Endless Night (The Guild Wars Book 3)

by Tim C. Taylor

  Midnight Sun took them out with railguns and defensive lasers of her own. They weren’t as effective as the Hellburners, but it was enough for now.

  “Damn!”

  Crackle lost power to two of her engines. The two remaining torches took up the slack, but she fell out of position.

  “Tell Crackle to maintain constant heading. All other ships break left.”

  Under Midnight Sun’s instructions, she and the two other Hellburners peeled away.

  Blue put ten seconds of distance from the stricken ship, and then issued its final order.

  “Sayonara, Crackle.”

  The Hellburner blew up.

  Even at this distance, Midnight Sun’s shields flared with brilliant colors as they dissipated the ferocious energy assault from Crackle’s explosive exit. Blue felt a massive boot give her flank a savage kick.

  Explosions in space were usually pretty puffs of nothing. With no medium to travel through, there could be no pressure wave. If you were within a few tens of meters, you might experience a warm exhalation of gas. If you were that close then being hit by flying debris was a far bigger hazard, but at the distance Midnight Sun had already put between her and Crackle, shrapnel was not an issue. Space was just too big.

  Something about these bombs was wildly different, though. She would hate to be near a Hellburner going up in real life.

  It might not be a pressure wave, but a zone of destruction expanded out from Crackle’s corpse, silencing drones.

  They were halfway through the drone pack now. For all the tens of thousands of drones they’d taken out, many more still survived.

  On the far side of the drones were the battleship-led flotillas thrusting to block Blue’s path. And beyond that were the orbital batteries.

  But she was Captain Blue. She always found a way to bring home the mission in the end.

  “Pop. Go long.”

  In real life, Midnight Sun was docked a short distance away on Station 5, but the remote connection of the sim suite on Blunt Justice was so slick that the ancient warship fitted just as snugly into her mind as it did back home. It wasn’t only her running these scenarios. Her teammate was with her, too.

  The ship relayed her command, and Pop’s fusion torch flared to new extremes.

  Pop sprang forward under 20G thrust. No maneuvering, just raw speed barreling through the last waves of drones. The Hellburner lashed out with her defensive fire as efficiently as ever, but when she’d arrived in the Planet-3 scenario system, the four ships had given each other mutually protective fire. Now she was on her own and taking damage.

  Snap and Midnight Sun were hurting, too.

  Blue pushed her torch up to a 7G burn. It was the fastest this scenario would allow, and then only for a maximum of 150 seconds.

  Laser fire penetrated her shields, searing her flesh. Her sensors screeched with alarm when a particle beam began to scalp her.

  It was no use. She had to break off.

  Telling Snap to leave her and accelerate to ramming speed for the planet, she rolled and jinked, threw out clouds of salted plasma to confuse the targeting lasers trying to paint her scorched hull.

  She bought enough respite to take stock of the battlespace.

  Pop was almost through the drones, but about to be cut in two by the battleship rolling to present a fuck-all big spinal mount weapon.

  So close, but not near enough.

  “Arrivederci, Pop.”

  Pop exploded. Drones died in her wake. The battleship ripped open like the petals of a metal flower on fire.

  The last Hellburner pushed onward, through the drones now. Blue borrowed Snap’s viewpoint and saw Planet-3. The target of this bombing mission was close enough that through the gaps in the red clouds, Blue could make out details: smears of urbanized land, the bright contrast of the polar ice against a gloomy world, even the silver thread of an elevator cable lifting from an equatorial island up to its orbital tether.

  Blue roared with anger. This was the closest she’d made it yet, but it wasn’t going to be enough. Pop had taken out a battleship, but there were more ships in the flotilla, with another one nearly in range. And then there were the orbitals.

  The detail on Planet-3 was stunning. Why had the Goltar put so much effort into its design when they hadn’t put much thought into its name?

  They hadn’t imbued the other scenarios with this much detail.

  Was Planet-3 a real location?

  Snap fell black. Comms were lost.

