Proof of Death (Grendel Uprising Book 1) Read online

  Contents

  Special Offer

  Proof of Death

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1 - Archangel Insertion Craft

  2 - Extreme High Altitude, Low Opening Drop

  3 - Near Sky Clan Village

  4 - Highland Valley 83A2T

  5 - Evening

  6 - Formation

  7 - Eye of the Needle

  8 - Sunrise - Hot Gate

  9 - Loyalty Tested, Genetically Enhanced

  10 - Sky Clan Warriors

  11 - Dusk - First Armored-infantry Lightning Division Tattoos

  12 - Aefel

  13 - Orders

  Also by Scott Moon

  Sgt. Orlan is the toughest dog in the Fleet. Gangsters kidnapped is son. What is the worst that could happen?

  Sgt. Orlan: Hero of Man (a subscriber exclusive!)

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  PROOF OF DEATH

  Grendel Uprising: Episode 1

  Scott Moon

  Copyright © 2014 Scott Moon

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to fans old and new, because sharing a story is an honor and reading takes time in a world where there is little to spare. You may never know what your participation in this imaginative journey means to me. Thank you for coming this far.

  1

  SUNRISE

  ARCHANGEL INSERTION CRAFT

  GRENDEL 0473829: UPPER ATMOSPHERE

  MISSION CLOCK: 00:00:01

  Aefel 70391 stared through the heads-up display of his drop-suit. The words and symbols were easier to read than the neural display of his Internals. Cybernetic communications remained somewhere between visual-auditory input and thought. Let’s hear it for modernity. Let’s hear it for being human and then some.

  “I wish you were coming with me,” Aefel said.

  The big man next to him, Paul 69891, wore a drop-suit because it was against regulations to be in the launch bay without one, but he wasn’t assigned to the mission.

  “Let me check your gear one more time,” Paul said, attending to his work.

  His deep voice reassured Aefel, as it had many times before. “I don’t like you going solo any more than you do.”

  Aefel laughed without humor. “Trade?”

  “Kiss my ass, Reaver.”

  “Ooja!” Aefel pronounced the response in the manner his unit had adopted since one drunken morning at roll call a few years ago. None of the Special Operations commanders dared correct the break with tradition. The Reavers had a reputation. Despite their questionable sanity and unequaled enthusiasm for death-defying planetary assaults, many Imperial Strongarms were selected from the Reavers, the First Armored-infantry Lightning Division (FALD), technically.

  Aefel ignored the ever-present new-age headache that the Communication Internals gave him and let out a calming breath. Despite the magnitude of this mission, he could not take his eyes from the ceramic parcel that contained primitive clothing, weapons, and tools. If he made it to the surface, he would become a real life, honest-to-God, actual Reaver — a shield-carrying, sword-swinging Viking; no firearms allowed. The FALD Reaver nickname had been truncated from a popular old movie, Viking Reavers and the Space Marines of the Outer Rim. Fact was stranger than fiction and things were about to get real.

  The space-aged equipment case would be opened, plundered, and then buried per standard operating procedure. By the numbers, soldier; get it done. He would live and operate as a native for as long as it took to find Seccon 99991, First General and Chief Strongarm of the recently assassinated Emperor Dan Uburt-Wesson. All of Seccon’s siblings were long dead; war heroes each and every one of them. Perhaps that was why Seccon had turned on the man he was sworn to defend for all time.

  Maybe, Aefel thought. But it doesn’t seem like cause for regicide. Seccon never did anything without a reason. His reputation, until lately, was that of consummate professionalism.

  Aefel performed a simple meditation drill, focused on the moment, and then allowed his mind to drift back to the primitive tools and the people he would face. Military Intelligence analysts claimed the people on Grendel 0473829 were truly feral, as free of life-extending cybernetics as the Emperor Uburt-Wesson had been, but without the comprehensive genetic sampling of all human potentiality and civilizing traditions of the Commonwealth.

  Poor, silly animals. Aefel wondered what they would look like and what he would look like to them.

  Under his drop-suit, tattoos ringed his thick upper arms — Earth System Commonwealth badge, his mother’s name — Anna 7039 —— with a silver barn owl, names of girlfriends covered with barbed wire and roses, and his unit tat — ESC Reavers. Close examination of the Viking mascot revealed that the horns grew through the helmet as though the Dane was some kind of colorful demon. Aefel’s buddies hadn’t liked that part of the design, but the tattoo artist insisted on his creative license and every one of the Reavers got the ink. They’d been drunk and the price had been too good to pass up. The artist, one of the best in three systems, gave them a discount carefully weighed against the value of his life.

  The bold artwork on his arm looked inspirational until he thought about actually swinging a sword — about fighting face to face, killing villagers, raping their women.

  Heat blossomed in his gut and turned sour. That was what feral, uncivilized people did without modern Cybernetics to stave off madness, disease, and antisocial tendencies.

  Paul exhaled sonorously, basso profundo, just like the rest of his personality. He paused, locked eyes with Aefel, and leaned forward. “Don’t mess around down there, Aef. Just find the bastard and upload the proof of death.”

