Endgame

By Justin Edison

The early stages of a war put sniper Captain June Vereeth and fellow forces on the icy world of Preciless 75 to defend a fuel dump. Following a disastrous victory, Vereeth and four colleagues become stranded some 70 million miles behind enemy lines. They have little more than their wits and weapons to contend with the elements.

The planet presents numerous surprises, and predatory animals are starting to take notice. Worst of all, their opponents, the Mitasterites, are returning to the surface, hell-bent on finding more of the rare fuel. Their battle isn't over.

In a world of harsh conditions, defense rockets and the ghosts of a peaceful past, the heroes must use all their talents to survive. As the ranking officer by fluke, Vereeth only pictures herself as an ordinary woman with a few special skills. Now she has to engineer an escape before P-75 claims them all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Justin Edison
• Release date: Feb 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370870363

Justin Edison

When Justin Edison isn't bumbling his way through this or that adventure (fatherhood, cooking, soccer, hiking, marriage, websites) he's busy dreaming up or drafting a story. His interests usually put characters into bizarre situations, from being a kidnapper (anti-hero) to a female sharpshooter caught up in a war (on various planets) to an innocent man running for his life through the Colombian jungle. Certainly, love or 'normal' things must be on the horizon. Then again... Justin's been writing for close to 30 years, but he'd only count the last 15 as far as producing 'real work' that someone might actually want to read. His novels include "Watching the World Fall," "The Churning," "Endgame (Woman At War #1)," and "Tempest Road." Check out www.justinedisonnovels.com for more information. Comedic musings, short stories (some not-so-bad) and poetry (okay, definitely bad) can be found at www.jedisonwriting.com.

Book preview

Glossary

HEROES

Bohl–Tchushkin and fellow sharpshooter (short for Bohlshivra).

Dhani–wounded weapons/supplies tech.

Esch–human, fellow sharpshooter (short for Eschelbach).

June Vereeth–human, sharpshooter captain.

Prubius–June’s best friend, a Pashunderran and fellow sharpshooter.

ENEMIES

Mitasterites—the Enemy (aggressors of the Great War) ‘Mitties’ for short.

Kuyuulshahn—shipbuilders race. Though these capitalists provide no soldiers, fighting units or strategy, their military creations are delivered strictly to Mitasteros and Mitties.

PLANETS

Antahrrus 5—T.U. supply planet. The proto-magnetic field protects the farming world from current Mitasterite technology, necessitating the quest for szellenyte on P-75.

Helops—planet of the Heloppikans, nearly eradicated by a 23-year conflict with the Kuyuulshahn. T.U.-loyal but out of the war.

Metlahva—T.U. world and site of the bombing which started the war.

Precor Max—June’s home planet (her aunt and uncle live on Northern Reach continent, her parents on Jadge).

Rhyosh—T.U. planet, home of the Army’s Central Command.

Shen-Zinkh—rogue planet outside the T.U., best known for stunning beaches and for piracy/smuggling activities. It is the farthest known civilized world from the T.U.

Sigundhai—T.U. planet and seat of power.

Tchushkolarya—a desert planet in the Trieste Union where civilization thrives in cooler canyon cities.

Vishulahrya—beautiful, magical playground planet for the wealthy, popular among Kuyuulshahn and other elites; the galaxy’s Hawaii.

Zycarsus—a small arboreal world on the frontier, sparsely populated (by people) but with notable, travel-worthy features like the Nikos Wall.

TERMS/OTHER

Bar—standard weight unit, about three pounds.

Crips—Tchushkin ‘hair’ tendrils; males have two, females have three.

Degs—degrees, as in view (full panorama is 400 degs).

Flicking (flick)—expletive, multiple uses.

G.A.S.—Mitasterite Global Assault Ship (built by the Kuyuulshahn).

Geridia—an atmospheric element on P-75 which lends a hazelnut flavor to the air and, in upper atmosphere, causes Conversion of the sky from green to purple at noon.

Giovanni 19—Vereeth’s rifle.

Gutchibra—Mitasterite Special Forces.

