Angel of the Alliance (Lady Hellgate Book 4) Read online

  ANGEL OF THE ALLIANCE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2020

  Thirsty Bird Productions

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in retrieval systems, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recorded or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Cover Art by Tom Edwards

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  Prologue

  On a luxury skiff named Lucia, slowly making its way to the station, A’wfa Terracydes, fifty-five citizens of the planet Arisani were dancing and drinking to a talented Meluvian band. They were guests of Jorus Kane, the eldest son of Jorus Yog, the same Jorus Yog who was king of Moss-Ekanoe, one of the wealthiest nations on the planet.

  Prince Kane was to meet Ry’ot Lomark, president of Lomark Enterprises, on the planet Genese. Their goal was to marry the resources found on the prince’s land to the starship-building empire of Lomark. To the guests at the party, the prince was simply on his way to another business meeting, but what they didn’t know was how much it would change the face of the galactic war.

  Lomark Enterprises’ biggest customer was the Alliance Navy, who needed vessels of war for space, as well as replacement parts and satellites to compete with the Geralos world conquerors. War was good business for both men, and so Kane was celebrating with his best friends, their significant others, and the band.

  Everyone was indulging, except for the men and women on the bridge. They were distracted, too busy puzzling over an incoming ship, who despite their hails would not respond.

  Arisani space was filled with civilian ships; lots were luxury, like Lucia, but most were merchants trading wares. Yet this ship did not look like any of the models they knew, and the three crewmembers were arguing over its nature.

  “Does it matter what species is at the helm?” the pilot, a Vestalian by the name of Mobius Rath, said. “I need to get us moving or a collision is going to happen.”

  “Are you mad? We must not break course or disturb the guests,” said a server, who had come to the bridge to give the captain her tea.

  “Do as I ordered and hail the ship, Mr. Rath,” said the captain, an Arisani matriarch named Gortalier.

  Mobius Rath, turned on the woman and gestured wildly at a flashing icon which warned of an impending collision. The captain didn’t seem to care about Mobius’s attitude or the warning, she just wanted him to hail that ship.

  “Brace for impact,” he shouted into the intercom, just before they were thrown into the air.

  The incoming ship had broken past their shields to breach the hull. For three seconds of silence, they all experienced a weightless blackness as the artificial gravity gave out. When it returned, Mobius was slammed into the deck, but not before clipping the edge of a chair with his forehead.

  Lights flickered on, but the Lucia was no longer moving, and all around the ship was screaming, along with the sound of something violating the hull. Gortalier and Mobius exchanged worried glances, putting aside their power play to be unified in fright.

  “Pirates?” Mobius mouthed, and the tall, flaxen-skinned captain nodded slowly in response. Then suddenly they were both moving, reacting on instinct to try and save the ship.

  The captain made for the adjoining passageway that held a locker filled with weapons, but she tripped over the body of the server, who had passed out from her fall. She stood up quickly and took the time to see what else she’d missed. Her eyes stopped and widened in terror when they found a window and saw the broadside of the alien ship.

  Gortalier fumbled for her communicator, “Th-this is your captain speaking,” she managed, climbing back up to her feet to find the door. “I must request that all passengers make their way to the mess … and, uh, lock and seal those doors. All crew, attention, this is a code black. We’re about to be boarded. Take emergency precautions. Seal all hatches and power down the airlocks.”

  Hoping, perhaps a bit too optimistically, that the prince and his entourage would comply with her orders, Gortalier shook the server back to life and brought her with her into the passageway.

  “You’re Vestalian. Do you have any training with weapons?” she said to the woman, who was a raven-haired waif in her early twenties.

  “No, I do not have any training with weapons,” she said.

  “Doesn’t matter. Here,” Gortalier said, tossing her a pistol, which she clumsily caught and examined quickly before looking to her captain for instructions on what to do with it. “These invaders are likely pirates, and you know what they do to young women. The safety’s right here,” She quickly showed her how to arm and disarm the pistol’s trigger. “For now, we’ll keep it off. Follow me closely. We’re going to the galley. Mr. Rath?”

  “Yes, Skipper,” Mobius Rath said quickly, and Gortalier saw that he had been waiting for her command.

  “Contact the A’wfa Terracydes and tell them what is happening, then come to the galley and join us. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

  “Lucia is a civilian ship, ma’am, we have no way of defending,” he began.

  “What would you have us do then, Mr. Rath?” The Arisani captain turned on him, her chalky visage now a mask of rage, and her neck expanding like the hood of a cobra. Large, golden eyes, once thought to be beautiful, now had the appearance of smoldering coals. The captain was livid, so Mobius Rath quickly found his wits and got to working on the communication.

  While Mobius wanted more than anything to get on the controls and urge the Lucia back to life, he knew what had happened, and that they couldn’t escape. That incoming ship had rammed them, crippling their engines and leaving them exposed. The invaders were already coming aboard, confirmed by the increase in the shrieks from their passengers.

  Inside of the mess, thirty-five frightened men and women huddled together, waiting for their captain to act. Prince Kane was unconscious, having struck his head on a table during the crash, and was being tended to by his wives and bodyguards.

