Chimera Company: Rho-Torkis. Issue 1.: A sci-fi adventure serial Read online

  Three thousand years before, the Exiles had settled at Far Reach in the Perseus Arm of the galaxy, cut off forever from Earth and the Orion Spur by unimaginably vast distances. In those far-off days, many of the first settlers still referred to themselves as the Human Legion as if it were a single unified entity.

  It wasn’t.

  In the first decades, as the fledgling Federation battled for survival against both the harshness of alien ecosystems and then slave raiders and invasion fleets, the need to work together today, or die apart tomorrow, taped over the worst of the cracks. They even gave themselves a new name – the Amilxi – and for a time, individuals of all species, religions and political persuasions pledged themselves to this new identity.

  And when the Federation could at last breathe easy, free for a time from existential crises, the cracks in its unity had been ripped apart in blood and bullets.

  It was after the first nukes had started flying, and after asteroids had already been towed into orbits that would suck them down into planetary gravity wells, that the rival leaders paused, their heads collectively knocked together by those old enough to remember a distant time when the factions had stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the War of Liberation.

  The asteroids were diverted into safe orbits.

  Seals were replaced on the nukes.

  And the deep split that had caused the exile in the first place was acknowledged in a new constitutional settlement.

  Military forces split along factional lines. The Far Reach Militia took responsibility for system planetary defenses and protecting against internal disorder. Their supporters were allowed to retain their dominance over the Senate and Council.

  The other faction was renamed the New Human Legion, although that name was soon simplified to the Legion as the Federation began admitting planets populated by species native to the Perseus Arm. It became the Far Reach Federation’s mobile strike force, and a balance to the Militia’s political influence. It was the Legion who had held the line in the war-filled centuries that followed, and the Legion who had then taken sword and fire deep into the home sectors of the Federation’s external enemies.

  There hadn’t been a war for over a thousand years. Neither inside nor outside the Federation’s borders. Not unless you counted the Gorgantheletta Eruption, and that had thankfully been constrained to a single world.

  And there were many who muttered that perhaps the consequences of peace were not all benign.

  Over time, the authors of the constitution had intended that the divisions of their era would gradually fade into irrelevance.

  They hadn’t.

  The Militia had become so corrupt that Osu regarded it as an enemy of the Federation. And the Legion had been starved of funding for so long that if the Federation should ever again face an invader, they would find their doughty Legion had turned brittle.

  And then, a decade ago, the treachery of Legion First General Clarke swept over the Federation like a breath of fetid air. Before that day of infamy, the Legion had known it was the only stalwart institution in the Federation because it was incorruptible. Its honor shone like a beacon of hope in the mire of degenerate pessimism. Not all citizens loved the Legion, but even those doubters trusted it to do what it felt was right.

  Until Clarke, the Commander-in-Chief of the Legion, had been discovered passing military secrets to foreign powers.

  The years since then had been a febrile darkness. From the songs and stories of popular culture to hushed conversations in bars, everyone in Far Reach talked of an inevitable cataclysm to come. Precisely what form that cataclysm would take was a matter of wild speculation, but few would deny that the end times for the Federation in its current form were around the corner.

  Utter drent.

  That’s what Osu had thought of the silly, defeatist talk.

  Until the posting to Rho-Torkis.

  Until today.

  “I hear you cooked up a little drama out in RIL country.”

  Osu looked up into the grinning face of Sergeant Nydella Sanderson of 4th battalion, 83rd Brigade, who’d sortied out from a passing group of friends.

  “I…” Osu started, then gave up talking and grinned instead. Nydella was the reason he was sitting hungry at the table, and not queueing for the food hatch. But he’d been so deep in thought, he hadn’t noticed her.

  He shrugged. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

  Nydella arched an eyebrow. “Really? I hear you had to get your arses pulled out of the fire by the 302nd. The three-oh-second! If that’s not humiliation, I don’t know what is. You should have stuck to digging ditches.”

