Silent Order: Axiom Hand

By Jonathan Moeller

The galaxy is at war, and a death at the wrong time and the wrong place can destroy an empire.

When several junior officers are murdered, Jack March is sent to track down the culprit. The trail leads him to a decaying world and a brutal war between two crime syndicates.

But one of the crime syndicates has a secret ally that could slaughter billions.

Starting with Jack March...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Moeller
• Release date: Oct 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370273867

Jonathan Moeller

Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair of a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.He has written the "Demonsouled" trilogy of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write the "Ghosts" sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the "$0.99 Beginner's Guide" series of computer books, and numerous other works.Visit his website at:http://www.jonathanmoeller.comVisit his technology blog at:http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/screed

Book preview

SILENT ORDER: AXIOM HAND

Jonathan Moeller

***

Description

The galaxy is at war, and a death at the wrong time and the wrong place can destroy an empire.

When several junior officers are murdered, Jack March is sent to track down the culprit. The trail leads him to a decaying world and a brutal war between two crime syndicates.

But one of the crime syndicates has a secret ally that could slaughter billions.

Starting with Jack March...

***

Silent Order: Axiom Hand

Copyright 2017 by Jonathan Moeller.

Smashwords Edition.

Cover image copyright © Illustration 67883716 © Luca Oleastri - Dreamstime.com.

Gunrunner Font used by license from Daniel Zadorozny.

Ebook edition published October 2017.

All Rights Reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

***

Chapter 1: Crawler

Jack March ran through the alley, weapon gripped in both hands.

The gun was a Calaskaran Royal Armaments .45 caliber pistol with a twenty-two round magazine jutting from the base of the grip. March would have preferred a plasma pistol, but only security forces could use plasma-based hand weaponry on Constantinople II. Everyone else could make do with traditional chemical-propellant kinetic firearms. Men could kill each other with kinetic firearms, but one man with a plasma pistol could do far more damage.

Granted, it hadn’t done the local security forces much good.

Their plasma weapons had proven ineffective against whatever had been killing the Royal Calaskaran Navy officers taking their shore leave on the planet. The first few murders had been chalked up to muggings and personal disputes. After the fifth officer had been killed, the Royal Navy had suspected that a Machinist cell had set up on Constantinople II. So, the Silent Order had gotten involved, and March had been dispatched to track down the murderers.

He had expected to find a cell of Machinist collaborators, one that used attractive women as honey traps to lure unsuspecting Royal Navy officers to their deaths. He had encountered and shut down such operations before.

March had not, however, expected to find a cybernetic horror, a mixture of machine parts and twisted flesh.

The creature had cut the throat of a young ensign and then fled out the back of the resort as the patrons screamed, and March had pursued.

He had never seen a creature like that before, and he knew every class of cyborg that the Machinists had inflicted upon the galaxy in their quest to replace mankind with their Final Consciousness.

Whatever the thing was, it was something new.

Behind him, he heard the shouts of alarm, along with the panicked screams of the club’s waitresses, most of whom had likely never seen a man killed before. The Cruising Cruiser, as the club was called, catered to junior officers of the Royal Calaskaran Navy, men who were old enough to know better than to get into trouble on shore leave but young enough to do it anyway. As spaceport bars went, it was one of the fancier ones that March had seen, with a cavernous, air-conditioned restaurant and a broad terrace overlooking the ocean on the nights when the local humidity permitted outdoor recreation. Now the terrace had become a scene of chaos as the club’s bouncers and the various junior officers who had just seen their comrade murdered attempted to assert their authority.

None that had stopped March as he had gone in pursuit of the creature.

The thing had moved with such speed that it was possible that none of the Naval officers or the patrons had noticed the creature leap over the rail of the terrace and land in the alley. March had tracked a man named Philip Reimer to the Cruising Cruiser, expecting that Reimer would turn out to be the head of a local Machinist cell, or maybe an Iron Hand sent to make trouble for the Kingdom of Calaskar.

He had not expected Reimer to turn into something that looked like a giant cybernetic spider, kill an ensign of the Royal Navy, and then flee into the alley.

But whatever was going on, it was going to end tonight.

The alley came to an end, and March stepped into a parking lot filled with rental cars, idling autocabs waiting along the curb for customers. It was 23:00 local time, but three of Constantinople II’s five moons were in the sky, and March had no trouble seeing. On the other side of the parking lot was a strip mall with retail businesses that catered to tourists. The largest of them was a big box store that sold sporting equipment for Constantinople II’s vast oceans and beaches – kayaks and canoes and scuba gear and the like.

A trail of blood droplets led towards the big box store, and if that were not obvious enough, one of the glass doors had been smashed.

Reimer had gone that way.