Heap—standard large weight unit, about 700 bars (2,100 pounds).

Humans—human beings (not from Earth or our galaxy).

Jagurprops—a Pashunderran hermit marooned on P-75 for almost 20 years.

Joffe—a T.U. sniper chief and June’s mentor.

Karran—a T.U. General and P-75 Base commander.

Kyss X and Kyss Y—twin suns of a binary star system that will eventually eat itself.

Leg—a yard or three feet.

Min—minute (mins—minutes).

Mlua—the Pashunderran term for ‘Sir’, a sign of respect.

Pashunderran—the blue-skinned, red-haired peoples from Pashunderra. Prubius and Jagurprops are Pashunderran.

Pigrahb root—common Pashunderran staple food, versatile and smelly (the galaxy’s potato).

Satok—shit (and a multi-purpose expression).

Sec—second.

Sky Claws—nickname for Mitasterite aerial support, a two-man weapons platform.

Slug—nickname for Mitasterite troop carrier, which resembles a giant slug.

Szellenyte—the red crystalline fuel the Mitasterites are after, a natural product of Preciless 75 (and a neighboring planet).

Trieste Union—T.U., the good guys, an alliance comprising nineteen worlds (with different races/ethnicities) plus their territories and outposts.

Tchushkin—the hairless, lavender-skinned peoples from Tchushkolarya. Bohlshivra is a Tchushkin.

Turops—Mitasterite currency. The P-75 mission would be measured in millions of turops.

Vleeyohzee—a crippling neural disease which paralyzes and eventually kills the sufferer. Curable back in the real world (of the T.U.). Jagurprops has it, but is no longer affected due to the geridia.

Chapter 1

You, Commander, are going to die. Mitasterite. War-bringer. Butcher of innocents on Metlahva. Your breaths are numbered.

The man with twin red stripes on his shoulder—a tank battalion commander—was frustrated. It was almost a blizzard here. The battle raged around him and he couldn’t scream orders fast enough to turn the tide. His clan had never met such resistance. Us.

Nearby, a deep boom sounded. Another Mitasterite tank, destroyed by shoulder-fired rocket. In my yellow crosshairs, the target scowled in that direction and yelled into his radio.

That’s right. Get more frustrated, make an error. Come out where I can get you.

The commander was walking under a fan-tail shield at the rear of his battle tank. There, he was protected from debris and sniper fire as his unit haltingly moved forward. He wasn’t fully protected from me, though. There would be a mistake, a small screw-up. At some point, distracted, he’d come out. All I needed was a hip. The beam from my weapon would sever an artery in his leg or groin—the same as in us humans—and he’d bleed out within secs. Scratch one Mitasterite big-shot.

Come on, you bastard. Give me a hip or thigh.

For a moment, in the pale-green image of my scope, an exposed boot appeared darker than the rest of his body under the shield. A foot would just hurt like hell. I needed above-the-knee, at least.

A sharp roar came from the chaos of the battle below. One of my boomers had destroyed another Mitasterite battle tank. I glimpsed the flash in my scope—this one was closer. Smoking debris dropped through the background, bits banging off the shield. Our boys were doing well down there.

A pointy rock dug into my thigh, but I had my bead. I wouldn’t move. Like all Mitties, this man had steel-gray skin and ridges on his forehead. His nose was a long slope. It would be sweet to put one right to the inside of it, holing his head. If only my rifle was strong enough to get through that fan shield. The turrets at Base could, but they were focused on the tanks themselves. The commander turned to point and shout. He wasn’t used to his headset. New product line, maybe—ready in time for the war. His numbers were being decimated. He wasn’t used to that, either. Our boys were doing really well.

Jax was down there among the trenches. Was he safe? Fire and move.

We’d all gotten photos together the day before, just after dawn: The noble fools charged with defending a cold rock, Preciless 75. The twin suns were out then, so the iced-over valley was all oranges and yellows and greens. The lubricant for Jax’s rocket launcher (his boomer) was pungent among the fresh snowfall. They use the same oil for landing struts on shuttles. Jax looked pretty good with the boomer up on his shoulder, smirking. Come get yours, you bastards.

