Through the Nether

  Contents

  01

  02

  03

  04

  05

  06

  07

  08

  09

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  About the Authors

  From the Authors

  Also By Richard Fox:

  Honor Roll

  THROUGH THE NETHER

  ORDER OF THE CENTURION

  BY RICHARD FOX

  WITH JASON ANSPACH & NICK COLE

  Copyright © 2019

  Galaxy’s Edge, LLC

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Galaxy’s Edge Press

  Cover Design: Beaulistic Book Services

  Formatting: Kevin G. Summers

  Website: GalaxysEdge.info

  Facebook: facebook.com/atgalaxysedge

  Newsletter: InTheLegion.com

  01

  A gale whipped above what remained of the factory’s roof, blowing fine sand into the exposed interior that settled in a fine powder over broken equipment. The building once housed the planet Strach IV’s preeminent seafood packing operation; but the only remnant of that business was a stench of decaying fish embedded in the floor. Ghosts of more prosperous times.

  Soren tightened the seals on his helmet, preferring stuffy air to the rancid smell infesting the abandoned factory. He looked up at the gaping hole in the roof, so large that the building almost resembled a stadium. His helmet, after market tech popular with mercs, whirred fresh air through a pair of level three toxin scrubbers. Even with the constant cycle of through the filters, the fishy scent lingered.

  Hefting his old slug thrower, he ran his thumb over the safety switch, double checking that the rifle was set to fire with the pull of a trigger. Strach IV was not a place for the safety conscious. Soren glanced down at the wooden stock, splintered and carved with different names in various alphabets; kill tallies, oaths of revenge and crude sigils of the many gangs vying for control of the city. He’d received the weapon not long after joining the Scions, complete with dried blood of the last owner. The combatants in the city’s gang wars were expendable, weapons were reusable. Just how many times the battered rifle had been used for murder, left in the gutter and picked up for another fight nagged at him.

  Probably best not to know.

  “Anyone ever work here back when this place was running?” Soren asked the three men near him.

  “You watch entrance,” Tarith, his Kimbrin boss, hissed. The alien’s yellow skin was flush, almost mustard in his cheeks, a sure sign of stress to Soren.

  “Place’s been down since before I was born,” one of the others—a human—said, his lower face hidden by a snarling metal mask. “You’d think Hask worked here, but he just doesn’t shower.”

  The last member of their quartet kicked out at the joker, missing easily.

  “You all watch entrance!” Tarith banged a fist against the rusted remains of a canning machine, stripped of every movable part but still useful as cover against gun fire.

  “Sorry boss,” Hask, the kicker, said.

  “Reds won’t try anything.” Soren sounded more bored than anything else. “This is neutral ground.”

  “Trust Reds makes you dead.” Tarith spat on the ground. “Dead.”

  Soren shrugged. A squeal of metal from across the factory floor sent Soren’s finger to his rifle’s trigger. He fought the urge to bring the muzzle up and aim. Raising his weapon on neutral ground was against what few rules the warring gangs kept about such things. And anyway, the guy in the group who took judicious aim was usually the first one targeted by the other side—not the best course of action by anyone that wanted to stay alive on Strach.

  A door to a loading dock pushed open and four people with red sashes across their chests and tied to their lower left legs came in. The Reds. One of them pushed a repulsor cart loaded with four munitions chests baring the insignia of the Galactic Republic, silver tape wrapped around the centerline, covering the hinges.

  The Reds were led by a Tinitian, a semi gelatinous alien species. His head looked like a dollop of cream atop a barrel chest. One eye swam in translucent violet flesh.

  Soren shook his head at the coming load.

  “Sloppy,” he mumbled to his group. “Not even tied down.”

  Tarith unsnapped the cover on his pistol holster. “This not fancy navy. They look good?”

  “Can’t tell from here, Boss.” Soren tilted his head to one side to better see the Red pushing the cart. Even in full leathers with a helmet, that one’s shape suggested a human female.

  “One looks like the skarg that killed my brother,” Hask said.

  “You say that about every Red,” said Soren.

  Hask tightened his grip on his rifle. “Because they all do.”

  “You gutters have the credits?” the Tinitian asked, his words bubbling up from his body and translated through a cylindrical amp.

  “Thrak? That you?” Tarith gave his pistol grip a tap. “All squishes like you look the same.”

  “Nice to see you, too,” answered the Tinitian. “Last time was when you scratched wunna my dealers.”

  Tarith shrugged as if he didn’t recall and would take the Red’s word for it. “Surprised blood clots trust you with anything. This the goods?”

  “Yeah.” The alien’s eye floated from one side of its head to the other. “Good thing we’re here for business since Reds are always good boys when it comes to credits.”

  The Scions chuckled in reply. Sore knew that everyone here—everyone—was expecting a double-cross.

  Thrak stopped in the open and waved a tentacle at his bodyguards. The two halted next to the bullet scarred remains of a table-sized hunk of equipment that looked like it used to have a conveyer belt running through it. The woman pushed the sled up to Thrak and cut the repulsors, causing it to thump to the ground.