March ran across the parking lot and slowed as he came to the smashed doors. Undoubtedly the store had security cameras, and March didn’t wish to be recorded. Nevertheless, the Cruising Cruiser had cameras, and they had already seen him in motion. For that matter, it was possible the sporting goods store had overnight workers stocking freight, and the creature that Reimer had become would not hesitate to kill.

March strode through the broken door, gun in both hands.

The store beyond was dim and humid, the air conditioning shut off for the night. On March’s left was a customer service counter, the cash registers to his right. In front of him stood a cardboard cutout of a smiling man and a smiling woman, both of them dressed in the store’s brand of athletic clothing. A smashed android lay on the floor a few meters ahead, its silver chest and head caved in by vicious blows. A second android walked towards March, a silver humanoid figure with white-glowing eyes.

Good evening, respected sir, said the android in a pleasant female voice. Unfortunately, the store is closed for the evening. Please return at 08:00 local time, when our knowledgeable sales staff will be delighted to assist you with your purchase.

The computer pseudointelligence controlling the android couldn’t be that bright. Else it would have contacted local law enforcement when Reimer smashed through the doors and wrecked the other greeter android. Perhaps March could make use of that.

Another customer came here right before me, said March. Where is he?

The android paused. The only other customer in the store is currently in Women’s Athletic Footwear.

Great, said March. Where’s that?

Aisles nineteen through thirty-seven, said the android.

Are there any employees in the store? said March, orienting himself by the numbered signs hanging from the ceiling. Women’s Athletic Footwear would be on the other side of the building.

None at present, sir, said the android. Please return at 08:00 local time, when our knowledgeable sales…

Thanks, said March, and he jogged forward, leaving the greeter android to stare after him in bewilderment.

He headed down one of the store’s central aisles, past displays of surfboards and scuba equipment and hiking boots. Once he drew too near to an endcap, and a holographic display flared to life, playing an annoying jingle and showing an attractive woman in a swimsuit extolling the virtues of a specific brand of sunscreen. (A modest swimsuit, though, since this was a Calaskaran world.) March cursed under his breath and hurried on until the annoying hologram shut down. He didn’t know how sensitive Reimer’s hearing had become in his altered form, and he wanted to take the creature unawares.

He came to aisles nineteen through thirty-seven, which contained a bewildering array of women’s athletic shoes for every conceivable sport and activity. March heard a crashing, clanking noise from one of the aisles and he slowed down, the pistol held out before him. A smell filled his nostrils, a ghastly mixture of blood and diseased flesh and the familiar metallic tang of fresh-implanted nanotech-based cybernetics.

The thing that had been Philip Reimer, the thing that had killed seven junior Calaskaran naval officers in the last two months and an eighth just now in the Cruising Cruiser, was not far ahead.

March slowed, his shoes making no silence against the carpeted floor of the footwear aisles. He passed an endcap laden with women’s running shoes in bright shades of orange and purple and pink and yellow, took a deep breath to steady his hand of flesh and hand of metal, and peered around the corner.

Reimer crouched at the end of the aisle, rummaging through the shoe boxes on the shelves and muttering to himself.

At least, it was the nightmare that had once been Reimer.

His body was still human shaped, more or less. But he was naked, and his skin had taken the grayish pallor of a man whose blood had been replaced with nanobots. Indeed, March saw the black veins threading their way through his flesh like corruption through the flesh of a corpse. At the base of his skull was the familiar gray metal plate of a Machinist hive implant, his link to the rest of the Final Consciousness, though right now he would only be able to communicate with the local mind group. To judge from the loose way the skin hung from his stomach and chest and thighs, Reimer had once been much heavier, even morbidly obese. That was hardly the most noticeable thing about him.

The four giant metal legs jutting from the side of his torso drew the eye.

The additional legs were thin, almost spindly, yet bore Reimer’s weight with ease. The legs were a dull gray color, the same color as March’s own cybernetic left arm. That wasn’t surprising, given that the same technology underlay both. And if those legs were like March’s arm, they would possess strength many times that of a normal man.

That would explain how Reimer had ripped off the head of that poor ensign.

Blue, muttered Reimer, picking up a running shoe and throwing it aside. Yellow. Orange. It doesn’t make sense. The sugar is white. White! Why did it turn orange? Why? He shrieked in frustration. It doesn’t make sense!

March swung around the corner, pointed his pistol at Reimer’s head, and squeezed the trigger twice. He did it fast, so fast that Reimer shouldn’t have been able to respond or recover in time.

But Reimer was just as fast as March.

He twisted with a snarl, and one of his metal spider legs moved in a blur. The shots that would have penetrated Reimer’s skull instead hit the metal limb. The alloy the Machinists used for their cybernetics resisted the bullets with ease, and March’s shots ricocheted off the leg to slam into the racks of sneakers.

