Assault on Ambrose Station: A Seth Donovan Novel (5 page)

“I heard rumours. I did notice that some secondary forces are prepping for something, and most of the marine detachments are going too. Doesn’t change anything.”

“I think it does. With fewer people around, it’ll be harder for you to run your…business off the books. Less opportunities as well. Hell, you may even lose some profit due to some of those favours pulling out.”

He eyed me from across the desk. He seemed to be appraising me, much as a hawk monitors carrion that jackals haven’t yet finished with.

“I’d almost forgotten what you frontiersmen were like. You know the score, and you’re ex-military too. I tell you what; I’ll do you a favour. And by that, I mean you are going to do me a favour. Mutual benefit, etcetera, etcetera.”

“What kind of a favour?”

“I need someone to stand in for me for a business deal going down tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Busy man, this guy’s been stuffing me around lately, not showing up that sort of thing. I can’t get away to go meet him and need someone to go see if he’s legit this time.”

“What sort of deal?”

“A collection appraisal, of sorts. Need someone to take a peek, see if they’re genuine for one. I don’t trust any of these depot staunchers not to blab about it before it’s a done deal.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me everything?”

“Hey, do you want this to work or not? Just go meet the guy, check out his products, come back and give me the report. An hour round trip, tops. I’m going out on a limb, here. This fuel is hot product right now, you know. If we get audited, heads will roll.”

I thought about it for a bit. If he was being honest about this deal, it was exactly what we needed. We’d get all the supplies we needed, plus a few others we could afford. Most importantly, we’d get the repairs sorted and our thrusters topped up. If he was as shifty as he appeared, though, and I was getting myself into some trouble….well, we needed the ship up to scratch or we simply wouldn’t be able to survive in the Gossamer System.

I sighed, which Chief Markum took as an acceptance. He smiled and leaned forward, holding his hand out again for me to shake.

“Why do I get the feeling I just got the short end of the stick.” I said as I took it.

“Nonsense. You’ll be fine.”

8.

Before I left Chief Markum’s lair, I asked him if he knew where to find the items on Zoe’s list. He was only too happy to oblige, smiling ear to ear as he walked me from his workshop storeroom. Another hour of walking around the station and I’d come to a far more familiar part of the depot. The section was reserved for ground forces and marine detachments, a combined armoury, quartermaster store and training deck. All around it were the familiar signs of my former career – squads of men in body armour drilling with weapons, field stripping and cleaning equipment, conducting repairs on small arms and armour.

I coped a few stares from menacing soldiers, some gave me what could only be called ‘stink eye’ while others did their best to ignore me. Eventually, I found myself before the quartermaster’s cage next to the armoury, ringing a bell for service. In moments, a grizzled old veteran shambled into sight and took one look at me before calling out for someone. A younger man came into view then and saw me before walking over to the counter. He had gun grease on his fingertips, and work coveralls that bore the signs of frequent work in a machine shop. The old vet just leaned against a shelving unit and sneered at me.

“What can I do for you, sir?” asked the younger man. His name badge identified him as Private Cottle.

“I’m not a sir, I’m a mister.”

“Huh?” he gave me a confused look. Not the brightest kid around.

“My name’s Seth. I was looking for some parts, was wondering if you can help me out?” I offered him my list.

“Er…what unit are you with?”

“Sorry?”

“What ship are you with?”

“The big ship. Citizenship.”

“Oh!” he laughed at that, finally catching on that I was a civilian.

“Can I buy these off you?”

“Oh, we’re not a shop, mister.”

“Can I give you credits, and then you give them to me then?”

“Well, er…” he glanced behind him at the older man, who was doing his best act trying to look bored.

“I don’t think he’ll mind.” I prompted.

“He…ah…well I….”

The older man finally lost his patience, swearing under his breath before barging Private Cottle out of the way, “You’re an idiot, Cottle. This is why you’ll never make Petty Officer. I give you an opportunity, and you lose your head.”

“Training the younger generation?” I offered, smiling at him.

“Kid’s great with tools and gun maintenance, but wouldn’t know a thing about running a quartermasters store.” He shooed the young baffled Cottle out of the store and then turned to me.

“So?”

“So. I’m Porter. You have a certain bearing about you. I can tell you’re one of them ‘actives’. Bounty hunter?”

“Courier, actually. Done some bounty work in the past but it’s not our main business.”

“Courier. Right. Why does a courier need…” he grabbed my list and read through it, “A hyper catalyst module, a high efficiency capacitor and a nanite cooling sleeve?”

