Empty Quiver: Crimson Son Universe

By Russ Linton

Empty Quiver (n) – A U.S. Military term to identify and report the seizure, theft, or loss of a nuclear weapon.

They were never designed to be heroes.

Hurricane. Ember. Aurora. Danger. State-sponsored superhumans known as Augments. Weapons created to end a war.

With the war over, their creators couldn't surrender the power and sought to hide it in the shadows. They forged ahead with covert operations and proxy wars despite growing condemnation. But one by one, Augments begin to ignore their handlers or disappear altogether. The quiver emptied.

Empty Quiver takes a dark dive into the Crimson Son universe. Not your typical superhero tales, this short collection pulls no punches as it examines the clandestine program that changed Spencer's world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Russ Linton
• Release date: Dec 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781386739241

Book preview

GET YOUR FREE STARTER LIBRARY!

To get your starter library subscribe to Russ Linton’s mailing list by clicking this link.

You’ll receive updates about new releases and other news as Russ travels the U.S. seeking inspiration for his tales of science fiction and fantasy. The starter library currently includes the first book in each of his series:

Crimson Son – A misfit hacker tries to fill his superhero father’s shoes and stumbles into a web of conspiracy. Only has he been the target all along?

Blood Harvest – Former cop and full time shaman, Ace Grant, will face the forces of Hell to get back home to his family – that is, if he hasn’t already lost his soul...

Pilgrim of the Storm – Sworn to defend humanity from a vengeful god, acolyte Sidge must first undertake an epic journey of self-discovery. First step? Admitting he was never human...

For more information, visit www.russlinton.com

FOREWORD

This collection of short stories can be read as a primer to Crimson Son, as a background piece for both that novel and the upcoming sequel, or it can be enjoyed as a standalone. WARNING: Without Spencer's snarky commentary, this is a bleak, bleak world. Jefferson Smith, on his review site Immerse or Die, perhaps best captures the tone and intent of these stories:

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Linton takes the horror of the atomic bomb's emergence in WWII and transforms it into the emergence of laboratory-grown super soldiers — but with similarly horrific consequences and the same desperate global struggle to cram the genie back into the bottle afterward. It gives the entire story world a grittiness and gravitas that we rarely see in superhero stories. And that darkness makes it chilling.

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I hope you enjoy your read and as always, thanks for joining me on this journey.

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Russ Linton

www.russlinton.com

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THE 'CANE TRAIN

1968. Long Range Recon Patrol Alpha based out of Pleiku. Deep in-country, east of the North Vietnam, Cambodian border.

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Okay, don't move. Stay calm.

Private Ingalls looked down. Nothing to see but his boot and a mat of trampled grass. Was it grass? No, grass could be cut with a push reel mower. This waist-high brush was a job for a tractor or maybe a chainsaw.

No problem with the first one, sir, Ingalls replied. He licked his dry lips and wondered where all the moisture in the oppressive jungle air had gone. But I'm way past the second part of that.

You'll be fine. The lieutenant's voice was calm, insistent.

Ingalls had always felt uncertain at basic training and a month in Vietnam hadn't changed that. His Drill Sargent back home had yelled at him like he'd signed up for this. Demanding to know why he wasn't better at being a soldier. Always asking how he stayed so fat on military rations. Eventually he stopped listening but that voice never quite left his head.

The leader of Long Range Recon Alpha, a lieutenant everyone called Hound, wasn't like that. You wanted to do exactly what he said. Right when he said it.

So when Hound had barked Ingalls, stop! he'd done precisely that.

Ingalls watched the rest of the patrol back away through the grass, getting their distance. Reggie, their point man, was the last one to go by. He gave a final nod ... like a nice-knowing-ya, and faded away.

You sure there's something there, sir? I mean, I don't see nothin', Ingalls called out. Didn't hear a click.

Behind him, Hound gave more orders, directing the platoon through the clearing like they were blind sheep. Between commands, he heard him inhale through his nostrils. Yeah, there's something there alright. If you'd heard a click, we wouldn't be having this conversation.

He looked again. That damn thick-bladed grass. A little dirt visible. A shitty black boot that always felt too tight. Nothing else. He really wanted Hound to be wrong.

But he wasn't. Ever.

Hound was an Augment, part of a top-secret super soldier program from WWII, but there was no keeping the lid on that program. Especially once those soldiers headed into battle. There were guys who could deflect bullets, bend tank cannons with their bare hands, or even walk away from a bomber downed from its perch thousands of feet in the air. Hell, there were rumors of guys who could fly formation with bombers—sans wings, engines and airframe.

