McKnight's Mission: A House Divided, Book 1 (Spineward Sectors- Middleton's Pride 4)

by Caleb Wachter

  “Here we are,” Lynch declared as the massive pressure doors through which they had entered began to close behind them with a palpable grinding of gears which reverberated through the deck of the assault lander as the Fist’s engines audibly powered down, “home, sweet home.”

  “This is amazing,” Dr. Middleton said as the retinue of nearly fifty MSP personnel and their friends carefully made their way through the corridor adjoining the shuttle bay. The gravity here was so light that everyone save Lynch employed the long handrails as they half-walked, half-pulled themselves down the length of the corridor.

  Lu Bu was decidedly less impressed than her companions, but Traian at her side seemed every bit as fascinated—or possibly reverent—as the rest of the ship’s newest crew as he breathed, “I never even considered the possibility that I might walk on one of these things in my lifetime.”

  “It is old,” Lu Bu sniffed, hearing a grunt of approval from the blond-haired Tracto-an with the horribly scarred head. She pointed to a nearby streak of rust which would have sent Chief Garibaldi into a screaming fit and added, “And poorly maintained.”

  “Iron and oxygen was never a good mix,” Lynch said casually as they approached a lift platform which was easily large enough to hold twice as many people as those which had just exited the shuttle hangar. “She’ll do what’s needed of her, though.”

  The lift descended, and the apparent gravity blessedly increased until it was something resembling standard for a naval warship. When they reached their destination level, which was nearly a hundred meters ‘down’ from where their shuttles had landed, Lu Bu saw a surprising sight: several Tracto-ans in navy uniforms of unfamiliar design, emblazoned with what looked like a pair of slightly asymmetrical, foot-long, icy-blue serpent’s fangs over the chest.

  The nearest was a tall, shapely woman with a predator’s countenance, whose uniform bore a pair of eyes above the same blue fangs prominently displayed on the rest of the Tracto-ans’ uniforms. “Warlord Lynch,” she greeted, bowing to him deferentially, “we are honored by your hospitality.”

  “I’m just glad we could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement,” Lynch said, looking at the assemblage of Tracto-ans appraisingly, “your people did good work back there, Valeria.”

  Lu Bu noted that most of the Tracto-ans who had survived the siege of the Beta Site wore a similar-looking pair of fangs on their uniforms, but the white-bearded warrior called Ganymede and the blond, scarred Tracto-an with the perfect physical dimensions were outliers. The white-bearded one instead had a scroll of some kind emblazoned proudly on his shirt, while the horribly scarred one sported some kind of demonic octopus or squid on his chest.

  “And I think it’s time that we all get to know each other,” Lynch continued, gesturing to a nearby door. “Anyone who wants to attend this little sit-down is welcome to do so.”

  He led the way, with the MSP crew close behind. Valeria followed, flanked by a pair of powerfully-built warriors whose haughty demeanors actually caused Lu Bu to snort derisively before shaking her head in disgust.

  When they reached that door, Lynch activated the manual unlocking mechanism and the door slid sideways. One by one the fifty or so people filed into the room, but when Ganymede and the blond Tracto-an neared the door Lynch held up a hand haltingly. “Not you two,” he said flatly.

  “We are to be barred?” the blond Tracto-an demanded.

  “I’m only lettin’ people into this meeting if I know who they are,” Lynch said levelly. “Y’all have lied about your identities since I met you, which was understandable to a point, but you’ll come to find that I value honesty above most everything else in my relationships. So you’re free to keep your identities secret if you want, but I ain’t lettin’ you in this room if you insist on anonymity.”

  Lu Bu stood inside the door and watched the two Tracto-ans share a look before the white-bearded one shrugged indifferently. “My birth name was indeed Ganymede, but I have long since abandoned it in favor of my firstborn son’s name: Nazoraios.”

  Lynch nodded, turning to the blond warrior and saying, “And you?”

  The scarred warrior scowled and cast a dire look at Nazoraios before biting out, “In my past life…my name was Nikomedes.”

