The Dauntless: (War of the Ancients Trilogy Book 1) Read online

“Brilliant. We're just about to begin your repairs. Laser turret replacements, it's all here.” The young man handed him the tablet with a list of repairs. “Just put your thumb print at the bottom. And that of a senior officer if you don't mind.”

  IL Corp – formerly Interstellar Liners – had made a fortune a little over a hundred years ago, offering, yes, interstellar liners to hundreds of important stars. Since then they had branched out, becoming the biggest human-created corporation in the known galaxy. They employed most species, and recent news had it that they were willing to contract with Albascene corporations to get cheap indentured Petaur workers.

  They also contracted with the Solar Alliance Navy for nearly all construction and repairs.

  Once he'd scrolled down through the list of repairs to check they were all there, Hanson pressed his thumb against the bottom of the tablet. He handed it to Miller, who did the same. The tablet chimed once and flashed an outline of green.

  “That's great,” said the man. “Okay, you're all set.” He gestured at the Dauntless, where already small drones holding replacement laser turrets and segments of hull plating were descending towards the ship. He gave Hanson a mock salute, then headed off down the chamber.

  Hanson watched him go, then shook his head. Someone out there might be messing with Ancient technology, but the admiralty board wouldn't investigate it, and he'd just lost his best source.

  Well, that was about to change.

  Chapter 9: Extraordinary Evidence

  “Sir,” said Lanik, “I can't sanction this.”

  Hanson stared at him from across his ready-room table. Outside, he could hear a deep buzz as new hull plating was welded into place. “Admiral Chang said that we were to return to our patrol when repairs were finished. He did not forbid us from investigating while we're here.”

  “With all due respect, he didn't need to forbid us. This is a matter involving the Glaber, the Petaurs, and maybe the Albascene. Further investigation falls under alien affairs.”

  “Like hell it does,” snapped Hanson. “I saw that hostile they sent down. It was human. Anyway, the matter is settled. I'm going to talk to our mercenary, Srak.” He had spent the last ten minutes searching through Tethya City's network for evidence, and found that the mercenary Yilva had named was currently in the city. “Talking to one Varanid isn't likely to cause too much trouble.”

  “If he doesn't talk? Or if he points towards the Glaber gang?” Lanik's frown grew. “How far are you willing to go to do this?”

  “As far as necessary. You know, what worries me is how unconcerned both you and the admiral seem, especially when we could be facing something that might permanently change the balance of power in the galaxy.”

  “Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence,” said Lanik calmly. “And the evidence we have now isn't even adequate.”

  “Then we get some extraordinary evidence! That's my point.” Hanson sighed. “Like I said, I'm going to do this. If that troubles you, by all means report it to the admiral.”

  Lanik was silent for a few moments. He straightened up. “No, sir. Not yet, anyway. But I formally protest this.”

  “And I formally acknowledge your protest. Now, I'm going to talk to Mr. Srak.”

  Chapter 10: Mr. Bell

  Mr Bell leant back in his chair, put on a smile he didn't quite feel, and looked up at the screen on the wall of his office.

  On the screen, a waiting icon cycled a few times, then vanished, replaced by a pointed face with thick folds of hairless grey-pink skin, blank, black eyes, and a pair of long, bone-coloured teeth.

  “Bell,” said the Glaber.

  “Sruthur,” said Mr. Bell through his smile. “I do hope life in the hive is going well. Adapting to your new leadership well?”

  The Glaber growled and said, “The best of my competitors have died with my teeth through their neck.”

  Bell thought he heard a bit of pride through the scratchy voice. “Wonderful, wonderful. Well, I'm sorry to say that today I'm a bit annoyed.”

  Sruthur sniffed once and didn't ask why.

  “You see, that Petaur technician I asked you to deal with …” Bell gestured at his screen to bring up some recordings and transfer them to Sruthur. “She's not been dealt with.”

  Sruthur's eyes glinted in the dark light as he watched the recordings Bell had sent him. “The ship she arrived on …” he growled. “It's the one that attacked our hunter.”