And they came to P-75. The Mitasterites had a plan and this frozen outpost was a piece of it. They needed the szellenyte to power their Global Attack Ships. They couldn’t assault the farming world of Antahrrus 5 without it. So they arrived in droves—four G.A.S. craft, untold thousands of troopers. Seventy tanks so far, including—

There it is!

My target shifted his stance, calling out orders. He wasn’t keeping up with his tank. Still safe, no idea he was being stalked from above. In my scope, the dark area of unprotected body increased.

Stand still!

Foot…knee…thigh…hip…

Fearing he’d notice his error, I switched to five-shot and squeezed.

The bluish beams—five in less than a sec—streaked into his exposed hip and trunk. The insectoid buzz from my Giovanni 19 rifle seemed to come afterward. A kill. Insides cooked, arteries severed. A splash of dark blood draped the snow. He fell instantly. There was no medic in that unit.

His cohorts covered and pointed up in my direction. I switched on my headset—Great shot, June!—and scooted back up the little crawl-space fissure I’d found. I retreated in a hurry, trying to not get my boot or bipod caught on anything. My white rifle dragged in front of me, suspended from a cord around my neck. Sure enough, the spot I left disappeared in a shower of dust and sparks—blasts from a tank below. The bright hole became a dark blur. Opening in the wall some twenty legs’ distance from the sniper nest—outside the block shields—my spider hole was probably good for only one shot. I got a commander with it.

Hands grabbed my boot and pulled me out.

Good one, Captain! I think that was Battalion Three you got.

It was Dhani, a tall equipment guy, part of the support team. He helped me to my feet and I nodded thanks.

The tunnel was bright and loud, filled with the din of battle. Our nest was about eighty legs above the valley of ice, where my fellow T.U. soldiers clashed with Mitties and their tanks. Supposedly, this was an old lava tube, from the era when the szellenyte crystal formed. It curved in segments all the way back to Base, 1,700 legs from the nest. Open supply crates lined the opposite wall. Above them, screens showed the battle in progress from cameras at Fortress Command and from the other sniper nest.

To the right, the tunnel opened to a wide shelf, where the rest of my team crouched and fired at Mittie targets. The opening had four flashing block shields to protect us. A pink shield would blink out for three secs, we’d shoot, and it would blink on to stop return fire. So far. Working in sync with the shields, my cohorts—and boomers and mines—were making the Mitasterites pay for flicking with us. They’d lost thousands already, but they brought a lot of firepower. The shields couldn’t hold out forever.

As I crawled up to the opening, there was a double crack of explosions. Another tank. I wondered if Jax got it, unleashing fury and then scrambling among the box caches our team had set into the frozen ground. Hopefully, he remembered the mines, too. Their triggers were set for 300 bars’ weight—to get the tanks. In a misfire, their charge was enough to send a man over the mountain.

Streaks of red and orange crisscrossed the opening above my position. Snowflakes swirled in. A high-pitched howl came from somewhere—their Sky Claws. Visibility was crap. Neither side would’ve chosen to fight this battle in a storm, but it was inevitable. The Mitties had a launch window to keep. We were closing that window.

There were twenty-two snipers perched low at the rock lip of the cave opening. The other nest, on the opposite side of the valley, had eight or nine, and there were three roving the upper wall of Base. In this full-on assault, we all had the same directive: Pick off as many targets as possible. Since my group was providing the most fire, on the Mitties’ left flank, the mine-layers had set devices to the right side of ice formations and other obstacles. The Enemy would learn this at their own peril, just as they’d learn the tanks were not hardy enough to drive through the ice. One had tried, and it became prey for our boomers.

I knew only some of the men I was fighting with. Prubius, my Pashunderran friend. Commander Joffe, the salty boss with his graying goatee and ridiculous eyebrows. Bohlshivra, Hong, Gutierrez, Larsons, Jai, Eschelbach, Bacci—they were names and faces, really. Most of us slept on the flight out, arriving on P-75 two days before. Since we got here, there’d been time to walk through Base and all its parts, meet Chief Karran, discuss strategy ("Thirteen hundred of us against that?!") take some practice shots (with lower-grade cells) and get a little chow time. I understand the mine and equipment people had been working day-and-night to ensure we’d be ready. Chief Karran, too. They all had a date circled on the calendar, but no one could be sure the Mitties wouldn’t come early.