  “Well ‘til you think of a better one, that’s the name I’ll use for you,” Lynch said, beckoning for them to follow him into the room.

  The warriors entered the room, and Lu Bu narrowed her eyes as she recalled somewhat legendary tales of a man named Nikomedes—one who had challenged Admiral Montagne to a duel during the Admiral’s first visit to Tracto.

  His name was prominent enough in conversation that she had assumed him to be some mythical creation of exaggeration rather than a flesh and blood man deserving of even a fraction of the esteem his countrymen had bestowed upon him. After seeing him in action against the Senatorial Guardsmen, she wasn’t sure if she was more or less impressed after learning his history.

  “All right, time for a couple more introductions,” Lynch said after the last of the crew had filed into the giant conference room. There was a massive, circular table situated in the center of the compartment, and it looked like it could nearly seat every person who had passed through the door behind them. “Y’all know Fisher, who’s been my right-hand man for longer than I’d care to think,” he gestured to the ever-smiling, stocky operative to his immediate right. “And I’m sure you’ll all get to know each other over the next few months, but there’s still two members of my crew I think it’s important to bring out into the open just now.”

  Footfalls came from the corridor beyond the door, and Lu Bu turned to see a pair of surprisingly familiar figures enter the room.

  The first was Raphael Tremblay—the traitorous dog who Lu Bu had gleefully shoved into an escape pod on Captain Middleton’s orders under the pretense of sending him and his companion on a suicide diplomatic mission. Of course, she had always assumed that particular pretense had been false and that he had been functionally executed during that ‘mission,’ but seeing him striding purposefully across the floor toward Lynch’s left side cast heavy doubt on that particular belief.

  At Tremblay’s side was a woman whose light brown skin, slender build, serpentine eyes and haughty demeanor were as unforgettable as they were repugnant.

  “Allow me to introduce Raphael Trembly, who you might call my Chief of Intelligence,” Lynch declared as Tremblay took the last few steps separating them. Tremblay scowled at the obvious mispronunciation of his last name, but made no vocal protest as Lynch continued, “And this is my wife, Bethany Tilday-Vekna-Raubach—who assures me she’ll drop the ‘Tilday’ as soon as our union is officially recognized by an Imperial court.”

  Lu Bu saw looks of patent disbelief on the faces of her shipmates—including Shiyuan and Fengxiao, the latter of whom had chosen to join the mission before knowing that Shiyuan was both alive and also participating in that mission—and she noted with muted disdain how Lynch appeared to revel in their discomfort as he tapped out a series of commands on his wrist-link.

  “Now,” he said, leaning forward and placing his knuckles against the tabletop, “let’s go make history.”

  No sooner had he finished his query than Lu Bu heard a loud thrum reverberate throughout the ship’s interior, growing in pitch and volume for several seconds until reaching a crescendo and then descending to the sub-audible range. It was as though the air was knocked from her lungs, and a wholly unfamiliar set of sensations enveloped her as the ship tore through the fabric of space-time. She knew that the group had taken its first step on a path which she had faith would ultimately deliver her to her destiny, which she suspected would not easily reveal itself.

  And that promised yet another fight that she was eager and ready for.

  Epilogue: A Dark Awakening

  The dream came as it had done on most nights since he had first experienced it. It somehow seemed to Traian as though each time he dreamt it, another tiny sliver of detail was re
vealed to him which had not previously been part of the experience. But he also inexplicably knew that just like every other time, he would forget the dream’s details after awakening.

  This particular dream had been no small part of why he had begun to drink back on Capital, and while he could not recall the details of the dark, disturbing sequence, he always awoke in a sweat—and, more often than not, with a cry bursting from his lips.

  He tried to pull back from the dream, to escape its icy clutches, but just as before he was unable to do so. It was as though the dream possessed a well of gravity which inexorably pulled him closer and closer to the harrowing experience, and try as he might he was unable to prevent his consciousness from descending into it yet again.