  The scenario ended when the last Hellburner was destroyed. As she batted away attacks and hid behind her plasma shield, Blue seized the last few moments of the simulation to figure out where the hell she was.

  Six planets were close enough to detect, and another three former planets were slowly transforming into debris rings around a star that was…weird.

  It glowed like a red coal, yet it was neither a red giant nor the red dwarf she’d always assumed. It bore all the signs of a typical main sequence star except for a lack of high energy blue light. Ultraviolet was nominal, but blue…It was as if it had been deliberately stripped out by some kind of artificial filter.

  A Dyson shell? What race had the audacity to build such a megastructure?

  She shook away the thought. Midnight Sun hungered for battle, and to do otherwise would attract attention from the simulator techs.

  Screaming battle cries, she charged through the last of the drones.

  She survived three seconds before her world went black.

  A few moments later and the universe illuminated once more. She was back in her bubble of amber sweet liquid, like scented olive oil.

  With the Planet-3 scenario, she usually came out angry, still full of fight. This time, she was stuffed with questions.

  Suppose the Planet-3 system was a real location? Why would anyone want to strip high energy blue light from a star? To mine it for energy, she supposed.

  That would leave the planets of that star system in perpetual ruddy gloom, though with plenty of UV for photosynthesis and its analog processes.

  She was no planetary scientist, but wouldn’t daylight on the surface of Planet-3 be a permanent dark sunset? Any species that evolved there would be dazzled by the light of other stars.

  A race of albino packrat moles came to mind. Everybody’s favorite archenemies always wore googles to protect their sensitive eyes. Was she wargaming a strike on the Veetanho home world?

  The ship had nothing to say on the matter, but her alien personnel were forever telling her Humans had a serious weakness for seeing patterns that weren’t really there. She shouldn’t jump to dangerous conclusions.

  But the knots twisting her guts refused to release.

  The last time she’d come to Station 5, she’d arrived as a bum and left commanding an ancient battlecruiser.

  She hadn’t been lucky.

  She’d been groomed as a suicide bomber!

  Now the ship reacted. Not only did she sense agreement, but excitement at the prospect of making this suicide run for real.

  Abso-fucking-lutely awesome.

  “I think you made a mistake, sweetie,” she told the Goltar technician she knew was listening in. She was desperate to hear her own voice. “You meant to give me ultra-hard mode but left it on impossible by mistake.”

  “Real life is extraordinarily difficult,” replied the disembodied voice of the Goltar. “Are you saying victory cannot be achieved in this scenario?”

  “No. I’m just saying I understand now why you bone-squids needed me so badly. Only the very best can win this game, and that’s exactly what I intend to do. Restart. I want to replay.”

  The Goltar laughed. Blue had spent so much time around the species that she could picture it wriggling alternate tentacles in amusement. She’d also spent so much time in these simulations that Midnight Sun could crawl unseen along the fat data feeds and sneak into the simulation controller.

  “We’re not ready,” said the Goltar. “We need to complete d
ata capture and recalibrate before going again. Get some rest.”

  Blue laughed. “That’s exactly what I was intending to do.”

  Silly Goltar. Didn’t the bone-squid know who it was dealing with? Nothing relaxed Blue more than going places she was not supposed to go. She piggybacked on Midnight Sun’s trespass into the Goltar data arrays.

  It was time to find out what was really going on.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chaxnax Bar, Deck 20, Vane 2, Station 5

  Sun decided it was better to smile at Branco through the recreational fumes that choked the bar rather than let her irritation show.

  He grinned back.

  It had been her decision to put him in charge of this group, after all, and he did seem to be returning to life.

  Unfortunately, the new lease on life she’d desperately wanted for Branco had led to him mentioning to Betty that Sun was scheming to put an adventure team together to give him something useful to do. Naturally, Betty assumed any escapades involving her favorite Humans included her too.

  She had been clingy with Sun ever since Tatterjee had died. While Branco had been under sedation, she’d often asked whether her Human friend was going to get better.

