Outpost Hell Read online

  OUTPOST HELL

  Jake Bible

  Copyright 2017 by Jake Bible

  www.severedpress.com

  Part One

  The Score

  1

  There was no choice. Faced with a half-dozen Skrang, all armed, all looking in his direction, there just was no choice.

  Private Chann opened fire with his H16 plasma carbine multi-weapon, ripping the Skrang guards apart at their waists, spilling steaming hot guts all across the stone floor. Moving fast towards the guards, Chann didn’t let up on the trigger until he was standing over the lizard men’s corpses. Skrang were tough as nails, and even cut in half, they could be very dangerous.

  The ones at Chann’s feet weren’t ever going to be dangerous again. Nothing but dead eyes stared up at him.

  “What the holy hell is going on?” Sergeant Manheim shouted over the comm. “Who the hell is firing?”

  “Skrang guards,” Corporal Wapnik replied as he moved to Chann’s right side, his H16 covering the corridor in front of them. “Six. Neutralized.”

  “Eight Million Gods dammit! This was a quiet op!” Manheim yelled. “You do the shooting, Wapnik?”

  “No, Sarge,” Wapnik replied. “Chann took them down.”

  “Then it’s Chann’s ass if we don’t get out of here in one piece!” Manheim shouted, his voice rising to a fever pitch of rage. “I specifically ordered no lethal engagement! Subdue only!”

  “Understood, Sarge,” Wapnik said. “No choice on this one.”

  “No choice,” Chann echoed.

  “We have the vault open,” Corporal Lorsk interrupted over the comm channel. “Goods are packed and on rollers. It’s like the Skrang gift wrapped this shit for us.”

  “Stow the goods and get them back to the drop ship. Make it fast. Chann shat the bed for us already. There are probably more guards on the way,” Manheim ordered. “Fireteam One has the LZ clear. Fireteam Three? Don’t fuck up this extraction, you hear me? Keep the way clear for Fireteam Two, and make sure they get those goods back to the drop ship. Understood?”

  “Loud and clear, Sarge,” Wapnik replied. “We are on the move now.”

  The comm went silent, and Wapnik nudged Chann with his elbow.

  “You cool?” he asked.

  “I’m cool,” Chann replied. “The gas should have put these guys down. What else was I supposed to do?”

  “They were probably on patrol outside when we deployed the gas,” Wapnik said. “I can’t fault you for this. Us or them, right? You sure you’re good?”

  “I’m good, I’m good,” Chann said.

  “Then suck it up, buttercup,” Wapnik said and turned to the two Galactic Fleet Marines behind him. “You heard the sarge. We clear the way for F2. Move ass, F3.”

  “Moving ass,” Private Ou’guul replied.

  “Ass is being moved,” Private T’Zen said.

  “Chann? Let’s go,” Wapnik said.

  “Going,” Chann said as he ejected his spent power cartridge and inserted a new one. He slapped it hard and the H16 powered up, the plasma meter instantly climbing to full green.

  “Same formation,” Wapnik ordered. “Eyes sharp until we’re off this planet and shitfaced on whiskey back on the Romper. Right now, we have three corridors to get through before we rendezvous with F2. I ain’t faulting you, but this crap just made us late.”

  “Understood,” Chann said as he stepped over the corpses. “Moving ass now.”

  ***

  The Skrang were a warring race. Muscle-bound lizards, they only had two things on their minds—making life and ending it. Chann had witnessed the latter more times than he would have liked to recall. Being a Galactic Fleet Marine at the end of the War was not for the weak and squeamish, as both sides scrambled to do as much damage as possible before the bloodshed was called to a halt.

  With the Treaty signed, the war between the Galactic Fleet and the Skrang Alliance had ended a few years earlier. That left Marines like Chann with very little opportunity for advancement. Not that the Fleet didn’t still believe in promoting through merit, but there simply weren’t as many positions opening up since those above Chann were no longer dying at an alarming rate.

  Three years in the theater of war, three years in the theater of peace, and still a private. Six years. No advancement. It was ridiculous, and enough to push a Marine, even one that thought of himself as honorable and upright, to consider desperate measures.