  “You’re just jealous because SOTLs can send flechettes downrange just as well as you, but we’ve got skills on top that are completely out of reach of you ass scratchers. For a start, you’d need to understand words with more than two syllables.”

  Howls of derision launched from Nydella’s friends.

  “Ditch sniffer.”

  “Wedgehead.”

  “Tunnel Tester.”

  But it was all in good humor, and she waved them away and took a seat opposite Osu.

  Whatever she had been about to say, she thought better of it. Her serious face came into play. “Hey, Sybutu! Cheer up, man. You didn’t lose anyone today.”

  He forced a smile. “No, not since Irisur.”

  She grabbed his forearms and he found himself looking into those dark eyes of hers.

  Sanderson was a robust no-nonsense legionary, which was exactly how Osu liked his women. But Nydella was different. Special. When she chose to deploy them, her open smile twinned with twinkling dark eyes could penetrate his hardest mood and bathe his heart in warmth. No one else had ever been able to do that.

  But her eyes weren’t smiling now.

  “Irisur was months ago,” she told him. “You are not responsible for Lieutenant Szenti’s death. But today you were responsible for your SOTLs. As you will be tomorrow. And the day after. Osu, I’m not saying forget Szenti. Just put his memory in the right slot, okay?”

  He shook his head. “It’s not just the LT. The mess on Irisur… I can’t be sure, but I think it’s happening here too. We didn’t just encounter a rabble with a few old rifles today.”

  “I heard. Holy Azhanti, Osu. They had force panels.”

  “What’s going on here?” he growled. “The others aren’t concerned yet, but you and I know–”

  She dug her fingers into his arms. “We know nothing.”

  Osu freed his hands and crossed them behind his head, trying to look casual. Man, his arms hurt! “Fair point,” he said with a shrug, because with all these inexplicable things going on, there was one rock-solid certainty. The secret they shared needed to stay secret.

  He had been stupid. He could have gotten them both killed as intruders. But that night had been wild, and there was no point asking what he had been thinking of because the reason was sitting in front of him.

  The mission of the two infantry brigades, and now the 27th engineers too, was to protect, support, and isolate the military archaeology going on four klicks to the northeast of Camp Faxian. Area of Special Interest 39.

  The two brigades acted as border guards, boots to pound ASI-39’s security perimeter, but not welcome on the inside where the final zone of security was provided by Strike Shoal Seven, an elite unit of the Legion with – perhaps ironically – Littorane personnel.

  What better way to show off to the boots with the pretty eyes that followed his every move than to enter the forbidden zone? ASI-39 itself?

  In truth, it wasn’t quite as impossible as Sanderson thought.

  Before the Legion took an interest, local archaeologists had dug up a few pre-Federation artifacts at a place they had named the Grove of Serenity. When the Legion took over, pressing many of the archaeologists into military service, the first team here had dug a few ditches and levies as required and started plugging in portable power generators, adding piecemeal to the infrastructure with no thought o
f how big an operation this would eventually become.

  Eventually, someone with a little sense realized the generators running through the same power grid, already stacked far beyond safety limits, would not support the big jump in power requirements for the next phase of the operation. That’s when they called in the 27th.

  And not a moment too soon. It was obvious to the most junior SOTL that it was a miracle ASI-39 hadn’t yet drowned, collapsed, or burned down in an electrical fire.

  While the 27th worked in the blizzards of the initial weeks of its deployment, trying to first make the grove safe before then expanding, Osu had gotten to know the lay of the land, including the many conduits and buried channels the SOTLs could use to move around the site without the howling winds beating them to death. As to what the archaeologists thought they’d found, he’d been no more the wiser.

  But that night, two weeks ago, it had suddenly felt right and proper that he and Sanderson should find out. With luck fueled by copious brandies, and amplified by the ancient urge to impress someone hot, Osu had led her to the grove’s secret heart.

