Enemy of My Enemy: Dawnward, #3

By MD Ortiz

She went to find adventure. She went to be a hero. She found a nightmare instead.

 

When a string of brutal murders rocks a mountain village, the residents hire a group of mercenaries in a desperate attempt to bring the culprit to justice. All signs pointing to a mysterious super-soldier operating in the nearby wilderness. Determined to make a name for herself, a local girl accompanies the gunslingers, only to discover there are far worse things roaming the hills.

 

And sometimes your enemies are not all they seem. And sometimes neither are your allies.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: MD Ortiz
• Release date: Sep 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215059326

Book preview

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The old world burned away in the fires of nuclear holocaust. A self-imposed apocalypse brought about by humanity’s hubris and greed. Generations dwelt in darkness and fear, till the children of the new world sought to reclaim this irradiated hellscape their forebears had created.

Championing this initiative are the zaibatsu, corporations of unprecedented scale and power who built protected city-states to house those willing to facilitate their designs. They are vultures, feeding off the corpse of the old world to line their pockets and secure their hegemony.

Holding their leash are the Dragoons, bio-engineered warriors with a fixation on martial perfection. Tasked to shield and shepherd humanity into a brighter future. Their might is unchecked, their zeal unrelenting. Via strength of arms, they will stop at nothing to protect the human race from the mutant, the machine, and if necessary: mankind, themselves.

This new dawn began with twenty-four Dragoon Clans, each named from the letters of the ancient Greek alphabet, who would eventually dwindle down to one: the Alpha Clan. After centuries of conflict and war, the Alpha Clan asserted itself as the pinnacle of Dragoon achievement, living up to its namesake and seeking further domination.

To challenge the Dragoons is to know destruction and to challenge the zaibatsu is to know poverty. For a human trapped in this web of violence, the only chance at freedom is forging their own path as a freelancer. A hired gun, milking the world for whatever they can reap before they meet a violent end.

And there are whispers of sentient machines who rule across the sea. Treacherous lies that will see the world burn again.

Prologue

With a meaty grunt, the axe slammed down into its intended victim.

With an echoing thump, the blade split the log. Shards of wood flying into the ever-growing pile beside the stump. Wiping at his forehead, Fyodor leaned down to position his next target, enjoying the satisfaction of being able to split the branches with no more than a single swing. As a boy, he’d always watched his father prepare the family woodpile, dreaming of when he would be strong enough to replicate the man’s vigor. Now he was a grown man with his own family to provide firewood for.

Thinking of his family caused him to glance over his shoulder toward his homestead. He basked in its rustic details: from the old bell hanging from the veranda, to the coop of pheasants he’d traded for last month as a gift for his wife. It was one of those spur-of-the-moment presents that came from being wrapped up in the excitement of market day. Eventually, he hoped they’d be able to harvest the birds for both their meat and their plumage. A new venture that would see them with more to trade next time they headed to town.

His bride must have spied him looking her way from the window and she offered back a wave. It was a simple motion that caused Fyodor to smile, unsure of how he’d been so fortunate. While not without struggle, the last five months married had been the happiest he could remember. Near the entire village had arrived to help the newlyweds build their homestead on this private farm where they could enjoy nature and each other, while bringing the next generation into being. Already that aspect was well underway, his wife’s stomach swelling further each day with newfound blessing.

Never in his imagination did he picture his life being so balanced, so peaceful, so perfect. It was as the elder said: The gods bless those who offer devotion. Fyodor made a mental note to double his offerings this year in gratitude for their favor in the hope that it might be the straw to tip the scales so his wife and her sister could know some harmony. He wasn’t sure what grudge lay between them. That was a snake pit he knew he had no business poking, but one he felt needed to be healed in the wake of their expanding family. Nothing soured gatherings like lingering malice between relatives.

Leaves crackled around him as a gentle wind stirred the fallen foliage, followed by a silence so deep it caused him to straighten up and take notice. It was not the quiet of the natural world. Even this deep in the mountains, removed from the bustle of the village, there were sounds you knew: a chorus of insects, birds, and the baritone groan of trees. This was the absence of all that. An uncanny hush so intense Fyodor could hear his own blood pumping. It prompted him to grip his axe tighter.

A figure passed behind the pheasant coop and he relaxed a moment as he presumed it was his wife coming out to see him to talk and plan before they headed into town for the evening festival. Strange, he’d been so paranoid for that instant. But then he noticed her still working inside the house.

