Deathangel Read online

  Deathangel

  Book Ten of The Omega War

  By

  Kevin Ikenberry

  PUBLISHED BY: Seventh Seal Press

  Copyright © 2019 Kevin Ikenberry

  All Rights Reserved

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  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it wasn’t purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

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  Cover Art by Ricky Ryan

  Cover Design by Brenda Mihalko

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  For My Girls.

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  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  About Kevin Ikenberry

  Titles by Kevin Ikenberry

  Connect with Kevin Ikenberry Online

  Connect with Seventh Seal Press

  Excerpt from Super-Sync

  Excerpt from Book One of the Earth Song Cycle

  Excerpt from Book One of The Psyche of War

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  Chapter One

  Bu’urb

  Cesa Region

  Through a constant haze of medication and pain, anger fueled Chinayl. Trapped in her healing cocoon on the orders of her physicians, the MinSha warrior seethed in agony. Wounded on Victoria Bravo by the swift blade of Peacemaker Jessica Francis, Chinayl escaped into exile with only her life and a few precious advisers. Shamed at the failure of her forces to eradicate Lovell City, and powerless to defend herself from General Peepo’s legendary ire, Chinayl fled to the hidden system the MinSha abandoned more than three hundred years before. This safe haven, she believed, would keep her alive until she could once again lead her army into battle. As her most ardent allies within the colonies continued to support her, new forces arrived daily at her small base. What they found was hardly a haven.

  The planet Dulek was an orange and red gas giant eerily reminiscent of Jupiter in the human Sol system. Wide, turbulent bands of storms dominated the planet and reached thousands of kilometers toward the planet’s exosphere. At the very tops of the storms, Chinayl placed her ships, with minimal crews, to wait for the full complement of promised forces. A few hundred MinSha had already arrived, along with two mercenary companies of Cochkala in unregistered ships. Combined with her lone gunnery frigate, she would soon command a force 10,000 strong. Her small base on the nearby moon would not house that many for long.

  Shrouded in thick, noxious clouds, the large moon was barren, lifeless, and constantly pounded by ten thousand-kilometer-wide storms. A millenia of flowing storm waters cut immense caverns in the soft rock and formed expansive sinkholes. In the bottom of a hole more than eight hundred kilometers across, Chinayl collected her forces in secrecy. To regain her honor, and the trust of the Mercenary Guild, her mission required completion at the earliest opportunity. In less than three Earth weeks, she could deploy her forces against the solitary target that had withstood her earlier wrath and would fall before her forces in defeat.

  Victoria Bravo.

  Chinayl writhed as the pain in her thorax returned. The wound was small, but the strike between her armor’s plating penetrated her carapace enough to puncture a major arterial connection. Without intensive surgery, she had only months to live. There were no capable medical nanites in her sparse inventory of stores. They would have provided a temporary repair, but there were none of the type she needed. Her gathering forces came only with fuel, ammunition, and the materiel of warfare. Surgery to repair the damage, only fully reversible by transplant, required state-of-the-art facilities on a MinSha homeworld. Without the full backing of the Mercenary Guild, available only should she clear humanity from Victoria Bravo, and without whatever pity Peepo could spare, there was no returning home. Victoria Bravo grew from target of opportunity to obsession with every passing moment. Conquest of the Human colony ensured her own survival.

  Outside her translucent cocoon, filled with the rich, humid atmosphere of a MinSha homeworld, Chinayl’s advisors and field commanders studied Victoria Bravo and the latest intelligence. She could hear them as if they were at a distance. The fog of medication to counteract the pain and keep her blood flowing properly forbid her constant engagement in their deliberations. As such, she pieced together parts of their plans. Most of it she approved of. But other things would require her attention soon. She glanced at the timer mounted to the cocoon’s wall.

  171.35 hours remaining.

  Her physician assured her that, with the healing cocoon’s capabilities and the right medication mixture, she would be ready to take the field, provided she rested. Doing so took every ounce of self-discipline she possessed. Given her warrior blood, it proved difficult, and sleep often would not come. She lay inside the cocoon half-conscious, thinking about how to defeat the Humans at Victoria Bravo and how she could track down and kill Jessica Francis. The Peacemaker wouldn’t be hard to find, but the possibility she would be heavily guarded and protected by Enforcers meant Chinayl’s meager forces couldn’t entertain that possibility without risking a full-fledged conflict with the Peacemaker Guild. While that possibility had some merit, and could certainly help restore her honor, Chinayl wanted a far more personal revenge. If she couldn’t get to Jessica Francis, Chinayl could get to the one man in the galaxy the Peacemaker cared for—her father.

