The Xanthic didn’t have weapons when they attacked Earth. So why do these guys?
The pilot’s voice played inside Wilson’s helmet. “Our starboard wing is toast. We’re going down.” He sounded as relaxed and detached as ever.
Probably so doped up on stims he thinks he’s inside a video game.
“Parachute deployed,” the pilot continued. “She’s seized up, otherwise. Everything’s seized up.”
Wilson felt the shuttle start to spiral out of control, corkscrewing wildly toward the planet’s surface. It would be a rough landing.
“Turn your suits’ force absorption up to max, marines,” Avery said quietly.
Every marine fumbled at his wrist to crank the feature up. The suits would keep them alive—probably. But it was better to impact the ground outside of a shuttle to achieve full shock absorption. Inside, strapped into crash seats…well, it was better than nothing.
The shuttle dashed itself against the ground, and Wilson’s world became one of igniting fuel and flying shrapnel. His power suit’s shocks absorbed some of the impact, distributing the rest evenly across his body. Even so, it hurt like a mother. He felt like a can of the carbonated piss-water Frontier called soda, shaken till it was ready to pop.
Even with all the commotion, he still found he had to rip his restraints off his battered body, not bothering with the buckle. With the suit enhancing his strength, the fabric tore with ease. It’s not like anyone’s going to use this shuttle again.
Avery’s voice came once more. “Laser cutters!” He sounded less calm, now. Actually, he sounded pissed.
Cutters flared to life all over the wrecked craft, accompanied by a high-pitched whine. Wilson set his own cutter to the higher setting and turned to work on the section of hull above his crash seat. Blue beam met steel, piercing it. He moved the cutter’s muzzle slowly, working on his own escape hatch.
The shuttle’s passenger compartment was designed to be flush against the hull, for times like this—the storage compartments were underneath. Wilson finished cutting through before any marines around him did, and when they noticed he was done, they stowed their own cutters and clambered out after him.
The staccato of kinetic weapons roared the moment he pulled himself out, and he dropped to the pavement below, fumbling at the shuttle’s exterior till his fingers found a combat hood’s handle. It pulled out only halfway—but it was a miracle it pulled out at all. The shuttle was tilted sideways in his direction, so he was forced to squat under the cover as he detached his Crossbow 790 assault rifle from his suit, poked it through a firing port, and returned fire.
Wilson took a second to finger the comm controls built into the side of his helmet, switching to a wide channel. “They’ve got us pinned on all sides.”
Weapons fire flashed past in the deepening dusk. Soon, visibility would become an issue—for anyone not wearing a power suit, that was. Could Xanthic see in the dark too?
A tiny box appeared in the top-center of his field of vision, showing a view down his weapon’s barrel, so he didn’t have to lift it to his face to peer down the sights. He drew a bead on his clearest target and fired, the Crossbow vibrating in his hands.
The rounds slammed into the alien, causing it to stagger back. It swung its own weapon around, seeking its attacker. Wilson’s shots seemed to slow the yellow beast…but how much damage was he actually doing?
Its carapace could be pierced. He remembered that from training. But some parts were stronger than others. He forgot which were which. No one had expected marines to have to fight these things here, in the Dawn Cluster.
He switched up his approach, aiming for the darker-yellow, segmented tendrils holding the weapon in place. His aim had always been good, and that held true today. As his rounds sprayed across the weird appendages, they snapped back from the beast’s weapon, and its aim got worse. Nice.
“Aim for the tendrils,” he said over the wide channel.
“The what?” It was Private Peters, who was crouching against the shuttle’s hull just ahead of Wilson.
“Their fingers. Uh—those ropey things they use to hold their weapons. They’re weak.”
Major Avery’s voice came next over the comm. “You heard Wilson, marines. Aim for the tendrils first, then pick them apart as their aim gets worse.”
Wilson’s assault rifle roared in his hands, his morale spiked after the major acknowledged his discovery, even though they were completely surrounded by nightmares.
A volley of Xanthic fire slammed into Peters, and he dropped his weapon, his body completely rigid, fingers curled stiffly around nothing.
Cursing, Wilson left the combat hood, lunging to grab a strap on the back of Peters’ suit. He hauled the private under the protection of the cover. There was only really room for one under the hood, so Wilson crouched just behind it.
“Peters,” he hissed over the comm. “Peters!”
No response. Peters’ suit was blasted apart over his ribcage, the flesh there a charred mess, with a large, spiked projectile sticking out. The power suits were designed to protect the wearer against kinetic weapons, distributing the force of each bullet as evenly as possible across the entire body. So why had the Xanthic’s fire gotten through?
Wilson clawed at the clamps sealing Peters’ helmet to his suit’s neck, popping them off one by one.
When the final clamp was unfastened, he lifted the helmet from the private’s shoulders. What he saw made him bite his tongue, to stop a yell from coming out.
Nothing was left of Peters’ face. In its place was a mass of shiny black tumors, risen like hard bubbles all across what used to be the private’s head.
“VOLATILE SUBSTANCE DETECTED,” Wilson’s HUD told him. “DO NOT REMOVE POWER SUIT UNTIL THOROUGH DECONTAMINATION HAS BEEN PERFORMED.”
I hope you enjoyed this free sample. To read the rest of Free Space, click here to get it.
Dedication
To Lawrence Tate - thank you for your incredible support of my writing.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my Alpha Team, who have been reading this book since its earliest stage and who’ve provided substantial feedback along the way, which helped me develop the story with my readers’ desires foremost in mind. They are Rex Bain, Sheila Beitler, Bruce Brandt, Colin Oliver, Jeff Rudolph, and Ben Varela.
Thank you to my proofreading team, who helped eliminate scores of spelling and grammar issues. I take full responsibility for any mistakes that remain :) My proofreaders are Rex Bain, Sheila Beitler, Bruce Brandt, and Jeff Rudolph.
A special thank you to my Patreon supporters at the Space Fleet Admiral level. Your support helps me to package my books as professionally as possible while staying true to what my readers like best about my books. My Space Fleet Admiral patrons are Brian Loeung, David Middleton, Lawrence Tate, and Michael Van De Hey. Thank you so much.
Thank you also to Patreon supporters Rex Bain, Richard Gunn, Alex Hamilton, Christian Kallias, John A Koenig III, Daniel Mabry, Jason Pennock, Wynand Pretorius, Bill Scarborough, John Tava, Ben Varela, and Jerry Winiarski.
Thank you to Jason Carayanniotis and Chris Evans for helping me flesh out the details for how some of the technology in the book works.
Thank you to Tom Edwards for creating such stunning cover art, as always.
Thank you to my family - Mom, Dad, and Danielle - your support means everything.
Thank you to the people who read my stories, write reviews, and help spread the word. I couldn’t do this without you.
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