  Aefel nodded. The mission briefing had been somewhat incomplete. Conspicuously absent was a plan for his extraction from the poorly run, nearly bankrupt historical reenactment planet. Paul didn’t bring up the subject. He knew. Aefel knew. Everyone knew what it meant when a mission wasn’t specifically identified as a suicide mission, but all the commanders looked embarrassed and avoided eye contact.

  “This mission sucks,” Paul said.

  Aefel blew out his breath as his friend tightened a bolt on the drop-suit and covered it with a ceramic heat shield. “A man can’t knock off the Emperor and get away with it.”

  “Ooja,” Paul said quietly. “Not even the Chief Strongarm of the Emperor.”

  “Stop it,” Aefel said.

  “Who should know the full measure of his master.”

  “That kind of talk will get you a corner in the charnel house, Reaver.” Aefel paused, then held the rest of what he wanted to say.

  Silence rippled between them. The moment had a life of its own, insisting on solemnity as they thought of the end of the Blood Royal — not just the Blood Royal of the Earth System Commonwealth and all of its interstellar annexations, but of all royal lines from Moses, or the Yang Dynasty, or King Arthur, or whatever to the regime of Uburt-Wesson.

  Paul’s stared into Aefel’s eyes, right down into his Reaver soul.

  “This mission is a big deal. I should feel honored,” Ae
fel said.

  “It’s always an honor to kill someone who doesn’t stand a chance for a crime that can’t be undone.”

  “It’s Seccon you’re talking about. But you’re right. He’s old. And I’m better looking.” Aefel turned away from further discussion. Seccon was dangerous. A man didn’t become the strong right arm of the Emperor without proving himself. But that wasn’t what bothered Aefel. He didn’t dare express his belief because the big man would work himself into a frenzy and wind up in the brig. The problem was, Aefel agreed.

  If roles had been reversed, Seccon might be hunting him for the same reason. There were questions about the death of Dan Uburt-Wesson’s sister’s family that no one talked about, except Reavers. Members of the FALD Reavers never expected to live long. They ran their mouths, in private mostly, but sometimes they got drunk, got in fights, and got arrested. Nothing was more important than loyalty to the Emperor, but what if the Emperor was the wrong Emperor?

  The High Altitude Insertion Craft, or HAIC, trembled as it entered the upper atmosphere. Lights blinked three times and turned red. Aefel winked at his friend and closed his face-shield, then waddled toward the ramp at the rear of the ship. A drop-suit was designed to do one thing — fall. It was so bulky that moving from the equipment bench to the ramp took several minutes. Layers of ceramic shielding bumped and clacked as he tried to move with his feet as wide as possible.

  “You look like you’re about to take a dump,” Paul said on his drop-suit radio.

  Aefel laughed. “Knew I forgot something.” He took a deep breath and held it. Without looking back, he guessed that Paul and the others had left the room and sealed the internal doors to the launch bay.

  He released the breath. His heart beat madly.

  This drop was different. He wasn’t coming back from this one. That is what you get for opening your mouth, he thought. Well, the truth hurts, Reaver! His bitterness would taste better if he actually knew the complete truth. There were problems with the Earth System Commonwealth that he felt but could not name. A smart soldier would remain silent until he knew what he was talking about. Then he could do something.

  ESC Command was going to leave him on the surface. Once he terminated the assassin and uploaded the video confession, obtained by torture if necessary, he was on his own. Ninety-nine percent of the planet’s population was completely ignorant that they were part of a historical reenactment. Wealthy adventure-tourists and scholars had used the place once, back when the investors could still afford to run the covert spaceport above Grendel 0473829.

  On impulse, he called up the computer language program and had the countdown echoed in the native dialect of the planet below.

  Exotic. Romantic. Terrifying.

  And too damn loud. Who programmed this thing? He inhaled through his nose, teeth clenched, turned his chin left and then right to loosen his neck, relax his mind, and stop worrying about the drop.

  Solo missions were not unheard of.

  He exhaled and trembled head to toe.

  Some of the words trilled over his tongue as he followed along. He started to sweat and realized he was smiling at the faux language. The simple dialect had been designed for easy assimilation while giving an authentic feel to the historical era of 9th century England or perhaps Denmark.

  The ramp lowered slowly. Had he not been wearing a thousand pounds of heat shielding, he might have been blown into the atmosphere. Or not. The pressurization technician was pretty good on the Archangel. Had his eyes not been protected by a state-of-the-art visor — black as night when necessary — he would have been blinded by the sun gleaming on the horizon. Silver and blue clouds covered much of the world below. He saw oceans and mountains and plains and mighty rivers.

  What he didn’t see was civilization; no monorails, no airfields, no spaceports. There weren’t city lights or buzzing satellites. Best of all, or perhaps worst of all, there were no security drones or military bases.

  “See you later, Paul,” Aefel said.

  Paul didn’t answer because Paul could no longer hear him. No one could hear a single word Aefel said, except for Command. This early in the mission, he expected there were only junior officers on punishment duty in the control room sipping coffee and watching with the sound muted. He could scream and beg and demand to abort the mission with zero effect on his fate.