  Desperate measures like assaulting a Skrang general’s compound due to intelligence that stated the lizard-man had hoarded his spoils of war within a massive vault. Millions upon millions of chits and treasures, all locked up and waiting to be plucked from the gnarled claws of the old warrior.

  The intel had been correct in one way: plenty of treasure. Items made from every precious metal in the galaxy were stacked in the vault. Art pieces worth more than Chann’s entire career as a Marine. Jewelry, raw stones, cut stones, bags of them.

  But no chits. Not a single stray chit anywhere.

  That was what Chann’s fireteam discovered as they watched F2 push rollers of items into the cargo hold of the Galactic Fleet drop ship. F2 let the two members of the drop ship’s flight crew secure the rollers as they turned and rushed back into the compound’s main building for the next batch of treasures. The Marines of F3 could only stare at the dozen rollers piled high with valuables, but not one chit case or bag in sight.

  “Are you kidding me?” Ou’guul snapped as he jabbed the barrel of his H16 at the rollers. “What the hell are we supposed to do with this crap?”

  “We sell it,” Manheim barked, his H16 aimed at Ou’guul.

  Private Ou’guul was a Jesperian, one of the many humanoid races that joined up with the Galactic Fleet instead of the Skrang Alliance. Jesperians were a rough-and-tumble race, their skin composed of thick hide that would dull most knife blades. Ou’guul looked like he’d been left out in the sun for a few weeks too long.

  Manheim moved closer and pressed the tip of his carbine against Ou’guul’s chest.

  “You have a problem with the results of this mission, Private?” Manheim growled.

  “No, Sarge, I’m cool,” Ou’guul answered right away. No hesitation, no fear.

  “Good,” Manheim said. “Because the mission is not over. F2 are on their way to secure and bring the second batch of rollers to us right now. You will make sure their way is not impeded by inconvenient hostiles. Just like the last batch. That is the only thought that should be in your head.”

  “The shiffle gas was supposed to last for eight hours, Sarge,” Wapnik said.

  “How’d that work out with that bunch of assholes I put down?” Chann asked.

  “On most races, shiffle can’t be faulted. But we’re talking Skrang here, people,” Manheim replied. “You ever know those scaly sons of bitches to play by the rules, Wapnik? Get F3 out of this damn drop ship and back inside that building. I want this last stretch to go smooth as my ass after I shave it, you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear, Sarge,” Wapnik replied. “F3? On me. We secure the route then we get to bask in the fruits of our labor.”

  “Still don’t see how the hell we can move this much crap without getting caught,” Ou’guul muttered.

  “Shut your trap, Ou’guul,” T’Zen grunted.

  T’Zen was a Shiv’erna. A lithe race, built for speed and grace, but with a dense muscle structure that made them deceptively strong. Despite their strength and agility, they tended to be mocked by other races due to their long, elephantine proboscis. It was that proboscis that T’Zen raised and pointed directly at Ou’guul.

  “Sarge has this all figured out, so relax,” T’Zen said.

  “Get that snout outta my face,” Ou’guul growled.

  “G
entlemen, shut the hell up,” Wapnik ordered. “Do your jobs or I leave your asses on this crap planet, got it?”

  “Got it,” they replied in unison.

  Wapnik, like Chann and most of the squad, was human. But not entirely. He’d lost his right eye in a skirmish with a B’clo’no, an energy-sucking species that was the only other race in the galaxy to ally itself with the Skrang. He blinked his cybernetic eye at Ou’guul and T’Zen and it began to glow bright red.

  “We’re going,” Ou’guul said. “No need to get hostile.”

  The two Marines hurried from the drop ship towards the entrance where Corporal Lorsk and Fireteam 2 had disappeared into on their way back to the vault.

  Chann nudged Wapnik. “One day, they’ll figure out that your eye isn’t a weapon and it only glows like that when you run it through quick diagnostics.”

  “That day isn’t today, got it?” Wapnik said.

  “Got it,” Chann replied and nodded.

  “You’re point; I’ll be on your six with T’Zen and Ou’guul right behind,” Wapnik said.