“Hobby.”

“A hobby?”

“Yeah, my girlfriend likes to tinker.”

He looked at me deadpan. “You have no idea what this stuff is used for?”

“Nope.” I gave him my innocent best.

He looked like he was about to shout in my face, then his gaze found my medal that still hung from around me neck. Took him about three seconds to recognise it.

“What the fuck?”

“There a problem?”

“I know only a handful of people who have the Primarch’s Star. Two of them posthumously awarded.”

“Oh, that? Got it during the Push.”

He looked up into my face then. Really looked. “Motherfucker.”

I took a step back. Maybe I had over done it, this time. I made to put the medal away beneath my shirt.

“You’re Corporal Donovan!”

“How did you….”

“You are! Holy shit! Corporal Seth Donovan!”

“How do you know me?”

“Are you kidding me? You’re like, semi-famous!”

“What for?”

“The Push! You know they study you at some of the training schools now?”

“They what?”

“Yeah, you’re a big deal with the tactical guys. Is it true you took out a whole platoon of Ghantri heavies?”

“Well, no. Heavies are solitary units.” He blinked at me several times, then he shook his head in amazement, chuckling.

“You know, I still got to ask about these parts.”

“What’s with them?”

“They’re spec ops weapon mods. Real ninja shit, if you know what I mean.”

I was going to have another talk with Zoe about this.

“No I don’t know. And they really are for my girlfriend. She’s a cybernetics wiz.”

He drummed his fingers on the counter top a few times, his chin resting in the palm of his other hand. “Here’s the deal,” he said at last, “I got some buddies who’d love to meet you, pick your brain for a while. You do this for me, the parts are yours.”

“Really?”

“No sweat. I’ll say that Cottle drooled on them and they got fried.”

“Okay, when do you want to do this?”

“Give me fifteen minutes; I’ll walk you over to them. Oh, man. They’re going to love this.”

Turns out, Porter’s pals were actually a whole squad. He led me to a section of the training deck that had a high security hatch. He buzzed an intercom at the entrance and identified himself. Moments later, the hatch opened and a tall, muscled Garz’a opened the door. I could tell right away, by his uniform, that this man was Special Forces. Oh, geez. What had I gotten myself into?

“Sergeant Kekkin, might I present to you, Corporal Seth Donovan, hero of the Push!”

I held up my hands instantly, “Hey, now I ain’t who the Protectorate brass wanted me to be. I’m no hero.”

Kekkin stared at me for several seconds, his hand still on the hatch combing. “Hero shorter than warrior imagined.”

I sighed. “Look, I don’t know what the Protectorate propaganda people told you all about me, but the only reason I got his medal was because I lived while the rest of my squad died.”

“Can we come in?” asked Porter. Kekkin stepped back and gestured for us to enter. Reluctantly, I followed the portly quartermaster in. Kekkin kept eyeballing me the entire time.

Inside, the compartment was dark and cooler than the rest of the station. It was also larger than I had thought at first. A short corridor opened up into a large compartment that was a combined lounge and tactical planning area. Several men were standing around a large holo-projector table that showed some kind of facility built into an asteroid. They looked up as we came into view, and one of them hastily hit a button that killed the projection. They were all instantly alert as they saw me – the outsider.

“At ease, warriors.” said Kekkin, “Porter has guest.”

I lamely waved at the assembly. I counted nine men, including Kekkin. Several were clearly augmented; some even had overt cybernetics clearly visible.

“What’s this, Porter?” said one of the soldiers.

“This man just walked into my store, thought I’d let you guys meet him. You should all be familiar with him by now.”

“What’s he talking about, sarge?”

“Porter says human is
naga-zak
”

“I’m a what?”

A couple of the others made their way over to me, and one of them flicked a switch that saw the lights in the compartment brighten. They inspected me, looking me over. I began to regret the ensemble I had worn when leaving the Dreaming, I began to feel like I was over dressed, as if I was wearing a costume. I felt self-conscious, all of a sudden.

“Looks like him.” said one of the men. He was wiry, with tight muscles that made me instantly think of a coiled spring.

“Don’t remember that scar.” said another. This one was short and stocky, like a boulder.

“I got that a couple years ago, after I mustered out.” I explained.

“What’s your service number?” asked Coil-guy.

“Er…S8108221.”

“Where did you do boot camp?” asked Boulder-guy.

“Kanto Moon.”