Most of the Augments went freelance after that war. People thought governments shouldn't have control of weapons like that. But Hound stayed on, flew under the radar with a more limited power set. He could smell stuff, and it was rumored he could hear dog whistles.

There'd been plenty of jokes on base. A few of the seasoned vets prided themselves on convincing new recruits that Hound would sniff their asses as part of inspection. That was one of the tamer ones. Out here, though, you came to appreciate what he could do. Unless you were the one standing on the mine.

How long do I have to stand here, sir?

Hang on. Let me think.

Ingalls strained to hear the conversation behind him. The wind had picked up, thrashing the giant grass. He tensed and wondered if that was enough to set the mine off. He tried to remember all the different kinds they'd taught him about in basic. Anti-personnel. Anti-tank. Bouncing Bettys and claymores. Charlie'd even improvise and trigger anti-tanks with anti-personnel mines to blow up as many Yankees as they could. None of this training was helping him stay calm. Sweat streamed down his face, but his mouth stayed dry and swollen.

Relax. It'll be fine, son. Hound again. The guy not standing on a DH 5. Or 10. Or whatever they were called.

Fuck that drill sergeant in Basic. He could hear him yelling now: Ingalls! Get your head out of your ass! You looking to have a Betty put it up there for you?

Fuck him. Got to relax. Like Hound says.

While the wind drowned out the anxious chatter, the radio call wasn't completely masked. You couldn't whisper into the handsets and hope to be heard. Everyone had tried it out here, where death waited up every tree and under every open field, but it was no use.

Calm, in control, Hound rattled off the grid coordinate of their location. Great, mark the map so nobody else dies. Was that a call for medivac on standby?

They don't make these mines to kill you, dumbfuck! They want to cut you off at the waist so we spend precious resources getting your bloody stump home!

God, that's right. There wasn't any way out of this.

More jabbering on the radio and he could only make out every other word. The patrol must've all moved back beyond the tree line. He was their scarecrow, like he'd helped his mom make for their little suburban vegetable garden back home. Only here the crows weren't the ones afraid.

He heard Hound's commanding voice fire a few curses. Then he could've sworn he heard him mention R&R. Okinawa. Was that iron-spined bastard planning his vacation?

Chatter fell silent. Ingalls heard Hound creep closer, inhaling and exhaling in short bursts while he moved.

I'm dead, aren't I.

Excuse me, private?

I'm dead, sir.

Son, if I talked to dead soldiers, I'd never have a minute of peace. Hound came into view. He was low to the ground, nose twitching and his eyes roving the grass. Truth be told, I'm surprised you're here, he muttered.

What does that mean?

Hound probed the ground with a stick, coming closer to Ingalls' boots. His face scrunched and he held the stick up and sniffed the tip. He growled and shook his head.

What? First his chest, then his arms tensed as the word exploded from his lips and he only just stopped the tremor that ran down to his leg. Hound stood and gently touched his shoulder.

Calm, remember? The lieutenant took several measured breaths, and Ingalls tried to match his cadence. Now, there ain't any reason this mine hasn't already exploded. A goddamn miracle. Hound's grip tightened and he locked on with his steely eyes set under tangled brows. Could be a dud.

Ingalls' heart raced at the thought. Hound's hand stayed firm.

But don't. Fucking. Move.

He fought the urge to nod.

A dud? Sir?

Maybe. All I'm sure of is that you're standing on a mine that ain't gone off yet. Best way to keep that from happening is to keep the situation static. Eyes forward, Private. Locked formation. You're green but you've done this on the parade ground plenty of times.

Yeah, plenty of times. That was another regular torture at Basic. He still had a scar from face-planting on the asphalt on a sweltering summer day.

You can't even stand right, soldier! How do you expect to make it out of a warzone without being on your back?

I can't do it, sir.

'Course you can.

I really can't, sir. Tears mingled with his sweat. He hoped the lieutenant couldn't tell the difference.

You miss your mommy? You want a blankie? Sorry fat-ass, Airborne can't spare a parachute and your mommy said she don't want to see you until you become a soldier.

He did miss his mom. He missed building that stupid scarecrow that fought away the demons. Twenty years old, and he wasn't anything but an overgrown kid.

Son, I'll be standing right here until help arrives. Hound sighed and checked his watch. No more yappin'. Keep quiet so I can hear. War going on around here and all.

The breeze picked