  “I just want to take a moment here,” said Bell, still smiling, “to stress the magnitude of your failure. The technician who escaped has been seen on Tethya. The Blank we gave your team has probably been killed. According to our source in the Alliance admiralty, she has told the captain what she knows, and he has told the admiralty. We are closer to losing everything than we have been in the past five years.

  “Fortunately there is a way for you to redeem yourself. The Petaur had nearly completed the translation key before she left. In a way, we're lucky your team didn't destroy her ship while she was on it.”

  “That would not have been my failure,” said Sruthur. “You told us of no such key.”

  “No. No, I didn't. I'm telling you now. Without that key, our work could take months. With it, we can begin immediately. So I want you deal with it. Stop the Petaur, stop the captain, and do so quietly. But most of all, find that datachip with the key on it. Do whatever you need to, but bring it to us. I'll try and smooth things over with the admiralty.”

  “The chip is valuable to you, yes?”

  “Very valuable.”

  “I want extra. Or maybe we'll hold on to the chip until we find a better buyer.”

  “Of course!” said Bell. “Let's say half a million credits, plus a year's wage for all members of your hive. Does that work for you?”

  Sruthur seemed to consider this for a moment, then thought better of asking for more. He nodded.

  “Wonderful. Oh, and Sruthur?” Bell's smile vanished. “If you can't do this for us, even with all that money as a promise, I'm sure there's someone in your hive that can. And if things get to that stage, you will find his teeth in your neck. I promise you. Now go and fix this mess.”

  “Yes, Mr. Bell,” growled Sruthur, cutting the connection.

  Bell gestured at his screen to make another call, and turned back and forth in his seat a few times while he was waiting. Soon after his call was accepted, and the face of a woman, middle-aged but with a sort of wiry strength, appeared on his screen.

  “Mr. Bell!” she said, then frowned. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Hello, Admiral,” Bell said, smiling again. “As a matter of fact, there is. There's a ship docked at Tethya called the Dauntless …”

  Chapter 11: Poison Beer

  Hanson walked out of the transport pod into an oversized, dimly-lit corridor with rubbish and shrapnel strewn down the sides. The air was warm and thick, and no windows offered a view outside.

  He stiffened as a trio of Glaber passed by, talking in their own snarly language, but they passed by without acknowledging him at all. They were dressed in the colours of one of the more respectable hives, anyway.

  He was nearly on the other side of the city from where the Dauntless was docked. This district had once been build for Varanids, but now it was poor and poorly-policed, it attracted all sorts. As he made his way down the corridor, a couple of humans, seeing his uniform, gave him an odd look.

  From the corridor he passed over an open-air walkway, where the ocean was still hidden from view by a mass of run-down buildings, then inside again.

  At last, he came to a bar. It was nearly empty, and smelt of smoke and oil fumes. Tables were bolted to the floor in alcoves along the far wall.

  And at one of them, Srak sat alone, sprawled across the long seat.

  At first glance, he looked a bit like an oversized lizard with three pairs of legs – one in the middle at a hinged joint – and brown and red patterned skin. He wore a giant black coat, probably with armour hi
dden underneath. Where visible, the skin was scarred in a dozen places. As Hanson approached, he could see the scales weren't really scales – they were more a pattern of coarse, leathery denticles. In fact, Varanid biology resembled sharks as much as it did reptiles.

  Srak nursed a transparent tankard of some dark blue liquid. That thing had to hold at least five pints when full. His three-fingered hand was big enough to fully encircle a human's head – and, Hanson knew, twist it off without effort. One such hand, on his middle limb, scratched idly at his side.

  “Mind if I sit here?” Hanson asked in Isk, sliding into the free bit of seat at the end.

  Srak looked at him, head tilted, bleary-eyed. He replied in a deep rumbling voice, and in English: “Go for it, little human.”

  “Srak, is it?”

  “That's me. And who are you?”

  “James Hanson.”

  “Well, now we're such good friends, how about we share a drink?” Srak slid the tankard over towards Hanson.