“No shit, what section?” he asked.

“Fort Geris.”

It was Kekkin’s turn to grill me, “How long was
naga-zak
behind
calak
lines, from loss of squad to rescue?”

“Two months, twenty seven days.”

“Who was the last squad member of yours to die, and how did he die?” this came from an ugly man in the back, who bore a nasty burn scar from his neck across half his face. One eye was clearly cybernetic.

“Private Denning. I shot him.” Now I was pissed. “What the fuck is this?” I turned to face Porter, “I don’t have to listen to this shit.”

I turned to leave, but a firm hand grasped me on the arm. I twirled about in anger and before I knew it, I’d drawn my
lurzak
blade in one smooth motion. Kekkin held my arm, the blade humming between us. I could see the occasional crackle of energy play over the weapon. The Garz’a Special Forces man just looked at the weapon and let me go, taking a step back. Then he nodded slightly.

“
Naga-zak,
warrior apologises. Meant no offence. Please, honour us with your presence. We would learn much from you.”

I got my emotions under control, realising that my outburst was brought on by the vivid memories that the interrogation stirred. I deactivated the blade and sheathed it.

“Sorry, still a bit jumpy. Been a rough several months, lately.”

“The insult was ours, we questioned your identity.”

“I understand. However, I am not who you think I am. The Protectorate tried to market me to the press as some kind of hero. In the end I mustered out of the PSMC because of it.”

“
Naga-zak
is humble.”

“You keep calling me that, what is it?”

“Serpent who strikes in the dark.”

I stared at him. I looked around the compartment at the others, and could tell the mood had shifted. They all wore looks of acceptance on their faces now, instead of intense scrutiny.

“Why do you call me that?”

“Because you are the serpent who strikes in the dark.” He said it like that explained everything.

Boulder-guy took a step forward and held his hand out to shake, “Corporal Renthal, Naga Team.”

“Seth.” I said, dumbly.

“Sarge is always spouting his warrior bullshit. If you can get past it, he’s a regular guy.”

“Yeah, I know a Garz’a just like him, actually.”

“The thin one is Corporal Harris, the ugly guy in the back is Corporal Masters, and those four are Geko, Rhondel, Triptych and Gunther. That lazy sonofabitch sitting on the couch is Rego. Last is our resident Argen Carro.”

“Naga Team?”

“Sarge loves his theatrics.”

“Your team is named after me?”

“Not really, but it fits. The LT is in the head. Should be out soon.”

“Who are you guys? Who’s Naga Team?”

“We’re a coalition covert strike unit. Special ops, recon and intelligence gathering. We insert near Ghantri strongpoints and monitor them. Blow up ones we can.”

“Haven’t been to the system for a few years and I wasn’t too keen to keep up to date, if you know what I mean. What’s it like out here these days?”

“Getting bad. Only thing is, the brass doesn’t seem to give a shit. Last op we put together they canned. We were due out tomorrow, now it looks like we’ll be sitting on our hands for a while.”

“I might know something about that.”

“Go on.”

“The Esper Monarch was assassinated a few weeks before we shifted to Gossamer. Word should be with brass already.”

“Shit.” A general malaise seemed to put a damper on the good mood in the compartment.

“The royalists retaliated against Restus Station, thought the Doncrest Corporation were involved. Protectorate Fleet stepped in, but things had already gotten muddy. Next thing, the Protectorate uncovers that a Tyrillian terrorist group was behind it all. Now Esper Monarchy is trying to dig up whether Landford had anything to do with it. Doncrest is screaming bloody murder about the Esper retaliation. Protectorate is bracing for the fall out.”

Everyone around the room was silent for a few moments; some looked at each other. A hatch opened in the far side of the compartment and a younger man entered. He stopped when he realised everyone was silent, and then he noticed Porter and me.

Lieutenant Ormund was Eridanian, I learnt after we were introduced. He had a soft-spoken demeanour about him that belied his position as a Special Forces team leader. Once he had been updated on our discussion, I asked him about what they knew about me. About what the Protectorate had told them.

“The Protectorate uses your survival story as a training aid, so to speak. Any ground forces unit that is posted to the blockade has to learn about what you did, and how you survived. There are suit recordings that you took with your M4 MAEL, what we could recover any way, that shows most of your fights and how you struck at the enemy. There’s a lot of discussion about how you chose your targets, and how you worked out when to strike. There’s a guerrilla text book study about some of the tactics you used, such as your ferocity and determination.”