  A needy Tortantula.

  It wasn’t what Sun wanted, but how could you tell a giant killing machine that you didn’t want her on your team? Besides, gigantic killing machines had their uses.

  Drinks in hands, or analogous manipulative organs, the group was ready to get down to serious business. Branco appeared about to kick off the proceedings when the bar erupted into yapping, cheers, and enthusiastic howls as the patrons showed their appreciation for the act leaving the stage. The others—Jenkins, Branco and Betty—joined in.

  Sun didn’t get it.

  Kenngarr had recommended the Chaxnax Bar for its live performances. The Zuul act that had just been on was a cross between stand-up comedy and dancing that was presumably erotic—if you were the kind of being to enjoy prominent displays of surgically enhanced Zuul hindquarters, and roiling clouds of alien sexual pheromones. Given the diverse clientele thronging the bar, plenty of beings did. Including all of her companions, although Betty had probably regarded the Zuul as a dancing dinner.

  “Okay, seeing as I’m in charge, apparently,” Branco winked at Sun, “I call our band of adventurers to order. Our first business is to decide on a name.”

  “Truth seekers,” suggested Jenkins from atop his long stool.

  Branco tried out the name. “The Truth Seekers.” He shook his head. “Sounds like a series of children’s books. We need more grit.”

  Jenkins shot his antennae up with excitement. “We should be the Thunder Strikers. Do not oppose us, for you will surely be thunderstruck.”

  Sun laughed. “I take it you’ve been listening to ancient Earth rock music again.”

  “I have no choice.” Jenkins drooped. “Your sister makes me.”

  “Nice try,” said Branco, “but I’ve got a better one. Betty’s Bitches.”

  “Yes, I like that name,” said the Tortantula, who wasn’t so much sitting at their table as occupying the nearby area of the bar, casting an exclusion zone of at least ten meters. “And since you’re my bitches, I shall tell you my plan.”

  Sun took a long sip of her whiskey. This would be amusing.

  Betty shifted her head to regard Jenkins with her detail eyes. “Our little snackling says his Hopper-mate is defended by guards. You’re probably thinking we should march over there immediately and eat them, but Betty is wiser than that. We must be disciplined and first learn who has employed the guards, then we kill both employer and guards. If we only slaughter the underlings, Hopper will not be free of danger. Also, we get to eat more people this way.”

  “A good plan,” said Sun. “What do you say, Branco?”

  Branco wheeled over to the Tortantula and reached up to high five one of her palps. “You are indeed wise, Betty. We’ll go with your plan. We surveil Hopper’s guards and let them lead us up the chain. You’re the expert spy, Jenkins. How do we do that?”

  Sun lifted the glass to her lips again to cover her mouth-splitting grin at Jenkins lifting his fore-segments off his couch. Being called an expert spy was very much to the Jeha’s liking.

  It must have been tough on Hopper to be taken by dangerous people, but the operation to free her was working better than she’d dared hope. It was just the tonic Branco needed.

  Suddenly she registered the unexpected strain the constant smiling was placing on her cheek muscles.

  Clearly, Betty’s Bitches was good for her, too.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Jenkins’ prosthetic carapace segments completely altered his appearance in the eyes of other Jeha. To fool other species, he adopted the persona and uniform of a Station 5, Vane 3 life support technician, senior class. Jenkins clicked a tuneful melody to himself as he walked the corridors of the luxury cabin sector of Deck 8. In front of him, he pushed a low trolley of legitimate maintenance equipment, among which were some creations of his own.

  Even when he passed the horrible Goka loitering nearby, he didn’t curl his segments. Didn’t even falter in his tune.

  Branco had called him an expert spy and he wasn’t going to let the Human down.

  As he made his way down the corridor, he sowed miniature surveillance devices into the thick carpet.

  When he reached Hopper’s door, he stopped just outside and had to fight against the urge to caress it with his antennae.