  Traian resisted the dream as long as he could do so, and then as with all the other times he found himself looking up at the giant, cylindrical device in the Perilous Halibut’s hull. It was most certainly alien—a self-evident fact if ever Traian had been exposed to one, which he did not need carbon dating or other scientific examinations to confirm. He was completing a routine sweep of the cargo hold, and had just checked in with Abydos to confirm that the hold was clear.

  Suddenly, he saw a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye and, just as he had trained to do, he whirled and trained his blaster rifle on it with every intention of firing. But he was too slow, and his eyes focused on the blur barely before he felt the impact of a large, metallic object strike his shoulder. That impact sent him flying into the alien device some ten meters behind where he’d stood with bone-cracking force that he felt certain had broken several of his lower ribs. He actually pondered the unlikelihood of surviving such a crushing blow in the brief interval between his striking the alien device and falling to the deck, but his choked, agony-filled breaths confirmed that he was very much alive—at least for the moment.

  Struggling to move, he barely managed to roll onto his side and see his blaster rifle lying several meters away—then he saw the dark, menacing figure move toward him, and he was filled with a dread so profound he was mortally certain his life was about to end.

  “You…” he heard the metallic, hissing voice say in surprise. It sounded neither male nor female, and seemed more than slightly mechanical in nature—and that mechanical nature was confirmed when he saw gleaming bits of metal beneath the tattered robes which had concealed the creature’s entire body the last time that he had seen it. “You…” it repeated as the vaguely human creature came fully into view, and Traian felt a terror unlike anything he had ever experienced as his lungs finally sucked in a desperate breath of air.

  The creature before him was the Dark Seer—the same one which he, Corporal Lu, Yide, and Hutch had seen during their first visit to the Perilous Halibut’s cargo hold, and to see the monstrous fusion of metal and flesh beneath the tattered remnants of the creature’s robe was enough to prompt Traian to scream as he fumbled for the activation switch on his com-link.

  But before his fingers could reach the switch on his collar, a pair of slender tendrils—which were composed of smooth, metal joints so seamless that they appeared to flow perfectly into another—lashed out and gripped his wrists with a strength possessed only by machines. A third tendril struck him precisely in the chest and cut his scream off before it could pass his lips, and Traian became oddly serene as he grew certain that the next few moments would be his last.

  “The threads…of probability…have shown that…my end…is at hand,” the creature hissed as it drew nearer, and Traian saw the ghastly visage of a creature that had at one point almost certainly been human, but was so horribly changed that only the barest traces of human facial geometry remained. “But fate…it seems,” the creature continued in its hissing, metallic voice, “is not without…a thirst for vengeance. Fate has a plan…for you, Tray.”

  Hearing the creature speak a familiar name that only a handful of people had ever known—let alone used regularly—Traian froze for a moment in shock. Then he resumed his defiant struggle, to absolutely no avail, as a fourth tendril slowly uncoiled from within the creature’s ruined vestments. But this one was clearly different than the others. It seemed only slightly larger in diameter than a human hair, though the dancing arcs of electricity cascading up and down its length made clear that it was not organic.

  “Vali Funar…your best friend…was murdered, Tray,” the creature said malevolently as the hair-like tendril neared Traian’s left eye, “and I…will give you…everything you need…to take revenge…against his killer.”

  Sucking in another breath right as his vision began to narrow, Traian leaned his head back as far as he could while the hair-like fiber continued to draw ever nearer to his eye. “Who are you?” he gasped, wondering what the Dark Seer meant by calling Val’s death a murder. “Val died on Cagnzyz,” he wheezed, “Cagnzyz was destroyed by the Pride!”

  “He did…and it was,” the Dark Seer agreed, “but his killer escaped. Don’t you want…to punish him?” The Dark Seer leaned forward and, though he suspected the hideous visage of the inhuman creature would haunt him every time he closed his eyes, Traian held firm and ignored the weaving hair-like tendril in front of his eye as the creature continued, “Don’t you want to avenge…your friend’s murder?”