  Stepping back, she grabbed the chin of her helmet and jerked it twice to her left.

  Soren felt his heart beat faster. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

  “The money,” the Tinitian said.

  “Yeah, I just hand over. Like I trust.” Tarith ran the back of a hand down the spikes on his jaw.

  The Red’s eye jiggled, probably a mocking look of surprise. Its tentacled ran over the silver tape, suckers gently sticking to it and popping up from the light suction. “Factory sealed. Just what it says on the tin. Brand new Legion N-6 assault rifles. Blaster pistols, too. Stuff’s too good for you gutters if you ask me. But we’ll sell it to you now, get it back at the next block party.”

  “Filthy clot.” Hask moved toward the Red but Soren stepped in front of him, blocking him until Tarith could send a dirty look demanding the Scion calm down.

  “I look, then we party, yeah?” Tarit
h pulled a knife and leveled it at the sled.

  The doughy alien gang leader made an exaggerated bow, his tentacles flopping over his arms, as he stepped aside.

  Tarith lowered the knife and crossed two fingers against the blade where only his men could see, signaling to stay alert.

  Soren looked at the woman who’d delivered the repulsor cart, sniffed loudly and readjusted his helmet. He flipped a tiny switch hidden in the padding, and a low hum sounded through his ears.

  Tarith ran his knife through the silver tape and grabbed the handle. He looked over at Thrak.

  “Factory sealed,” the alien’s one eye rolled over. “See?”

  Tarith cracked the case open, holding it place a beat as if to see what might happen. Satisfied, he lifted it open the rest of the way.

  A blinding flash of light burst from the case. Soren instinctively threw up his arm to protect his vision even as the lenses in his helmet darkened to save him from the brunt of the assault on his eyes. The flash left an afterglow across his vision like a burning line, but he could see. He dropped to one knee, pulling up his rifle as he went down to open fire. The battered weapon jerked in his hands as he let loose on full auto.

  Shouts and more gunfire echoed through the factory floor.

  Hask stumbled into Soren as blaster bolts ripped into his body. He knocked Soren against the canning machine. Soren grabbed the man’s body and pulled it in front of himself, feeling more blaster bolts thump into the man’s body. The sharp crack of a hand cannon sounded three times and Soren pushed Hask away, letting him fall dead to the floor.

  Tarith was also dead, lying face down with blood still pumping from a hole in the top of his head. The victim of that hand cannon. Looking around, Soren saw he was the last Scion alive. The fourth man—a new kid named Reeplo lay with his head and shoulder’s propped against the canning machine, rifle across his legs and chin against his chest.

  At least two of the Reds were dead. One was missing—but the leader, Thrak—Soren could hear the suction of his tentacles slapping and popping against something.

  Soren rolled to his feet and quickly found Thrak crawling away, one tentacle loose at his side. Beads of purple fluid ran out of a gash on his back and clumped together in the dusty floor. Soren jogged to the alien and put his boot on his jelly-covered hip. He pushed the Red over and pointed his rifle at its chest.

  “Wasn’t…wasn’t me!” Thrak crackled out of a damaged speaker. “A set up. Yes. Not Scions. Not Reds. Maybe the Triad’s want us to fight, then they take our turf. Be reasonable, yes yes?”

  Soren blinked away the last of the dazzle from the light blast. He brought up his rifle barrel.

  Thrak’s eye swam around wildly. “Tarith, he has the money for deal, yeah? Take it. Keep it! Be a Red!”

  When Soren didn’t reply, Thrak trashed his good arm across his face wiping away some of the purple ooze that passed for blood. “Zelle what are you waiting for?”

  The female Red walked up to Soren, smoke curling out of the barrel of her revolver. She took off her helmet, revealing pert features and razor wire tattoos across her cheeks and neck.

  “Oba, I hate this planet.” Her nose crinkled as she got a good whiff of the air.

  “Zelle? Kill him! You’re blooded to—”

  Zelle shot the alien in the face, splattering his loose flesh across the floor and sending his one eye bouncing away.

  Soren looked at the woman, a slight frown on his face. “Tinitian’s nervous systems are in their sternums.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Zelle said. “That was for my own satisfaction.”

  She put three more rounds into the alien’s chest. Its flesh oozed out of the leathers like melting butter. “Better?”

  Soren looked back at the munition’s crates. The other two Red’s lay in pools of blood on either side. He removed his helmet and tossed it aside, immediately regretting it as the stench permeate his every inhalation. He pressed his palm against a temple, feeling a migraine coming on. “Why the hell did you make that flasher so strong?”

  “Because research,” scoffed Zell. “That lump of dung’s eye could handle the first device I made. Had to double the lumens. Sorry, thought I told you.”

  She pulled the pistol out of Tarith’s holster and looked it over before frowning and dropping it in disgust.