  “Like always,” Chann replied. He wasn’t upset by the formation. He liked taking point.

  If he was going to die, then he wanted to see it coming at him head on.

  ***

  Carbine leading the way, Chann stepped around the corner, the visor of his combat helmet showing him a range of readings from the temperature within the building to possible movement behind the doors set into the walls on either side of the corridor.

  Chann watched the first door until his visor blinked a green light. He switched his attention to the next door and the next until all of them were cleared by the helmet’s sensors as safe. He moved cautiously past each doorway, refusing to take anything for granted, his carbine aimed at each until he was at the end of the corridor.

  He waved the rest of F3 on. They hustled down to catch up with him. Chann lifted a fist and they came to a stop as he ducked his head around and then back from the corner of the wall he leaned against.

  Waving to the others, Chann gave the all clear signal then continued on, checking corners, scanning corridors, leading F3 through the building as safely as he could. Not a single Skrang showed its ugly, lizard face. The shiffle gas may have actually done its job. The bastards Chann had shot must have come from outside like Wapnik had said.

  Chann checked the readout on his visor. Theoretically, they had about three hours until the first Skrang began to wake up. And, theoretically, the Marines would be long gone by then.

  The building Chann led F3 through was part of an old base the Skrang had set up towards the end of the War. Manheim’s intel said that a Skrang general had been stockpiling valuables in order to make his retirement a little more comfortable. It was very non-Skrang. They were a race that prided themselves on dying in battle, not padding their lives with luxuries.

  Then again, greed was universal.

  Chann halted and raised his fist then crouched low, signaling for the others to do the same. A red blip had come up on his visor. If it had been any one of the other Marines, then it would have registered as bright green. The blip moved closer to his position, and Chann slowly took his finger from the outside of the trigger guard of his carbine and placed it on the trigger itself.

  A Skrang boy, maybe in his teens, hard to tell with Skrang, walked around the corner and bumped right into the muzzle of Chann’s carbine. He gasped and stumbled back, his butt colliding with the opposite wall. The Skrang boy’s eyes went wide at the same time Chann squeezed the trigger, obliterating the head that held those eyes.

  “Shit,” Wapnik snarled. “Where the hell did that little snot come from?”

  “Same place those guards came from,” Chann replied. “We got bad intel on this op.”

  He scooted forward half a meter and swiveled on his knee, carbine aimed down the next corridor. It was empty. No sign of hostiles.

  “F2, this is Chann, come in,” Chann called into the comm. “F2? Lorsk, you reading me?”

  “Here,” Lorsk replied over the comm. “What’s up, Chann?”

  “Juvenile hostile has been neutralized,” Chann said. “You guys picking up any movement by the vault?”

  “Hold,” Lorsk said.

  The rest of F3 gathered close to Chann. Wapnik aimed his carbine the same direction as Chann while T’Zen covered their six, making sure no one could sneak up on them from behind, and Ou’guul covered the corridor they’d just come from.

  “We’ve got nothing but empty space,” Lorsk finally reported over the comm. “Did you say you took down a juvenile?”

  “Yep,” Chann said. “We’re missing something here. Too many hostiles up and moving around.”

  “Gas should have taken out the whole building,” T’Zen said.

  “It didn’t, obviously!” Chann snapped. “That’s why I said we’re missing something.”

  “I’ll call Manheim and have the flight crew do another scan of the grounds,” Lorsk said. “We’re done here in the vault. Last of the rollers are full and we’re heading back to the drop ship. Wapnik?”

  “Here, Lorsk,” Wapnik replied.

  “Take F3 outside and scout the area,” Lorsk ordered. “I’m done being surprised. Make sure we aren’t going to get a nasty send off. No point in being rich if we’re blasted out of the sky before we can get off planet and enjoy our spoils.”

  “On it,” Wapnik said. “See you back at the drop ship.”

  While Lorsk and Wapnik were technically the same rank, Lorsk was team lead of F2, putting him just slightly above Wapnik on the hierarchy of the squad. It was a pecking order that was never questioned. Discipline and chain of command was crucial for the success of a mission. Any petty jealousies could be worked out later over bottles of whiskey and pints of wubloov, a hallucinogenic beer developed on the tavern planet of Xippeee, and a favorite of Fleet Marines everywhere.