  Vali Funar had been more like a brother to Traian than anyone else Tray had ever known. But even that fact was not enough to sway Traian from his determination to resist this foul creature, and he thrust his chin out defiantly. “Get spaced—whatever it is you want, I won’t do it,” he growled, knowing those words could very well be his last and taking great pride in what might be his final act of defiance.

  “Oh yes…” the Dark Seer said coldly, “you will.”

  The tendril stabbed into his eye, and pain unlike anything Traian had ever known assaulted his consciousness. A white hot bolt of pure, unadulterated agony filled his senses and somehow blended seamlessly with the dark, blessed void of unconsciousness. It was then, for the briefest of moments, that Traian felt utterly disconnected from time and space in a way that far transcended the comparative bliss of a deep sleep.

  And then, for the first time, he saw.

  The End

  Middleton’s Pride, Book 5 Preview Chapter: The Assignment

  Working the hind end of space was and understandably dirty job. But it was one which Larissa ‘Snake Eyes’ Patterson had drawn, and she would be deep-fried in thrice-recycled lavatory cleanser before failing an assignment of any kind.

  The light freighter she was piloting, called the Rusty Unit — likely due to its cheap, iron construction which had clearly seen better days — literally shook all around her as she made a course adjustment to investigate an anomaly which her craft’s pitiful sensor suite had detected. She had made this run a dozen times over the last two years — a period which had almost perfectly matched the length of her assignment, starting when she had killed the craft’s previous operator not long after arriving in this stink-hole of a system — but the Unit’s sensors had never picked up anything on those trips save the nearly empty vacuum of interplanetary space.

  The comm. bud in her ear buzzed with barely audible volume, alerting her to an entirely predictable inbound communication from her escort team. She had turned down the bud’s volume to protect her extraordinary hearing from being damaged by the crude gear, and a sour expression came across her features as she gave a long-suffering sigh at being forced to interact with her escorts.

  Switching the earbud to full volume, she accepted the incoming call with what had become a customary delay of several seconds. These beyond-the-rim types were a rough bunch, and if one was too polite with them they would take it as a sign of weakness — a certain mistake when it came to dealing with the slender woman known as Snake Eyes. She had earned the nickname for her skill with a certain pair of easily concealed vibro-sticks which, when properly employed, could stab through the thickest duralloy armor like it was a slice of warm bread. She had left more than a few pairs of so-called ‘sn
ake eyes’ in the protective gear of those who had thought her an easy target, and that reputation had likely prevented a dozen times as many similar confrontations from ever materializing.

  “This is Patterson,” she acknowledged testily as she worked to balance the Unit’s power grid as she fought to compensate for the suddenly increased draw of the craft’s engines. The ship’s reactor was only barely usable, spilling radiation out of its core badly enough that she had taken to monthly injections of the best radiation treatments available out here in this cesspit of a system. When she finally got back to civilized space, she was determined to have a thorough cleansing of her system, along with a full-on genetic restoration cycle on a pleasure world where she could indulge her every appetite and fancy.

  “The terms of our contract clearly stipulate,” the crackling voice of the fighter pilot whose craft now flanked the Unit’s port side, “that we escort you to the coordinates, you collect whatever you can find in thirty six hours, and then we escort you back to the Barn. You know full well that any course deviations not made in the effort of avoiding navigation hazards will cost you extra — and last I checked, you were already up to your cute little ponytail in debt to the boss.”

  “Now, now, Wedge,” Larissa said with icy disdain, feigning disappointment as she worked to cultivate her strategic relationship with the burly fighter pilot, “I never knew you stick-jockeys were so skittish.”

  “Return to the established course, ma’am,” Wedge instructed, his professional tone masking what she knew was at least some measure of genuine concern for her — concern she had cultivated during the past several months of their mutual deployment, “or the only way you’ll be able to pay the overages will be a less than pleasant experience at the hands of the boss…or one of his friends.”