  “You did not tell me.” Soren went to the open munitions crate and grabbed the handle, looking up at the woman before pulling it open. “Anything else you failed to mention?”

  “Getting past Republic Logistics’s seals is a lot harder than you let on,” she said, rolling her shoulders and reloading her hand cannon. “Thank you very much. But do take a look anyway. Only took us two months on this festering hemorrhoid of a planet to find those damn crates.”

  “That’s why you’re here.”

  Zelle gestured her hand across her face, showing off her tattoos. “You look like you. What a surprise.”

  “The infiltration hoods are only good for a few hours at a time. Can’t wear them for months…and they hurt like a bitch.”

  Soren turned his head to one side and squeezed his eyes shut as he opened the crate. Neat rows of densely packed Legion assault rifles, complete with factory tags on the stocks, looked no worse for wear. A ball of emergency lights hung from a thin wire attached to the underside of the lid, burnt out and still smoking.

  “Ah ha.” Zelle pulled a credit chip out of Tarith’s jacket and gave it a gentle pat. “Here we go.”

  “We don’t need the money.” Soren took a comm link off his belt and keyed in a code.

  “Then you won’t mind if I keep it.” Zelle slipped the chip down her shirt.

  “Regulations on recovered contraband are—”

  “Sir? Sir is that really you?” came from the comm. “Is it finally time to leave? I don’t know if I’ll ever get Strach IV’s dirt out of my scrubbers.”

  “Immediate extraction, Heywood,” Soren said. “We’ve got another…eight minutes before the Scion’s air car arrives. We need to be gone by then.”

  “En route. I do hope you and Madam Zelle were successful.”

  “I’ll bring you up to speed later, just get the Iago here before we have to explain ourselves to anyone else.” Soren looked at the bodies strewn across the floor.

  “You gutters—sorry, habit,” Zelle rolled her eyes, “you have the drop off location for this? This firepower’s a bit much for a gang fight this far out on the galaxy’s edge.”

  Soren yanked Tarith’s jacket open and removed a metal box with a single slot.

  “What’s that?”

  “This is the code box,” Soren said. “The smugglers hold to their normal procedures and—”

  “There’s a cipher disk in this one.” She rapped her knuckles against a weapons crate. “I was tempted to crack it when I found it, but exercised restraint.”

  “How unlike you.” Soren looked up as the whine of approaching engines filled the air. A small interstellar yacht with a tapered nose hovered over the gab in the roof and slowly lowered down.

  Zelle powered up the sled and motioned toward the bodies. “And this mess?”

  Soren nodded and keyed his comm. “Heywood, I need a burner.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  A moment later, the ramp on the ship lowered. A five-foot-tall bot with broad shoulders and pistons for knees walked to the edge of the ramp and tossed a device to Soren. Zelle ducked behind the crates with a yelp.

  “Tell Ms. Zelle I’m insulted,” Heywood said over the comm.

  Soren turned the grenade over in his hands the moment he caught it. He rested his thumb on the timer dial.

  “You can tell her yourself after she gets the cargo loaded up.” Soren flicked his hand toward where the Iago was about to land and knelt next to Tarith’s body. He slid the battered rifle beneath the corpse, leav
ing plenty of the weapon exposed and ready to be noticed by whoever came across it.

  He pushed the dial to zero and held down the safety switch. There were children on Strach. The gang wars left plenty of orphans to scrounge for themselves. The streets were full of dirty, hopeless children…but all were innocent in Soren’s mind.

  He debated the chance that the gunfire would bring young scavengers…but this was gang territory. Specifically marked off and tagged as off limits to civilians. The Scions—or any gang—weren’t known for mercy toward any trespasser. Strach’s children were smart enough to know better.

  Soren stuffed the burner grenade under the dead Kimbrin’s body and carefully wedged the safety switch against the rifle’s buttstock. Whoever decided to take the weapon as a spoil of war would have a very bad day. And reduce any and all evidence of what happened here to ashes.

  Republic Nether Ops preferred not to leave a trail that could be followed.

  “Ms. Zelle has secured the cargo,” informed Heywood. “Local gang networks are active, shooting is reported at several intersections surrounding this facility. They are coming.”

  “Figures.” Soren ran to the Iago and gave the bot a pat on the shoulder as he passed. “Get us out of atmosphere before the police decide to chase us.”

  “Sir, this is Strach,” the bot said, “I paid off the local constabulary months ago. Not even they would like venture this far into ganglands.”

  The ramp shut and the ship rose into the dust laden sky.

  02

  Soren stepped out of the Iago’s lone refresher and scrubbed a cloth against an ear. The ringing caused by close quarter gun fire would fade in a few hours, as would the hum of adrenaline in his muscles. Still, a fresh set of coveralls and the smell of scrubbed ship’s air was a welcome change from Strach.

  He glanced into the Iago’s cockpit where Heywood sat at the controls. The ship passed through wisps of clouds and up into the void.

  “A destination would be helpful,” Heywood said over his shoulder.

  “We’re free of any tail?” Soren asked.