  The blue liquid hissed faintly through its foam. Drinking bleach would probably be safer. “Cheers,” said Hanson, “but I'm trying to cut down.”

  Srak grasped the cup with his giant hand and stared silently at Hanson. Then he began to laugh. It sounded like boulders falling down a ravine. “Good, good!” he said. “I like you, human … James Hanson.” He signalled the barman, a Petaur, to call him over.

  With a sort of gliding scramble, the barman came over. Srak pulled out a three-cred coin and flipped it into his hand. “Something for the human,” he said.

  “A pint of Corusk, please,” said Hanson. Then, to Srak, “Thanks.”

  “Sure thing,” said the barman and retreated.

  Srak took a sip from his tankard which drained about half a pint. “Human in a fancy uniform comes up to a drunk Varanid and knows his name. Where's the joke go from there?”

  The barman came back with a pint of ale for Hanson. Hanson lifted it to Srak. “Cheers. Now, is it really so surprising people seek you out? You are a mercenary, as I understand it.”

  “Military don't usually want a merc. And when they do come calling, they aren't usually in uniform.” A little rumble of appreciation came from Srak's throat. “You don't pretend to be something you're not. Even though round here it might get you shit-kicked.”

  “Amen to that.”

  “So stop screwing around and ask me.”

  “Project Renaissance. The Shrikes. Blanks. Bell. Forge. Those words mean anything to you?”

  Srak stared at him. “Might do,” he said at last.

  Hanson held Srak's gaze. “Yes, they do. I can see it. So here's the deal: I don't care what your operation is. Someone else can sort that out. But I want a lead on this Project Renaissance thing.”

  The giant fingers of Srak's middle-left hand drummed against the seat. He looked like he was just about to answer when a loud voice announced: “Who's this, then?”

  A woman strode up to the table and stared at Hanson. She was short – a little under five foot – with raggedly-cut auburn hair about an inch long, wearing a worn, oversized shirt hanging loosely over a black t-shirt. She had a smear of something faintly greasy above her left eyebrow, and no makeup.

  Her gaze went from Hanson to Srak, and she said something in the Varanid language.

  Srak replied in English. “It's fine. He wants to know about Project Renaissance.”

  She gave Hanson's uniform a distrustful look, then leaned in quickly and sniffed him. “Why?”

  “Because they're some very bad people and they might need to go to prison,” he replied, straight-faced

  “Captain James Hanson,” said Srak, putting his hand on Hanson's shoulder, “this is not-captain Agatha. She's my colleague.”

  “Yeah, hi,” said Agatha. She moved Hanson's still full beer aside and hoisted herself up to sit on the table. “I don't mind telling him,” she said to Srak. “What about you?”

  Srak shrugged. “Go for it.”

  “The Afanc,” she told Hanson. “That's where we worked for them.”

  “The Afanc? Never heard of it.”

  “No shit,” said Agatha. “It's not exactly a place that's eager to advertise its existence to the military, you know?” She cocked her head and leaned in towards him. “Look, here's the deal. We can tell you all about it, but it won't do you any good. You don't have the connections, you don't know the lay of the land, right?”

  “No, don't tell me,” said Hanson. “Let me guess. You do, and you're willing to help me. For a price.”

  Srak gave a deep rumbling laugh. Agatha grinned. “Got it in one,” she said. “Hire us, and we'll take you there and show you around.”

  “Agatha … ” said Srak.

  Agatha glanced at him and shrugged.

  “I know this might seem like a minor detail,” said Hanson, “but if you're so quick to turn on your former employers, how do I know you won't turn on me the moment someone gives you a better offer?”

  Agatha laughed. “You don't! But here's the thing. The people running this place are bastards. I mean, we're bloody mercs. We don't exactly have the highest moral standards … ”

  “Or hygiene standards,” added Srak.

  “ … but those guys are up to some really shady stuff, you get me? We ducked out the moment our contract was finished. So no, I don't mind turning on them. Not if there's a job in it.”