Shield Two opened to my left, five snipers took their shots, and they got back under cover as the shield reappeared. The humming generators would beep before the shield reappeared to block fire in both directions. A good sniper can get two targets in five secs. I hurried up to Commander Joffe’s side, nice and low, and looked for a mark.

Show-off, he growled at me. Should’ve left your squawker on.

My headset, he meant. Our chief didn’t look at me, eyeing a target. His silver goatee made him look stern, but he was really a pussycat most of the time.

Hard to concentrate, I returned, aiming.

Ready—open, he said. He’d memorized the alternating pattern of shield openings.

We fired, the two of us and some others. I got a lone soldier—a single shot to the collar. A rocket streaked past his falling form, hitting a tank on its dark nose. The explosion was a pale-green light show in my scope as the front of the tank lifted off the ice. The new rockets were stronger than their predecessors, Jax said.

At an opening, I shot again and missed. My Giovanni beeped three times under my cheek. Its charge was gone.

Flick, I’m out, I told Joffe and crawled away from the opening. Sparks and dust popped from the ceiling as I hustled to the ammunition crates. A lucky shot had gotten through our shields.

Dhani was at the ammo crates with his hands over his ears, scowling. He didn’t like what he was hearing from Command, high above the battlefield.

Maybe things aren’t going so well.

The Command-view monitor showed chaos in motion, dark lumps and colored streaks and flowering explosions. War had come to Preciless 75—a frigid planet so remote it hardly seemed worthy of armed conflict. Yet, here we were, fighting it.

The rock trembled under my feet. That wasn’t good.

I reached my crate—about five of us were using Giovannis—and swapped my ammo cell. I stuck another cell in my pocket for Prubius, my blue-skinned compatriot. He might’ve forgotten to put a spare cell in his pocket. At the moment, he was firing from a spot to the right of Joffe, by Shield Four.

Preciless Prubius hated the coincidence that he was fighting on a planet named for a Pashunderran explorer of no relation. His natural, bright-red hair looked especially angry whenever he was frustrated or stressed. We’d been on three or four actions together, and he was usually pretty calm. Now he seemed worried, covering from a volley that splattered across Shield Four. I didn’t like that look.

Crawling forward, I saw an errant rocket shoot skyward at a steep angle. Someone pulling the trigger after they were hit—releasing a final shot at a Sky Claw? Or were they instinctively getting the unforgiving weapon away from cohorts? It could’ve been anyone, could’ve been Jax.

Is he gone?

For a sec, my body clenched up.

Death at the hands of those tanks…

The collision of voices in my headset had gotten worse—it was all part of the noise around me, now. The squawker was tight in my ear, redundantly held in place by design and by my stretchy hood, which covered everything but my face. Still, I knew right where to press through the material to switch it off.

Dhani was shouting something behind me. I ignored flakes of snow swirling into my eyes, ignored the sore spot on my right elbow from crawling around with my rife. I found a target, an unprotected turret operator sitting atop his tank, and tagged him in the ear.

We’ve been at this for only twenty or thirty mins, right? We can hold out longer.

A weird howl came from the opening, and another rocket flew up.

Mitasterite Sky Claws. They were definitely up, flying in this satok weather. The Mitties’ air support was a huge advantage. Ours was sitting lifeless on disabled frigates, ninety million miles away.

My cohorts kept shooting. A series of sharp, concussive blasts followed—something nearby. I felt the air pressure change on my face.

Big one, whatever it was.

Prubius hurried to me, keeping low. They are really pushing hard, June, he shouted. We are going to have to leave.

Back toward Base, toward the Bomb?

I reached for the spare ammo cell. Suddenly, a mass of flaming debris dropped across the opening. Four legs from my nose—the distance of two men lying down head-to-foot—part of the craft flashed.