The sweat on his body turned cold and a gnawing panic bit at his heart. Once more, his hands tightened on the axe handle.

He wanted to turn and face whatever this was. This unknown intruder into his peaceful existence. The more he willed himself to move, though, the more he found his muscles quivering. Some ingrained sense told him he didn’t want to set eyes on this thing. That it was better to accept death in a more reserved manner. The indecision spawned tears in his eyes.

A faint crunch of leaves underfoot was the sound that prompted Fyodor to move. He spun with the axe at the ready. Determined to defend himself, his family, and this swath of paradise he was so blessed with. He never even got to see his attacker. All his brain was able to register was the flash of a blade before searing pain spread through his chest.

Axe slipping from his hands, Fyodor dropped to his knees. His blurring vision staring out at the forest beyond and into the peaceful wilderness he was so lucky to call home. Even as the assailant’s bloodied weapon drew back once more, he found himself entranced by the surrounding nature. Birdsong returning to the area as if to wish him well.

Then he remembered he’d never called out to his wife. Never alerted her to this unseen threat. Adrenaline pushed down the pain and Fyodor clawed a determined hand toward the fallen axe in a vain attempt to fend off this attacker and get his newly blossoming family to safety.

The blade fell like a crimson wave and then Fyodor saw nothing ever again.

Somewhere in the facility, an alarm was blaring. A terrible high-pitched warble that set Curze’s teeth on edge. Locking his terminal with a push of his thumb, the Dragoon officer shot up from his desk and poked his head out in the command center, eager to reprimand whoever it was who had triggered the disruption to his life of endless paperwork.

What the hell is going on? he barked at the frazzled technician closest to him.

The human jerked back from his console with a start, spilling cups and data-pads onto the floor. Curze worked hard to suppress a growl as the operator dove to the floor to clean the mess.

Hauptmann, sir, another technician interjected from across the banks of glowing terminals and holographic projections. UAV flyover picked up a thermal irregularity.

Curze stepped over the groveling human on the floor. What kind of irregularity?

It’s what appears to be a large moving heat bloom, sir.

Show me.

Exchanging some glances with his equally nervous colleagues, the technician waved at the projections, the digital displays around the room morphing into various bits of aerial reconnaissance. Everything from atmospheric pressure, wind velocity, to ecological anomalies were on display. Curze surveyed them all in an instant. His heightened physiology enabling him to process the data faster than any unmodified human could hope.

Where am I looking at? he asked as his eyes fell upon the heat bloom the system had flagged.

The Northern Reach, sir. Let me overlay some grid coordinates for you.

I’m assuming this is all part of our arranged survey with Quanton Machinery?

Yes, hauptmann. This was all transmitted by one of their Umbra drones.

Surveys, topographical analysis, reconnaissance, weather data, all of it was a vital asset to his Clan, especially if they were to continue bringing the world to heel. Unfortunately, the Dragoons had not seen fit to construct devices to study such things, leaving them to rely on the machines owned and operated by the very humans they proclaimed to rule. While this arrangement was functional, it also meant Curze had to go weeks to months without accurate intelligence while he waited for a UAV flyover to be arranged.

South of here, it wasn’t such a concern; the corporations regulating a constant fleet of solar-powered gliders to survey the regions. But in the Northern Reach nothing was so simple, and they had informed Curze more than once that a recce flight was an expense a zaibatsu could not afford at the moment. This would typically degrade into haggling and threatening if the need was extreme enough, but all of it left the Dragoon with a foul taste in his mouth. They shouldn’t be so beholden to the whim of petty companies.

Curze peered closer at the image. Could it be a herd of serows? Or maybe an exodus of settlers?

He turned back to the gathered humans. Has the system come up with any possibilities?

From across the room, an operator snapped to. Fingers flying across their terminal as they eagerly sought to answer his question and curry favor.

Sir, the identification system has given us multiple suggestions, but they are so varied they aren’t of much use.

I’m assuming the usual? Curze replied.

Everything from animal migration to mutants. Even ancient constructs flashed as a possibility.

Curze ran a hand through his dark hair as he studied the thermal imaging once more. An Umbra drone might have advanced sensors and cameras, but it could only capture so much detail in one quick flyover. He needed more intel.

Who do we have on standby? he inquired.

Right now, only Crow Squad, sir. Sergeant Ruiz to be exact.

Curze offered a thoughtful nod. Send her into the field.

Alone, sir?

Before he knew it, Curze felt his mouth curl into a sneer. One that he directed