  Five of his personal guard stood at the door, pistols raised, two kneeling, two standing, and a single lookout braving the passageway. But they assumed wrongly that the invaders would be coming through that door.

  Two shots punched holes in the glass separating the galley from the dining area. It was from there that the enemy came, shattering the glass and killing one of the men at the door. As the guards made to retaliate, several more shots dropped another man, and the three remaining quickly gave themselves up.

  A uniformed ruffian climbed through the open portal that once was the window and stood before it, brandishing a pulse-rifle. Behind him stood four more men, wearing a motley of colorful fabrics interlaced with armor plates. They were unshaven, gruff, miserable-looking sadists, and it only took one meeting of the eyes for any spacer to know who they were. These weren’t ex-Navy deserters playing at pirate. These were the real thing.

  The leader, dressed in Alliance dress blues, had an ugly scar across a dead eye, which looked to have come from a las-sword. He smiled cruelly at the occupants, then raised his rifle and threatened them with it. Looking behind him, he gestured to his men, and they knelt down and started working on something bulky lying on the deck.

  After several long seconds, they stood back up and hoisted a severed head into the mess. When it finished rolling, everyone saw that it belonged to the captain, Grotalier.

  Screams resumed and more invaders rushed in, punching and
kicking the inhabitants until they started to beg for mercy. The invaders didn’t say what they wanted, and they didn’t seem to care that they were attacking a prince. Kane was lined up in a row along with the rest of the prisoners as the dangerous man in uniform went down the line, taking inventory of them.

  Several men and women were asked if they were pure Vestalian or mixed species. Then they were separated by planet of origin after being placed in stasis cuffs. Four more people were killed for either fighting back or trying to make an escape, and once that happened there was no more dissent.

  In the cockpit, Mobius had gotten hold of A’wfa Terracydes and was relaying their situation to the controller. When the hot muzzle of a recently used pistol touched his exposed neck, however, he ended the call and lifted his hands in surrender.

  “Please don’t kill me,” he said. “What do you want from us?”

  “Vestalian dog,” the invader said before striking him over the head. “We want your brains.”

  1

  As far back as Helga Ate could remember, the simulation room had been a place of refuge. Not only did it allow her a chance to escape the routine life of the Navy, but simply playing around inside of it could strengthen skills that were necessary to succeed. For this reason, an Extraplanetary Spatial Operator (ESO) made it a crucial part of their weekly training.

  It was the simulation room that first introduced Helga to the joy of flight. As a cadet, bullied and ostracized, the simulation room gave her access to the cockpit of a Vestalian Classic. In this vessel built for combat, there was no one to stop her from flying. No check-in with the CAG, no waiting her turn; she could simply grab the controls and escape for several hours.

  Now as a seasoned operator, tested in both spatial and planetary combat, Helga still felt butterflies when she sat inside the booth and strapped on the nodes, gloves, and helmet. Sometimes she wished that it was real inside of that world, where the Alliance was truly allied, and there were no saboteurs or xenophobes forcing her to keep her guard up.

  In simulations the enemy was defined, allies were reliable, and all of her efforts made a difference in the war. Here, things made sense to her as an officer. Here, she felt empowered. Here, she felt home.

  Admittedly with everything she had experienced as a Nighthawk, the thought of simulating combat no longer excited her. She had learned quickly that some things were best left in memory, and trying to reclaim that joy only managed to taint that special place inside your mind. Now she found herself stuck on what to do: simulate a lukewarm version of combat or pick something else, like raiding a base on one of the planets.

  Helga stepped inside the simulation booth. It was a cozy space, with red carpeting and a holographic menu displaying all the categories available. There were official training simulations, like defending a crippled starship in enemy space, and ground war scenarios to help acclimate the spacers with planetary gravity.

  For the first time she turned towards the latter, looking at what they had to offer. It was all new to Helga, who had only ever done the spatial experiences. With her hands on her hips, she observed the selection, fascinated, like a wine lover’s first time attending a tasting. There were invasion scenarios on Traxis, a few choices on Meluvia—but she had already experienced the planet firsthand—and Genese had a civil war simulation, but even that didn’t grab her as a worthwhile exercise.

  She scanned for Casan, knowing it would be futile, and was surprised to find a defense scenario on the mountains of Al’haad. As she moved her hand forward to select this experience, she felt a gentle tugging on her arm. Helga removed the mask to see who was disturbing her, and was surprised to find Dr. Cleia Rai’to, one of the new crew members assigned to the Ursula.

  “I’m really sorry to bother you on your off day, Lieutenant, but Commander Mec is requesting your appearance on the bridge.”

  “He couldn’t hit my comms?” Helga said, confused.

  “Yes, but I wanted to speak to you, briefly, so I volunteered myself,” she said, proudly.

  Her smile was so radiant it was off-putting, making it difficult for Helga to think clearly. The doctor was a good-looking Traxian, a species rarely found outside of their planet. They were amphibious and reclusive, though their hardy physiology made them the ultimate survivors. Being open and peaceful had caused them to be preyed on by the Geralos, so they joined the Alliance to support the war.