Reimer surged forward. Three of his metal legs propelled his forward motion. The fourth was still raised in guard, and it snapped back and then forward with enough force to crush bone. March was already moving, shifting his pistol to his right hand and raising his left arm in guard. Reimer was likely a more advanced version of the biological and cybernetic science that had transformed March into an Iron Hand, but the composition of the metal had not changed, and his left arm was just as strong as Reimer’s spider leg.

The leg clanged against his arm with terrific force. The shock of the impact shot down March’s arm and into his chest and shoulder, but his cybernetic arm was strong enough to absorb the impact. A brief flicker of surprise went over Reimer’s slack face, but before he could recover, March’s right hand snapped back up.

He squeezed the pistol’s trigger three times, and all three shots slammed into Reimer’s forehead at point-blank range. Reimer’s head snapped back, and both his limbs of flesh and his legs of metal went into a wild, thrashing dance as his nervous system began to shut down. March jumped back as both of Reimer’s right legs hit a shelf of shoes with enough force to send it toppling over.

Then the limbs went still, but Reimer did not fall. All four metal legs braced themselves against the carpet, and Reimer turned himself toward March. His face was limp, trickles of the black slime that had replaced his blood dripping down his jaw, and his biological arms and legs hung loose, but the metal limbs kept moving one at a time, like a spider preparing to pounce upon its prey.

Shit, March muttered.

He had seen this before. Three bullets through the brain had killed Reimer, and his biological systems had shut down. But the cybernetics were still functioning, and the machine components that had been added to his brain still kept working. Machinist infiltrator drones operated on the same principle, the nanotech converting a corpse into a cybernetic warrior for the Final Consciousness.

Except this creature that had once been a living man would be far stronger and far more dangerous than a common infiltrator drone.

March took two quick steps back and fired a round into Reimer’s chest. As he expected, it did nothing. Reimer’s corpse twitched, but the metal legs kept moving forward. How was the creature seeing him? It didn’t seem to be using Reimer’s eyes, and in any event, the physical destruction of Reimer’s brain ought to have severed the connection to his optic nerves…

The creature lunged at him, and March had no more time for speculation.

He retreated, body held sideways, left arm out before him. The creature braced itself on three legs, the fourth lashing at March like a whip. March ducked and dodged, blocking a few of the blows on his left arm. The metal leg landed with enough force that it split open the sleeve of his jacket and his shirt, revealing the dull gray metal of his cybernetic arm beneath it. He retreated to the main aisle, and the creature pursued him.

Several times March tried to attack. The only way to stop the creature would be to remove its hive implant. With his left hand, March could rip the hive implant from Reimer’s skull with a single motion, shutting down the cybernetics driving the dead man’s flesh. Unfortunately, the creature seemed aware of its weakness, and its metal legs wove a defensive web around it. March dared not draw close enough to attack, not when a single hit from the legs would crack his skull.

Still he retreated, and the creature followed.

Heat. That was it. The cybernetics embedded in the dead man’s body must have included infrared sensors for detecting heat. March’s body heat would stand out against the temperature of the store. He risked a glance around, seeking for anything he could use. Athletic footwear? Useless. Boating supplies? No. Camping equipment…

March ran for the aisles offering camping equipment. The creature pursued him, metal legs digging against the linoleum tiles of the main aisle. March sprinted past the aisles holding camping supplies, scanning the signs for what he needed…

There. Cooking supplies. More than that, vintage cooking supplies, for camping enthusiasts who wanted to prepare their meals the way that campers had in ancient days on primeval Earth, with campfires and metal grills.

Or by using flammable hydrocarbons such as propane.

At the end of an aisle waited a display of green propane tanks festooned with hazard warnings. March raced past it to a safe distance, whirled, brought up his pistol, and started shooting. Nothing happened when he shot the first tank, and nothing when he shot the second tank.

The third tank exploded with a harsh fireball, igniting the propane from the first two tanks and engulfing the display in flames. A shrill alarm rang out, and the sprinkler systems over the camping aisles came to life, spraying water upon the fire.

But for a moment, the propane fire blazed hot, and the thing that had been Reimer whirled to face the new source of heat, identifying it as a threat.

March sprinted forward as fast as he could. Reimer started to turn, but by then it was too late. March twisted around Reimer’s legs and leaped upon the dead man’s back. His weight drove Reimer towards the floor, but the metal legs flexed, catching their balance. March’s left hand plunged towards Reimer’s skull, and his metal fingers grasped the hive implant and pulled.

One of Reimer’s legs struck March’s side. Pain exploded through his chest, and the force of the impact knocked him from the creature and sent him skidding across