  “Agatha,” said Srak again. “You sure this is a good idea?”

  “No, never. But let's do it anyway.”

  Srak tilted his head and made an unsure sort of growl.

  “Come on,” said Agatha. “I'm going mad cooped up in this place. It'll be fun, and we're getting paid. And you're not gonna let our fancy captain here run off to the Afanc and get himself killed, are you?”

  “Alright,” said Srak at last.

  Hanson rubbed the bridge of his nose and tried to sort the problem in his mind. He'd only come down here for information – but the only way to get that was to get two mercenaries to ride with him to some place called the Afanc.

  “I'll have to –” he began.

  “Down!” roared Srak, as gunfire rang out through the bar.

  Chapter 12: Ridiculous

  Admiral Chang scrolled through the packed mass of equations on his screen. If there was a way to make Ancient technology work, it ought to be this complex, he supposed.

  But how could he possibly verify it? If it was – a very big if – then this data would deserve the highest clearance level possible. In which case the number of people in the Alliance both capable of understanding it and allowed access to it would be vanishingly small.

  Except the Albascene probably had it too. They were formally allies, but he didn't like the idea of them having access to something that could change the balance of power in the whole galaxy.

  His screen bleeped. Incoming call, high priority, from Admiral Searle. Chang frowned. Searle and he almost never agreed

  He accepted the call, and Searle's face replaced the equations. “Hello, Chang,” she said. “I wanted to check up on this report we got from the Dauntless.”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “It all seems a bit …” Searle frowned. “Ridiculous.”

  “Agreed,” said Chang. “Implausible, and there's not nearly enough evidence to back it up. I've ordered the ship back on patrol as soon as it's repaired.”

  “Good, good,” said. “Exactly as I would have done. And the data you mentioned …”

  “It's incomprehensible.”

  “Yes, but I'd like to have a look at it anyway. It's very important. Could you order the captain of the Dauntless to send you a copy of it as soon as possible?”

  Chang frowned. He could have sent it to her now. “Of course,” he said. “Is there any reason you need it so urgently?”

  “Some IL mathematicians think it might be useful,” said Searle. “Thank you for the help. Goodbye.” She signed off.

  Chang's screen went back to the field of equation
s. He minimised it, encrypted the file, then sat back to think about what he'd just been asked.

  Chapter 13 : Barfight

  As soon as he heard Srak's cry, Hanson ducked down into the cover of the table. But first, he caught sight of the scene:

  Two Glaber were at the door, pistols aimed at them. The barman flicked a button, and immediately a cylindrical shield of thick sapphiroid shot up from the floor, encasing him and the bar. Unless someone broke out heavy ordnance, he'd be safe.

  The table, though, didn't provide anything close to good cover. Hanson grabbed his pistol. Agatha tumbled to the ground beside him, pulled her own pistol out from inside her shirt, and called up, “Srak! Table!”

  “On it,” said Srak. He grabbed the rim of the table with all four of his hands and pushed upwards. The bolts connecting the table to the floor whined, then squealed, then gave way. The Glaber continued to shoot. Srak toppled the table over like a shield so they were under decent cover.

  “Here,” said Agatha, offering Hanson his beer with her free hand. “Saved this for you.” Half of it had already slopped over the side of the glass and down the arm of her shirt. “Actually, may I?” She took a swig from the glass.

  Hanson ignored it, and looked out from over the table. The Glaber were advancing. Another two were coming in the door behind them. He took at shot at one of them, hitting in the chest. The Glaber stumbled, but recovered quickly. Hidden, armour, then.

  Srak had also saved his tankard, but it was empty. He held up one of his front arms, which was bleeding from a line of holes. “Damn Glaber,” he growled. He peered out once, then hurled his tankard at them.

  Hanson heard a crash, followed by a dull thump.

  “One down,” said Srak. From the side of his coat, he pulled out a weapon nearly as big as a sawn-off shotgun. In his hand it looked like a small pistol. He stuck it out over the side, fired thrice in quick succession. “Two,” he said.