  The memory of his encounter with Hopper was so intense, his mind insisted he could smell the cabin on the other side of that door. Jeha themselves gave off very little odor, but her room smelled of warm bark lightly scented with dying flowers. He thought of it as her scent.

  Such foolishness won’t free her. Grow a backbone.

  Hopper hadn’t emerged for two days. If she wasn’t able to get out, Jenkins would have to find a way to get through to her. His attempts to access her cabin through ventilation shafts and bulkhead crawlspaces had been foiled by impressive levels of physical security, so he’d have to go through that door.

  Checking that he was unobserved, he fixed his door cracker device to the bulkhead.

  “I haven’t abandoned you,” he murmured.

  His tuneful clicking sped up as he got the hell out of there, sowing more eyes and ears into the carpet as he fled.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Revised search running,” announced Jenkins. “Search criteria narrowing target cohort to…eighty-one candidate craft.”

  Branco crossed his fingers and leaned back in his new chair, regarding the excited Jeha.

  The alien’s “voice” consisted of clicks and scratches, which were translated into English—or Danish when it suited him—by the pendant around Branco’s neck; the pinplants he normally relied upon for translation hurt too much for him to use. There was an option to add nuance and emotion to the pendant’s voice, but he found it untrustworthy and switched it off. He preferred to rely on his observational skills instead.

  Normally super-focused, Jenkins was forever interrupting his work to satisfy an urge to circle around his workstation couch like a dog settling for the night. His antennae flicked constantly with nervous energy. Translation: the Jeha was completely stoked.

  Jenkins was in his element, all right. Problem-solving was better than sex for the Jeha ladies’ man, as his friend had once let slip in an unguarded moment over fermented nectar. Branco wasn’t so sure that held true anymore, not since this Hopper had gotten under his Jeha friend’s carapace.

  “Eighty-one, eh?” said Branco. “Don’t worry. We’re just getting started. Now that we’ve got your search intelligence working, it’s just a matter of refining the parameters. And that’s where I come in.”

  The door to the office suite opened and a decidedly non-metaphorical presence came in.

  Under the name of Betty�
�s Bitches, they’d rented a workstation in one of the office suites on Vane 3, Deck 14, Sector 3. The ultra-high spec slates that came with the hire fee were optimized for tunneling through layers of encryption while covering tracks. Essentially, the office was a venue aimed at hackers-for-hire, but of the forty workstations, all but one was vacant thanks to the Tortantula who checked on progress in person every half hour or so.

  “Well, bitches?”

  “We’re getting there, boss.” Branco tossed Betty a salute.

  Jenkins looked away from the slate display and waved antennae in her direction. “We’re building up a surveillance picture of Hopper’s guards but haven’t yet made a connection to anyone else. Meanwhile, our other task proceeds well. Between my genius for mathematics and stealth coding, and given Branco’s talent for sneakiness, our work has been exceptional.”

  “That is well,” Betty replied. “You must complete your tasks quickly.”

  “Something happened?” asked Branco, the every-present pain between his eyes intensifying. He’d always thought this playtime escapade was too good to be true. “Has Gloriana returned? Are we moving out?”

  Betty fixed him with her detail eyes. “Branco, it is good that you are my friend, or I would hurt you for being so stupid. No, nothing is new. The requirement for urgency was already clear. Jenkins must find his Hopper so that he stops annoying me with his agitation, and you need to go on an adventure with Major Sun because your mating is long overdue. But before you mate, I need you both to run an additional search pattern. I want you to find the Riderless Tortantula.”

  “You can bank on us, boss.” Branco regarded the Tortantula. What went on inside that complicated brain? Whatever it was, it was very strange.

  It felt weird to admit it, but Branco was glad Sun wasn’t here. His head was a throbbing mess, his legs itched ferociously, and his lungs burned with fire.

  Whenever he allowed the truth of his pain to escape, Sun would flinch but say nothing. If the aliens noticed, they either didn’t care or he was blind to their reaction. He could be himself with Jenkins and Betty: the dying man in pain who could nonetheless accomplish plenty that hale people could only dream of.