  James Edward Francis, known as “Snowman” to the Mercenary Guild, was missing. The president and chief executive officer of Intergalactic Haulers, a respected mercenary outfit disguised as a successful long-distance shipping corporation, had disappeared after the trap sprung on his forces at Shaw Outpost failed to snare him. He’d always been slippery. Peepo, herself, acknowledged admiring the man, one of only a few Humans of all the ones she’d known and interacted with over the decades. The Peacemaker Guild, though, also had a keen interest in finding him. Scouring the GalNet feeds, her advisers confirmed that the Peacemaker Guild had dispatched a small team to find Snowman. The Humans were collecting supplies on Araf and would soon head out to find him. When they did, Chinayl would know. She’d dispatched a Cochkala reconnaissance team to Araf. They’d scout out the team, report intelligence, and when called upon, would follow the team. When the Victoria Bravo mission had been completed fully, she would turn her attention to Snowman. Jessica Francis would feel pain and, while it paled in comparison to actually killing the Human Peacemaker outright, it was a r
evenge Chinayl thought worthy and just.

  An alarm in the outer chamber sounded. Chinayl’s numbed mind snapped to full attention. Reaching for the communications panel, she spoke to her advisors. “Status report.”

  “Outer perimeter alarm, General,” Colonel Regaa, her acting operational commander, replied instantly. “There is a storm front hitting that sector of the perimeter. Winds are in excess of one hundred and eight kilometers per hour. We’ve had a similar failure in the security pickets before. Once the wind calms, we’ll dispatch a team to repair it.”

  Chinayl’s head shook from side-to-side. While a storm could certainly damage the security picket system, the timing of a storm front with less than catastrophic winds and the sensor failure seemed convenient. “No. Investigate it immediately. Never hesitate to secure our forces, Regaa.”

  “Yes, General,” Regaa replied. Chinayl watched the tall, strong warrior giving orders exactly as a MinSha deputy should do. Chinayl would not allow herself to relax and be pleased. Something was wrong. The timing was off. The last of her forces were no more than two days out. Her final logistical packages were due in ten days, and the mission would launch soon thereafter. The possibility, however remote, that the time lag had given an adversary an opportunity to attack reared its proverbial head. While likely the picket had failed in the powerful storms, she could not accept the risk involved. Despite the risk to her forces, a possible breach required an immediate, forceful response.

  “Report, Regaa.”

  The acting commander turned to her cocoon. “I’ve dispatched two squads with heavy weapons to the crater’s edge. Given the weather threat, they are taking a dropship. Launch is in one hundred seconds, and time to target will be three minutes and forty seconds, General.”

  Chinayl nodded, and her antennae waggled in pride. “Well done, Regaa.”

  “Thank you, General.” Regaa turned back to the command console.

  Chinayl closed her crimson eyes for a moment and the fog momentarily returned, as it tended to do. Her moments of full consciousness came and went. As troubling as they were at first, Chinayl understood that the medications and healing cocoon were doing their jobs. There was little point in resisting the medication. She would simply close her eyes and wait for the fog to clear in a moment or two. A few seconds passed, she was sure, when a warbling buzzer sounded. Regaa’s voice was louder than normal, but not hysterical. She was too professional for such behavior. There was concern in the acting commander’s voice.

  “Thirty-two Fall, Thirty-two Fall. Are you receiving?”

  Chinayl struggled to listen through the communications panel. There was continuous static over the open channel. Regaa called again twenty seconds later and received the same response.

  “Thirty-two Fall, Command. Are you receiving this transmission?” Regaa released the transmit button and shook her head disgustedly. “This godsdamned planet. The acid rain attenuates the radio signals at the far markers to the point where we can’t talk to them, General. We have their positioning data from our nano grid on orbit, but that’s it.”

  Chinayl pushed herself into more of a sitting position and met the commander’s eyes through the slightly opaque cocoon. “No communications?”

  “Not voice, General. Data feeds are usually stable, but we’ve seen them distort and corrupt occasionally. The position beacon, though, is not affected by the atmosphere.” Regaa shrugged. “Through the positioning data, we have the capability to message them. If necessary, we can contact them. I am not worried about their present situation, General. It replicates what we’ve seen in these situations over the last month.”

  Chinayl nodded. “Maintain positioning lock.”

  “Autostabilized, General.” Regaa replied without taking her eyes off the Tri-V screen in front of her station. “Disruption on data feeds now.”

  There was a shrill beep.

  “Loss of signal on Thirty-two Fall,” one of the operators out of Chinayl’s view called. She could not place the voice. Being in the damned cocoon made leadership difficult. Five seconds passed. Ten seconds passed. Chinayl stared at the small timing display and was about to speak when another beep sounded. “Signal acquisition from Thirty-two Fall. Systems check is nominal.”

  “Are they moving?” Regaa asked the operator.

  “Negative. Showing position remaining fixed at the outer marker.”

  Regaa’s antennae bounced. “Storm report?”

  “Sustained winds at the site have dropped. Precipitation is much stronger than observed and far above normal,” the controller replied. “The sensor picket is back online. Repairs have been completed.”