  Cleia’s history was still a mystery, but she had been born on Sanctuary away from the actual war. Like many of the citizens of that station, she had expressed a want for adventure outside its walls, and since the Nighthawks were in need of a physician, she had practically begged Cilas to join the Nighthawks.

  “Speak to me? What about?” Helga said, taking the lead. She had really been looking forward to the cerebral escape but Cilas was commander, so she had to obey.

  “Well, I have been working on a calendar of sorts, for my check-ins with the crew, and I’ve figured it out and I’m ready to begin. For my first patient, however, I thought that a woman would be nice, and it would give us a chance to get to know one another better.”

  “Oh, Dr. Rai’to, that’s sweet, but to be perfectly honest, I don’t think I’m going to be chatty if you’re probing my body for defects.”

  “That isn’t what I’m going to do. Just ask some questions and get your vitals uploaded to the system. Everyone needs to be scanned and placed into the database, so that the Ursula can help me keep you in shape. Lieutenant, you concern me with that ‘probing’ comment. It makes me think that you don’t take me seriously. Is my station to be a nuisance on this ship?”

  “Maker, Doc, it’s called a joke. You’re going to need to lighten up if you’re going to survive with this team. Look, I’ll be your experiment or whatever. Just know that this body belongs to the Alliance, and if you break it you’re getting the airlock.” Helga stopped and gave her a glare, but Cleia merely blinked her large blue eyes. “That was a joke. Thype, you know what? Let’s go. Put me on your calendar.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful!” Cleia exclaimed, and her timing was so off that Helga wondered if she meant it sarcastically.

  She found the passageway leading to the bridge and stopped when she reached the mess hall. Inside, at the biggest table, was the big man, Quentin Tutt, playing a game of cards with Sun So-jung, who everybody knew as “Sundown.”

  “Who’s winning?” she said, flashing a wicked grin, and the two men exchanged glances before returning to their game.

  “The grease-head’s winning, but not for long,” Quentin said before laying down his cards, which caused Sundown to wince in terror.

  “Holding those the whole time, eh?”

  “Yeah, don’t you Jumpers have x-ray vision, mind-reading capabilities, something like that?” Quentin said, reaching for the triad of candy bars in the center of the table and dropping them on the small hill that was growing in front of him. “Want to join us, Lieutenant? I know that sweet tooth of yours wants in on my collection here.”

  “While it is indeed tempting, Quentin, I am going to have to pass since I’m wanted on the bridge immediately.”

  “Sounds serious. What have you done?” he said, his face becoming a grave mask.

  “Nothing, except give us a smooth launch from the station. Enough with the jokes. Do you have any idea why there’s all this urgency?”

  “Why don’t you go ask the commander?” he said, and she had to stop and really think about whether or not he was still joking.

  “Are you—”

  “I’m not being serious.” He laughed. “I don’t know, Helga, you’re going to just have to go in cold.”

  Helga rolled her eyes out of frustration, and was surprised to find Cleia still standing there, smiling like a Cel-toc. Thype me if she isn’t as frightening as she is cute, she thought, as she nudged past the doctor to make her way towards the bridge.

  Cilas was in his captain’s chair hunched over, and upon seeing them enter he stood up and smiled at h
er warmly.

  “Commander,” she said, trying to keep a straight face.

  It felt odd to be so formal even though he was her superior. Nighthawks were close, having gone through so much together as a team on even footing. Before Cleia it had been just the four of them, and most of the time rank was merely a formality. Cilas especially was a complex situation; he was her superior and lover, and it was barely a secret on the Ursula. Yet here she was calling him commander, and for what? Cleia, the Sanctuary recruit?

  “Lieutenant Ate,” he replied, applying his own brand of dry sarcasm. “Thank you for bringing her, Dr. Rai’to,” he said, touching his chin. It was a Traxian greeting, and the doctor returned it, beaming so bright that Helga swore that she was flirting.

  When Cleia exited the bridge, she turned on Cilas, one eyebrow raised with suspicion, wondering if there was anything behind the exchange.

  “No,” he said immediately, as if he could read her mind. “It’s just a respect thing. Traxians are big on authority, you know that. Anyway, how are you? I didn’t take you away from anything important, did I?”

  “I was starting my simulation training. Nothing official, just wanted to sharpen up on a few things. Is everything alright, Rend? Doctor said it was urgent.”

  “Dr. Rai’to may have exaggerated a tad. Not her fault—when she saw me earlier I was in a frenzy trying to locate the earpiece to my comms. Next time we’re home on Rendron, or at one of the stations, we should pick up some extras. It was my last one, and we’re in the middle of nowhere.”

  Helga walked forward and leaned on the railing that separated the captain’s perch from the cockpit. Below her she saw the Cel-toc, Zan, another Sanctuary addition to their motley crew. Zan’s database was an extension of the Ursula’s mainframe, though she operated as her own entity and was considered a part of the crew. For now, she was the ship’s primary pilot until they could recruit another qualified spacer.