two... and...”

  “Wait up,” said the Ursu.

  “For what?” asked Dax.

  “Are we going on the second ‘and’ or on ‘three’?”

  “Are you Ursu or chicken?”

  “Hey. I’m not cool with the details,” the Ursu shouted. “Got a problem with that?”

  The rampaging T.Rex collapsed onto its knees. It slumped to the floor. Its one good eye fluttered close and it seemed to be snoring.

  “What the hell?” the Ursu shouted.

  “Game over, boys,” a young woman’s voice called out.

  The Ursu spun around and jolted.

  Van Cleef stood with one hand holding the back of a young blonde woman’s neck. With his other hand he jammed his weapon into the side of her head.

  Dax wondered what such a young woman was doing on a smuggler’s ship. But he wasn’t fooled by her youth. Judging by the scratches, small dents, and plasma burns on her blue and white power-armor, he considered it possible she was wearing a second-hand suit. But the incorporation of custom moulded breast-plates for comfort, meant it was made for her and therefore she was a seasoned veteran of the space lanes.

  She tapped a sequence of flashing buttons set into a small bracelet.

  The T.Rex collapsed.

  “The Rex is out cold,” she said. “Safe. Well, kinda.”

  She struggled against Van Cleef’s fierce grip.

  “You promised to let me go,” she yelled.

  “First things first,” Van Cleef said. “Now, we got your attention, Ursu, shall we talk?”

  The Ursu sighed. “Listening, dude.”

  “Seeing as this girl was the sniper who pinned down three entire elite marine squads,” said Van Cleef, “I’m guessing she’s a vital member of your crew. What do say, Ursu?”

  The Ursu gro
aned and nodded.

  “So how about a civilized prisoner swap?” said Van Cleef.

  “Here’s the thing, dude,” said the Ursu. “I’m guessing this human with the fancy toy fun is your commander. Seeing as how he’s the only one with any true grit around here. So how about you hand her over before I snap his neck?”

  Dax shoved the tip of the syringe-gun further up the Ursu’s nose.

  “Ouch, dude,” the Ursu yelled. “I got sinus problems, OK?”

  “Just reminding you who got the draw on who,” Dax said. “OK?”

  The Ursu sighed. “Maybe now is as good a time as any to go down fighting, dude.”

  “Or maybe we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement?” Dax said.

  The Ursu sighed. “Nah!”

  Dax felt the Ursu’s claws slice deeper into his throat. He felt blood pour out of his nostrils. Across the remnants of his shattered visor he watched the medical holograph around his neck flashing red.

  Dax felt his larynx crushing. He thought of his wife and son. I’m sorry.

  CHAPTER 33 - CRUISING THE RINGS

  Subject: Civilian cruise ship, Hermes. Location: Rings of Saturn.

  Bron woke up with a jolt in the darkness. She blinked away the rapidly fading dream.

  Was that someone been screaming?

  In the first second of wakefulness, as the twilight of her dream decayed under the glare of consciousness, a shadow held a large knife above her head.

  She threw up her hands to protect herself.

  “Lights,” she shouted.

  Lights gently illuminated the living room of authentic nineteenth century furniture. Modeled on the interior designs of the legendary and ill-fated passenger ship Titanic.

  Too late. The shadow vanished. All the adjoining room doors were shut.

  Just a dream...

  She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and stared at her feet propped up on the barren coffee table. She pulled her knees up to her chest.

  Why am I so paranoid? It was only the screams of joy from revelers partying it up outside, right?

  She glanced at the monitor screen which was set into a wall. It gave her a view of the corridor outside her cabin. The entire corridor seemed empty.

  She checked the time. Only two in the morning.

  How the hell did I sleep through the midnight fireworks?

  Her stomach backflipped. Nausea hit her like a steam train. She swallowed hard.

  It’s way too quiet for a party ship.

  The promise of a once in a lifetime cruise with her rich aunt had quickly ended in a nightmare. For the third night in a row, Bron found herself babysitting her ten year old brother, Codi. While her aunt threw her money away in one of Hermes’ all-night casinos.

  A noise like fingernails scraping slowly down an old twentieth century school backboard echoed through the main cabin door. Bron felt an involuntary shudder down her spine.

  A scream came from the corridor outside. It cut off with a sudden violence.

  Bron jumped up to her feet and felt an empty mini-bottle of tequila roll off her lap. She grabbed at it and missed. It fell to the floor and bounced.

  She forced herself to breathe.

  Calm down, Bron. It’s just folks having more fun than they deserve. Right?

  She avoided checking the monitor. Just in case she was wrong. She glanced at the closed door of Codi’s room. It would be a miracle if he remained asleep after that. She stooped and collected the empty bottle. Breaking into the mini bar and drinking alone was not her idea of fun. She told herself boredom drove her to it.

  This damn cruise was supposed to help me get over Mom and Dad, but I’m missing them more than ever...

  Stuck with babysitting the brat on a Saturday night was top of her hate list. She ambled into her room. The lights didn’t come on automatically and she stubbed her toe. She screamed out. Her hand flew to her mouth.

  Damn, if stink machine doesn’t wake now, he must be dead. Hooray! Maybe there finally is justice in the world!

  She hopped to the bathroom. Glancing momentarily at a wall display, depicting the tools of nineteenth century fur trappers back on Earth. Two huge knives in their original bear skin sheaths gleamed at her.