  The only secrets they found there were each other, and that was more than enough, all thoughts of discovering cold artifacts flushed away by the joys of discovering warm flesh. As they were enjoying each other in the heat and shelter of a power junction hut, the floor had suddenly shaken beneath them. Osu had glanced up to see the power throughput monitor on the console above his head was nearing critical. What the hell was all that power needed for?

  With warm protective gear back on, they left the hut to confront a wondrous sight.

  Beneath gentle snow flurries, the ground nearby had revealed itself to be giant ice-covered panels. These slid aside to expose a cavernous underground area like the hangar of a capital warship, although there was only one vessel they could see. Presented to the nighttime sky, an artifact that strongly resembled a small starship was being raised on a pedestal from the depths. Its front section was 120 meters long, and it looked as if its conventional cylindrical shape was made of metal. Three sweptback angular wings bristled with gun ports. The hull also sprouted segmented protrusions of what looked like bleached bone the length of a human arm. These bone hairs dangled limply.

  The weirdest aspect was the rear. The ship had a 100-meter long tail in a slight S-curve that rested on the pedestal. It looked flexible and blubbery, like a Littorane’s, and indeed like a Littorane warrior it ended in a spiked thagomizer club.

  They watched in awe as the ship awoke.

  A blue glow emerged from the hatch in its hull through which fat power cables snaked. The bone hairs stood erect and then bent upward to point at the sky.

  Its long tail twitched.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Osu started to get up.

  Nydella held him back. “It’s beautiful.”

  “You’re beautiful.” He pointed at the alien ship that surely was the explanation for all the excitement over Rho-Torkis. “That down there – that’s danger. It’s something we never saw. It’s something we never discuss. Understand?”

  “Sergeant Sybutu,” she said with drunken solemnity, “often the most beautiful things in the galaxy are also the most dangerous.”

  “Okay. You’re dangerous, Sanderson. And – I guess I like it. But I like avoiding a court-martial even more.”

  “Oorah,” she said offering a hazy salute. “Take me home, Sybutu.”

  They both took a last look at the ship. Its tail stopped twitching and started extending, stretching back a good twenty meters.

  Suddenly, the hut behind them exploded into a cacophony of electronic alarms and the rattle of isolators kicking in as the power feeding into that thing below tripped emergency shutdown protocols.

  The light in the ship’s interior winked out, and they noticed the power hum by its sudden absence. The portable spotlights on the ground were on a different circuit and they illuminated the ship’s death throes as its bone hairs fought for the sky, and its tail-tip flicked aggressively in what looked like a combat strike.

  It fought for about ten seconds before sinking down onto the pedestal.

  Osu had the sense that the ship had fallen unconscious.

  Sanderson must have felt the same because she murmured, “I wonder what it dreams of.”

  Technicians and officials emerged from their hiding places into the hangar space. The recriminations over what had gone wrong were loud enough to reach the witnesses who had no business being there.

  In the confusion, the two lovers had made their escape.

  Osu was prized from his memory by a smile that stretched to sparkling eyes. “Want to talk about it?”

  Knotted muscles relaxed. His worries fled. There were many things about Nydella Sanderson he admired and enjoyed, but most of all, she knew when and how to listen. But that wasn’t what he needed now.

  He shook his head. “First, I need food. Damned cold makes me hungry. It’s beers with the wagon crew in the Washington Drift Bar at 20:00 hours. Want to come?”

  She gave him a look of pure innocence that fooled absolutely no one. “It’s 17:00 now. How high are you planning to heap that food tray? Unless you’re considering death by gluttony, you should have a few hours to kill before 20:00. I could suggest a suitable after-dinner activity to fill the time.”

  Osu looked away, reluctant to appear too serious. “You mean more to me than someone to kill time.”

  He glanced back at her face, fearing she would be backing away from his words, and equally worried that she was delighted by them.

  “I know,” she replied with a noncommittal smile.

  His processor block trilled. With an apologetic shrug, he snapped in an ear stud.

  “Go for Sybutu.”