  “Chann?” Wapnik asked.

  “Closest exit is this way,” Chann said, following the map on his visor. “Stick tight. Could be more.”

  “There always are with Skrang,” T’Zen said. “The things breed like Bverns. Little rat bastards.”

  “Skrang?” Chann asked.

  “No. Bverns. They’re the rat bastards,” T’Zen said. “You ever seen one?”

  “Not long enough to care,” Chann said.

  T’Zen laughed. “You’re a strange one, Chann.”

  “Cut the chatter,” Wapnik ordered. “Eyes on the prize, kids.”

  “On me,” Chann said as he followed the route indicated in his visor.

  “You sure?” T’Zen asked. “Aren’t we on the wrong side of the building?”

  “LZ is the other direction, Chann,” Ou’guul said.

  “Those Skrang are coming from somewhere,” Chann said. “Lorsk wants us to cut the surprises then we cut the surprises.”

  “Wap?” T’Zen asked.

  “Chann’s right,” Wapnik replied. “We have a look then haul ass around the building to the LZ. Better safe than sorry.”

  “What’s safe about walking blindly into an area we haven’t scouted yet?” T’Zen responded. “Just asking.”

  “Don’t,” Wapnik said.

  T’Zen shrugged as Chann moved out, leading them down the corridor to the closest exit.

  ***

  Two dozen steps. That’s how far F3 made it before diving to the ground.

  “What are they doing?” T’Zen asked.

  “Hold on,” Wapnik said. “I’m scanning.”

  “Helmet display says there are at least forty Skrang,” Chann said.

  “Why are they just standing there?” Ou’guul asked. “How’d they not notice us? How’d they not see the drop ship come down?”

  There was a loud bang then a muffled explosion from the other side of the building.

  Plasma fire erupted immediately.

  “I’d say they did see it,” Chann said. “We’ve been set up.”

  “F2! F3!” Manheim shouted over the comm. “
Fall back to the drop ship now! We’re taking heavy fire from Skrang guards!”

  “On our way, Sarge!” Wapnik replied as he jumped up and opened fire on the group of Skrang that stood about fifty meters away.

  The rest of F3 joined him, their carbines glowing red hot from the continuous bolts of plasma they sent flying at the Skrang.

  “Oh, shit,” Wapnik said as the Skrang began to return fire. “I know why they let us land!”

  “What do you see, Wap?” Chann asked, ducking below a half-dozen blasts that would have taken his head off.

  “Breeding pond,” Wapnik said. “They’re standing around a breeding pond.”

  “So what?” T’Zen shouted, running backwards towards the building.

  “You never seen a breeding pond before?” Chann asked as he sent a wave of plasma at the enraged crowd of Skrang. Two in the lead exploded, their guts splattering those behind them. “Skrang breeding ponds are filled with their young! Very hungry young!”

  “Oh, shit,” T’Zen said. “They want to feed us to their babies?”

  “We’re tadpole food,” Chann said. His carbine clicked empty and he ejected the power cartridge, slammed in a new one, and started firing again without pausing. “That’s why they let us land.”

  “Wap? Back through the building or around?” Ou’guul asked.

  Right before his head was turned to mist.

  A chunk of his helmet slammed into Chann’s shoulder, spinning him to the left. Good thing since eight Skrang guards were turning the corner, plasma rifles up and firing. Chann let his momentum take him to the ground. He rolled twice before he was able to stabilize himself and return fire.

  “Back! Back!” Chann yelled as he took out four Skrang. “Left is not an option!’

  “Neither is right!” T’Zen yelled.

  “Inside we go!” Wap cried.

  Chann felt a tug on his ankle from Wapnik and he started to crawl backwards as Wapnik covered him, dropping two more Skrang coming from the left.

  T’Zen screamed.

  Chann looked over his shoulder to see his teammate falling to the ground, a massive hole where his belly should have been. T’Zen’s helmet was askew and his eyes were wide with pain and fear. The pain and fear were gone in a blink as his eyes glazed over.