  Heavy acidic rains would make the signals inoperable. Chinayl leaned forward in a sudden surge of strength as her gut coiled in on itself. “Recall them, Regaa. Use the imbedded message capability—Emergency Classification Alpha. Get them back here, now.”

  Regaa turned and looked at her for a moment. Chinayl wondered for a split second if the young commander would disobey orders, but the answer came quickly. “Yes, General. Recalling Thirty-two Fall at this time.”

  There was a whirlwind of activity in the small control room, but it became clear the security detail had been recalled, and the dropship was moving back toward the sinkhole command center. The palpable tension in the room dissipated as the dropship accelerated ahead of the storm front and entered an approach pattern that, while standard, was off by ninety degrees. Chinayl watched the displays carefully.

  “Thirty-two Fall, I show you off pattern. Please advise.” Regaa spotted the deviation. She turned to her controllers. “Data feed?”

  “Communications down and navigation systems show signs of acid damage. Thirty-two Fall has sustained significant storm damage—pattern consistent with large, frozen precipitation in the three to six-centimeter range.”

  Chinayl relaxed slightly. The dropship swung immediately to the proper pattern and resumed its approach. She heard Regaa order ground crews to their stations as a precaution. A ship out of communications, while not necessarily in danger of loss, still constituted an emergency situation. Recovering the vehicle and its crew safely was paramount to continued success. If anything, it gave the newly assembled forces a chance to train. Despite the assurances her experience whispered, Chinayl could not rest. Something felt wrong.

  “Any other contacts, Regaa?” she asked.

  “Negative, General. Nothing from orbitals, nothing from near space,” Regaa replied. Her antennae twitched in anticipation. “Is there something wrong?”

  Chinayl did not respond. Instead, her eyes followed the approaching dropship on the radar screen. The ship slowed, hovered, and settled onto its pad three hundred meters from the control center.

  “Ground crews report Thirty-two Fall recovered successfully,” a controller called.

  “Stand down pad operations and secure equipment under weather protocols,” Regaa ordered. Chinayl noted her demeanor. Her decision to appoint the young officer to acting commander continued to pay off. MinSha warriors were deadlier than almost any other species in the galaxy, yet only a few possessed the mental acuity to step into a command role. Foresight and planning were not a warrior’s typical strength. MinSha warriors were weapons designed to be aimed and launched at an enemy with the expectation of success. Like Regaa, some showed promise. On the battlefield, such promise would come in handy, yet Chinayl watched the young officer and wondered if she could ever trust anyone again. The memory of her most trusted and decorated executive officer turning on her command at Victoria stung.

  Will Regaa become another Chee under fire?

  Chinayl pushed the thought away. She could worry about trust and leadership when the physician said she could get out of the healing cocoon. Worrying made her tired and being tired brought the fog of medication and sleep. Chinayl sagged back against her cushions and watched Regaa and her team going about their business. Chinayl snapped off the communications panel and lay back as fatigue settled over her. For a brief momen
t, she thought crazily about her home hive a hundred light years away as she faded off to—

  WHUMP!

  In a microsecond, Chinayl came fully awake and recognized the sound of a deliberate explosion. Her antennae picked up the distinct vibration of weapons fire at a distance. Sitting upright in the tight space, she saw Regaa giving orders and the small collection of soldiers in the command center grabbing weapons and charging down the tight passageway. She stabbed the communications panel with a foreclaw.

  “Report!”

  Regaa turned. “Intruder alert, General. No confirmed sighting. Two small explosions in the landing bay near where Thirty-two Fall returned. One alarm system tripped on the opposite side of the compound. We have a weather warning on the surface—the storm is worse than anything we’ve seen on this moon. Sensor platforms are all degraded but within performance tolerance.”

  The perfect time for an attack.

  “Alert all forces and prepare to defend the base.”

  Regaa nodded. “My apologies, General. The first alert was seven minutes ago. We have control of the situation.”

  Seven minutes? Damn these accursed medicines!

  Chinayl struggled further upright, wincing from the pain in the left side of her thorax as it took her breath away. Blue anger flooded her vision, and she fought against the pain and reached for the inner release handle. Laser fire filled the room outside—multiple bright red blasts tore through the command center. Regaa staggered backward, reaching for a weapon, and fell to the ground. Chinayl watched the young officer’s jaw work in shock. Frozen, her foreclaws on the cocoon’s release handles, Chinayl stared into the room. Gray tendrils of smoke obscured part of it, but she clearly saw a large, dark figure step inside. As it came closer, stepping silently around the central command console, she recognized the hulking shape as an Equiri carrying a very large rifle. The figure stepped closer to the cocoon, and the hulking shape stared at her for a long moment before reaching down and ripping the exterior release handle off. As the healing cocoon opened, warm, moist air surrounded her, and the haze of vaporized medication dissipated.