  “You have been summoned.” It was far below freezing outside, but the chill in Squadron Sergeant Major Vyborg’s voice was colder still. “Get yourself to the colonel’s office. Now!”

  “Do you know why, Sergeant Major?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me. Think, man, what have you done?”

  Sanderson gave him a look of sympathy.

  “I don’t know, Sergeant Major.”

  “Oh, good,” said Vyborg in a voice that sounded the polar opposite of good. “I do so love it when my NCOs set me a mystery.”

  “Maybe it’s good news,” Osu replied before adding quickly, “on my way. Sybutu out.”

  He looked at the serving hatch and Sergeant Sanderson with an equally distraught sense of loss.

  “I’ll bring snacks when I join you tonight at Washington Drift,” she told him. “Now go.”

  He snatched a kiss and tried to smarten his uniform before facing the colonel.

  ——

  Newly promoted Lieutenant-Colonel Malix had arrived on Rho-Torkis on the same transport as the 27th, taking up the position of executive officer to Major-General Levesque, the commander of all Legion operations in the system. The man’s promotion irked Osu’s sense of justice because Malix had been the XO to Colonel Lantosh on Irisur, and no one should be rewarded for the way that ugly business had turned out.

  And yet here he was, looking settled in his padded chair behind the second-swankiest desk in Camp Faxian.

  Lieutenant Stuart and Squadron Sergeant Major Vyborg were present too. Stuart sat down when Malix gestured for them to do so. Vyborg remained as tautly erect as an orbital elevator cable.

  So did Osu, who tried not to breathe and wished invisibility upon himself as he looked for clues as to why he’d been summoned. Had he and Nydella been spotted at the dig site and the consequences only now reaching him? If so, things would go very badly for both of them.

  He hadn’t spoken to Lieutenant-Colonel Malix since Irisur. It had been Malix who’d ordered him not to intervene in the betrayal of good people, but it was Osu who had obeyed those orders and stood aside when he could have made a difference. His choice to make a mockery of the LT’s sacrifice.

  As for Vyborg, he had shrink rays blasting out his eyes
that made Osu feel two-inches tall.

  Only Lieutenant Stuart seemed oblivious to the atmosphere that was as charged as a spinal mount railgun.

  “Stuart,” said the colonel conversationally, “I asked you to drop by because I want to borrow Sergeant Sybutu and some of your half-troop for a special assignment that will take about a week to ten days. I’ve already cleared it with Major Cartwright. I just wanted to give you a chance to voice any concerns.”

  “I’m curious as to the task,” said the lieutenant, “but if the Major’s okay with it, then I’m sure I can work around the temporary absence of Sybutu and... how many men?”

  Out the corner of his eye, Osu saw Malix pause to consider his answer.

  Azhanti! The colonel hadn’t thought of that?

  “Five,” he answered, turning to Vyborg with a questioning look. “Sergeant Major?”

  Vyborg’s face reddened. The enlisted personnel belonged to him as far as he was concerned. Malix was the senior staff officer on the planet, but that didn’t give him leave to ‘borrow’ Vyborg’s people on what looked like a spur of the moment whim.

  The sergeant major cleared his throat. “May I ask for what purpose, Colonel?”

  “I regret I cannot say. Sybutu demonstrated the ability to work independently back on Irisur. I have a task that is somewhat clandestine in nature, and I feel that to dispatch him without an officer will attract less attention.”

  “Is that wise, sir?” asked the sergeant major in a tone that made very clear his view on this matter.

  “We shall see.” The colonel’s expression suddenly went as hard as stone. “Are you making an objection, Sergeant Major?”

  “No, sir. Not at this moment.”

  “Splendid.” Malix was all smiles again. “Just a little adventure for a few days and then we can all get back to normal. Sybutu, wait here so I can brief you personally. Thank you, gentlemen.”

  The other two saluted and marched away, leaving Osu alone at the mercy of the same officer who had ordered him to betray the honor of the Legion.