  The ramp dropped lower. Red lights flared one after another. Soon, there would be a green light signaling him to step into the sky. He could refuse, but the ramp would drop until he dropped and his flight path would be trashed. If he wanted to land in a reasonably safe area, he had to go when the green light told him to go.

  Suddenly, he couldn’t remember the names of the girlfriends on his arm. Christ, you are a sinner, Aefel. Can’t remember their names. He laughed as he struggled to recall any of the women he had courted in barrooms, conquered planets, and ESC social mixers. Suddenly, without warning, it became the most important thing he had ever done or would ever do — to remember a single name; any name.

  The first he invented could only belong to some sort of eternal virgin waiting for rescue. He blinked away sweat inside the helmet, which was unusual. A flood of names came then — mostly real or imagined prostitutes and pin-up girls.

  He punched one bulky fist into his palm and grunted. Thoughts of death came with every high-altitude combat insertion. The bitterness was not new. This was, however, the first time he regretted never falling in love. Paul would laugh his ass off if Aefel told him what he was thinking.

  During his career, he’d faced Capital Trading Company mercenaries who fought with weapons and armor better than anything the ESC possessed. He’d fought and won. But he’d also put down farm rebellions and pre-civilization cultures without mercy.

  Fighting face to face, killing villagers, stealing their women. Burning granaries for no reason. Slaughtering livestock. Taking gold that couldn’t be converted to Commonwealth currency no matter who was bribed, beaten, or blackmailed but stealing it all the same.

  This time, he would fight naked, for all practical purposes. He’d survive without medicine, tools, or his team.

  He didn’t feel tough; he felt guilty. He didn’t deserve love.

  Vibrations shuddered through the floor. The HAIC slid sideways on the first hint of atmospheric turbulence, righting itself with a bump and a jolt. He stepped off the ramp a second before the green light flashed, laughing so loudly that he truly believed Paul and the others heard him. It was possible that his entire mission was being recorded, from inside the suit at first, but from his Core Internals after he shed the suit. There was, after all, an up-link implanted in his cybernetic support system that he would need to transmit proof of death. The cameras could peek through the pores of his skin. It was spy technology, not something an honest soldier was accustomed to using.

  2

  SUNRISE

  EXTREME HIGH ALTITUDE, LOW OPENING DROP

  GRENDEL 0473829: UNABLE TO FIX EXACT POSITION

  MISSION CLOCK: 00:01:19

  Aefel quit laughing as the temperature increased. Later, he would spread his arms and steer the drop-suit. Presently, he needed to curl into a ball and plummet through the upper atmosphere, maintaining a tight and blunt profile. Rookies wanted to dive early, adopt a more aerodynamic posture, look stylish for the news feeds. But that reduced the protective shockwave being pushed in front of his heat-shielding armor. The shock wave was life during a planetary assault. Keep the heat at arm’s length, you charnel house dogs.

  Thunder vibrated his teeth as the first layer of protection intentionally failed and ripped away. Speed became a physical thing during this stage of the insertion. The voices of past trainers and team leaders continued to speak to him. A FALD Reaver was never alone, not really.

  The taste of blood filled his mouth.

  “Charnel house bullshit. Where is my mouthpiece?”

  No one answered. The voices never responded to questions. Aefel sucked and pulled with his lips until
the molded plastic strip found his teeth and moved into place. A second sonic boom distracted him as he swallowed liquid like red salt and copper, then smacked his lips over his teeth.

  Too soon. Am I off course?

  The HUD display assured him everything was five-by-five. Thunder and lightning, boy. Don’t piss your pants now. He remembered the words of his boot camp instructor. The voice was half memory and half imagination, not really words but something like pre-words — pure thought that he wanted to hear more than he needed to hear.

  Good to go. Roger that. Thunder and lightning. Ooja!

  The final heat shield vanished with less fuss than the first two, and he breathed. The blackened visor cleared to reveal a green and blue land growing nearer second by second. He wanted to stay in the sky, soak in the view. An Earth Class world looked different without sixteen weeks of planetary bombardment to soften defenses.

  He extended his arms, steered as though he really could glide forever, and stared at the hills and fields and forests.

  I’m an angel of God up here.

  Random thoughts. Stupid. Blasphemous. Aefel would have glanced toward the sky to look for a real lightning bolt if he could turn his head far enough to see over his shoulder.

  “I meant it in a good way, God. Not trying to horn-dog your religious stuff. It just kind of popped out.”

  He almost expected an answer.

  Then he started thinking about Montigo 011433. Nothing in that assault had made him a man. He wasn’t religious, but he didn’t want to think what his actions might mean at his ultimate decommissioning hearing, the final roll call, the great big suck of death. There was no pride in that war. Definitely not a fair fight. The FALD Reavers never even took off their armor, not once in three weeks. ESC Command loved the campaign for its efficiency and quick resolution.

  Aefel tried not to imagine Montigo as it must have been before the uprising and the Earth System Commonwealth response.