  Her Aunt had insisted on this mausoleum to their ancestor the nineteenth century fur trapper, Charles M. Doone. In a single season, the legendary adventurer had trapped and skinned three dozen grizzlies. In a black and white photograph, Doone stood by his open top caravan piled high with pelts.

  In another photograph, a portrait taken years later, the trapper turned tycoon sported a vicious slash below one eye. The story handed down through generations was of his last hunting expedition when he and his business partner J.T. Antsworth were marooned by a blizzard. It blew for a fortnight. Running low on rations, they sought shelter from the storm.

  J.T. Antsworth had the misfortune to disturb an adult female bear and its cubs. Charles M.Doone wrestled the twelve feet tall giant grizzly that had ripped open his partner J.T. Antsworth. Bron remembered as a young girl visiting the Doone mansion in the sprawling landscaped grounds of the Hamptons. While playing hide and seek with Codi, she hid behind that same grizzly, stuffed and mounted for display.

  She always thought it odd how Charles M. Doone would bring back the grizzly that killed his partner, but leave behind the body of J.T. Antsworth. His former partner’s wife didn’t seem to think so. She married Doone three months later. Not enough enough time for her first husband’s body to fully decompose in the frozen wilds.

  It seemed Doone put on such a great show of his daring-do that the world was entranced by him. At least no one publicly seemed to doubt Doone at his word. For Charles M. Doone went on to become a state senator, a board member of the biggest railroad company and benefactor in supporting the education of the young by preserving the natural habitat.

  She sniffed the ancient photographs and could smell the hypocrisy in the deteriorating chemicals.

  She hated the way Doone’s eyes seemed to follow her around the room. Daring her to emulate his heroics. Is eyes seemed to say, ‘if you can’t kill, skin and gut your fears, Bron Doone, then you’re no descendant of mine’.

  She hated the way her aunt and Codi idolized Charles M. Doone. To Bron he was just a murderer. Over three hundred years later, with all the native grizzly bears, together with lions, tigers, elephants, rhinos, whales, dolphins and thousands of other species on Earth, now extinct, she felt smugly justified with her contempt for the Doone legacy.

  “If I ever get my hands on the Doone fortune I’ll spend every cent on saving what’s left behind by butchers like you, Doone,” she said to his photograph. “And find a way to bring back what your kind drove to extinction. Then I’ll dig you up, mount you in a display in the Met and hang a sign around your neck saying, ‘pets please pee here!’”

  Yeah, sure, Bron. You’re not jealous of Doone, at all, right?

  She sighed with the torment she’d never get a chance the way people back then embraced adventure as a necessity for survival. Not when she had a puke stain for a brother to babysit. Not when she’d fallen so far behind with her grades that no decent college would take her.

  Not while I’m terrified of my own shadow...

  She struggled to imagine what her mom or dad would say to her now. Having never listened to them in their lifetimes, she felt a sting of regret for not having their voices inside her head to guide her. She hoped they would have told her ‘kill the little runt and be free’.

  She felt another wave of nausea and ran to the bathroom.

  The toilet seat rose as she hurled up her guts. She stared at the vomit of tequila and olives and knew the sensors in the toilet bowl were already analyzing the detritus for hormonal imbalances and mineral deficiency.

  “You are not pregnant, Bron,” a male voice emitted out of the toilet.

  “Thanks for reminding me I have no social life,” she spat back at the PEC.

  She washed her face. She stared at the w
all-mirror with disdain.

  The edges of the wall-mirror glowed red. She knew the mirror sensors were scanning her entire body with silent contempt.

  Puffiness had swallowed up her normally high cheek bones. Guess I’m allergic to tequila... again.

  Her blood-shot eyes squinted at her. She wiped the tear-stained mascara from her face and again blamed the tequila.

  The edges of the wall-mirror seemed to glow a more intense red.

  Bron sighed. “What? I already know I look horrible,” Bron snapped at the mirror. “You don’t have to kick me when I’m down.”

  Bron stuck out her tongue and breathed out on the mirror’s surface.

  “No disease detected in your breath, Bron. Blood alcohol level 0.125,” a creepily patronizing female voice oozed out of the mirror. “Please do not pilot a vehicle for the next six hours.”

  “I’m on a cruise ship, idiot,” Bron snapped. “Like they’ll let me at the wheel.”

  She grinned falsely at the mirror and pulled back her lips. She rubbed a finger over the wide yellow stain on her teeth with frantic precision, but it wouldn’t shift.

  “Perma-clean teeth warranty voided by alcohol consumption, Bron,” the mirror said.

  Bron ran her fingers through her shoulder length brunette hair and peeled matted strands off her face with lifeless zeal.

  “Would you like me to call a salon-bot to give you a makeover, Bron?” asked the mirror.

  “What’s the point?” Bron snapped. “It’s not like I have a hot date.”

  Bron glanced down at the red glow around her sneakers. She turned around to view the reflection of her backside in skinny jeans.

  “Does my bum look big to you?” Bron asked.

  “You have gained one point two pounds around your hips in the preceding twenty four hours,” the mirror said, “and are now six pounds over your target weight, Bron.”

  “You could lie to a girl, you know?” Bron said.

  “Lies would void my warranty, Bron,” the mirror said. “Would you like me to book you a session with a personal trainer, Bron?”

  Bron hated the way the mirror seemed to use her name as a euphemism for ‘you’re a fat, useless slob, totally incapable of getting your life together’.