Chapter 2

Prubius and I were knocked to the floor, the blast pushing us as if the protective energy field wasn’t there. One of the Mitasterite Sky Claws, probably descending to get us.

It must’ve been right above us when our boys tagged it.

I got up to a crouch, watching the shields. I didn’t think the falling craft hit the chair-shaped generators, but Shield Three deflected much of the blast. I’d nearly been killed by friendly fire.

That was close. Are we okay?

The Mitties would keep coming, trying to breach the fortress. They wouldn’t stop—we all knew it. They brought an army for this assault. They wanted their damned fuel—the szellenyte. But they knew the contingency plan. They must’ve reasoned it out, at the least. Base was sitting atop the largest szellenyte cache to be found anywhere. It was a vast pit of red crystal waiting for an excuse to go off. If the Mitties just bombed us and Base into oblivion, they’d lose everything, too.

Recovering, I kept to the wall, edging up to the crease at the edge of Shield Four. Prubius got back into firing position beside me. Through my scope, I found an officer hugging the side of a tank.

Green, Joffe said, the oft-used signal for a sharpshooter to shoot.

I nailed my officer dead-center. Prubius and Joffe got their men, too. There were no women in the Mitasterite Armed Services, by the course.

As my scope roved for another mark, a pair of Mittie tanks bit the dust. One apparently rolled onto a mine. The next one, perhaps trying to avoid a mine, got stuck on a wedge of ice. Its front tracks were tilted off the ground when a familiar streak of white hit its soft underside. Someone else tagged it from the flanks, too, marked by a second explosion. After a sec, I heard the double-crack.

Die, you flicking bastards. Explain this to your leaders.

The Mitties had started this whole offensive in despicable fashion. They’d landed to our right, past the natural rock wall which formed the valley’s south end. (Our turrets had taken cheap shots at their big landing ships during the night.) An hour before the suns were up, the Mitasterites launched a couple volleys of meaningless artillery. In the valley, it set off a couple of the mines we’d laid—fireworks in the dark green—but that’s all. Once the snow and ice settled again, the real horror show began: Infantry.

By whatever insane reasoning our enemy found this war justifiable, they applied that logic to using its youngest members in blatant sacrifice. Wearing little more than combat helmets and boots, men charged from the cut in the wall. Some didn’t even have rifles. It was preposterous, a propaganda maneuver at best. None of those young men—boys, some of them—could really hope to cover the mile of rough terrain to the foot of the mountainside base. Out into the open. We didn’t even need infrared, as it was getting light. They came anyway, and we dropped them.

The order is ‘green’ people, Joffe had commanded via headset. We can’t let a single one of them through.

So it was horrible, but we started shooting. He figured there were 1,500 troopers. A waste of 1,500 lives. About one for each of the 1,300 of us the T.U. Central Command charged with defending this place. At some point, I had to bite my lip against watering eyes. These were practically kids, and we were killing them.

Honestly, we had no choice but to fire. It wouldn’t be past Mitasterite madness to strap explosives to their backs. We couldn’t take the chance of letting any advance. Beta-six, circa-eleven, epsilon-three, epsilon-nineteen. Call your shot and drop your man. A few of them offered return fire, token shots in our direction.

I shook off the memory when a red-orange barrage destroyed a troop carrier. It came from one of the defense turrets sitting atop Base, a thousand legs to my left.

Those guns need to charge faster, so we can pull some of the boomers back from the front line.

I sighted a commando dodging back and forth among the tanks. He looked like trouble. With the first shot, I got his leg and brought him down. Shield Two flickered oddly while I waited for Four to open. While putting a kill-shot on the commando, I felt vibrations through my boots. My skin prickled, coming on fast as a hammer.

Bursts of tank fire erupted across the shield. I covered, protecting my face.

Satok!

Something shifted in the rock before me.

Things aren’t stable here!

A hand grabbed my uniform at the left shoulder. I was moving away from the opening—pulled, wrenched, shoved.

It was Joffe, his face twisted in effort. Shouting something, he drove me and Prubius back. His rifle banged into my thigh.