Incursion

  Incursion

  By Strength and Guile - Book 1

  Paul Teague

  Jon Evans

  Copyright © 2019 by Paul Teague & James Evans & Jon Evans

  Cover art by Christian Kallias Infinite Scifi - infinitescifi.com

  Editing by Scarlett R Algee scarlettralgee.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Thank you for Reading

  Author Note from Paul Teague

  Subscribe and get a Free Book

  About The Authors Paul Teague

  About The Authors Jon Evans

  Prologue

  “Action stations, Mr Johnson.”

  “Ay, Captain,” said Midshipman Johnson as he punched the command.

  “Mr Wilkes, a message to the Admiralty. Let them know we have an unidentified threat,” said Captain Nikolas Orwell, calmly formal as the klaxons blared.

  “Ay, sir, message away,” said Midshipman Wilkes.

  “And an update on the probes, if you please.”

  “Working on it, sir,” said Wilkes from the comms desk. “We’ve got two scanning probes in near proximity. I’m going to take a feed from Mitre1, I think it’ll give us the best view. Placing a visual on the screen now.”

  Captain Orwell watched as his usual view of the stars was pushed out of the way by a fractured digital image of the fissure.

  “Let’s shut off the klaxons, shall we? I think we’re all alerted to the situation.” Wilkes nodded, and his hands flew across the console. “And we’ll need something better than that, Mr Wilkes. What’s wrong with the picture?”

  Orwell frowned with annoyance. The posting to Kingdom 10 was supposed to be a gentle downhill run toward his imminent retirement. Life was quiet out here by the Nebula, and this command was an ideal way to end his career.

  Or so he’d thought. Now he was less certain, especially if Sol became involved. The last thing he wanted was the Admiralty crawling all over his command.

  “Lens damage on Mitre1, sir,” said Wilkes. “Placing it in repair mode now and switching to Legion3.”

  Wilkes ran his fingers expertly across the control panels. The pixelated images from Mitre1 were replaced by a much sharper view from a completely different angle.

  “How large is that thing, Mr Wilkes?” Orwell asked, leaning forward to peer at the displays.

  “Estimated size one kilometre and increasing, sir.”

  “What’s the story from Sol, Mr Johnson? Anything?”

  “They’ve received the message, sir, but no reply yet.”

  Orwell stared at the phenomenon playing out on the screen in front of him. The “anomaly” – there was no other word for it – looked like a fissure in space, a randomly-located gap in the fabric of the universe. It was a swirling mass of colour, as if someone was mixing paints in a giant hole in the darkness of space.

  “What is it, Mr Brookes? And keep it simple, if you please.” Like every science officer Orwell had ever worked with, Brookes had a tendency to give unnecessarily complicated answers.

  “I have no idea, sir,” said Brookes. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Great,” grunted Orwell. At least he’d understood the answer.

  Kingdom 10 had no records of anything that matched the description of the anomaly. In the decades since the space station’s construction, it had never been involved in any type of hostile action, not even a threat from pirates or looters. Safe from the war with the Deathless, Kingdom 10 had been the perfect posting for those who wanted a quiet life in the military.

  “I have Admiral Staines, sir,” said Johnson. “He wants to speak to you in your ready room.” Orwell stared for a moment, trying to work out why Admiral Staines would be calling. Then he blinked.

  “Patch him through, Midshipman.”

  Orwell handed over to his deputy and walked into his ready room. The low-fi avatar of Admiral Staines was waiting for him, shimmering in monochrome glory as it squeezed through Kingdom 10’s antique wormhole communicator.

  “Orwell, what I’m about to tell you is highly classified,” said Staines, getting straight down to business as soon as Orwell was alone. “In simple terms, the shit is about to hit the fan and Kingdom 10 is going to get caught in the spray. We never thought this time would come, but Stansfield was right. He promised it would.”

  “Stansfield, sir? Admiral Thomas Stansfield?”

  “The very same, Captain.”

  “What’s going on, sir?” said Orwell.

  “Kingdom 10 is there for good reason, although it transpires there were highly classified reasons for it to be put into service,” said Staines. “A plan was set in motion quite some time ago when an Astute19-class battleship called Vengeance–”

  “Wasn’t that was Stansfield’s last command? I thought she was lost in action.”

  “That’s what we all thought until we received your message about the portal. The coordinates activated an entire sequence of highly confidential file downloads. These files have been sitting in our systems, but out of view, for over half a century. We’re sending them to your private console now.

  “Stansfield’s last mission on Vengeance was to pursue another Astute19-class ship, HMS Centurion, to the very point in space that you’re now monitoring. The secure files reveal that an Ark Ship passed through that same point in space some years beforehand. What you have reported as a fissure is actually a portal of some sort, potentially even a wormhole.”

  “And is this where Stansfield and his crew lost their lives, sir?”

  “No, Orwell. Vengeance wasn’t destroyed. Her crew pursued Centurion to that very spot. Centurion passed through the portal, Vengeance did not.”

  “But what is the portal? Does it pose a threat?”

  “Stansfield described it as the single greatest threat to Earth that we were ever likely to encounter. He didn’t know about the Deathless when he made that statement, but Thomas Stansfield was not a man known for hyperbole. The Admiralty considers this portal to be one of the greatest potential threats that we’ve ever encountered, and that’s why the files have been dormant on the system for so long. The moment those coordinates were entered into the system, it triggered a sequence of events that have been lying in wait since Vengeance encountered the portal.”

  “And what of Stansfield and his crew, sir? Vengeance was reported destroyed, wasn’t it? If that's not the whole story, did the crew even perish out here?”

  “No, Captain, they did not,” said Staines, deadly serious. “Stansfield’s final mission, at his own request, was to be put in stasis until the portal eventually opened. His entire crew were so committed to their mission that they volunteered to join him. T
hey've been waiting ever since to finish their mission, and now that the portal has opened, they've awakened.”

  “But why do all this, Admiral? Why was Staines so keen to hunt down what sounds like mutineers? Especially at such great cost.”

  “The Admiralty is reviewing the original command decisions. I don't think anyone in the loop at the time is even alive now, and they’re certainly not serving. I was read in to manage this situation because New Bristol is quiet at the moment, so keep me informed. I know that Stansfield described the reopening of the portal as the prelude to the end of civilisation as we know it, and the Admiralty believed him. He warned that the re-opening would be the beginning of the end.”

  Orwell nodded, not that he really believed any of it. The portal was there, but everything else was speculative.

  “But Kingdom 10 is no longer a military base, sir. We’re strictly civilian, with only a small naval crew for oversight, and she was stripped of weapons and defences decades ago. We're not really in a position to fight a war. What do you need me to do, sir?”

  “HMS Colossus has been despatched to reinforce you. Vengeance is en route from her holding position. Bring Admiral Stansfield up to speed, give him whatever assistance he requests. And Captain” – Staines paused – “make sure you keep me updated. Admiral Stansfield is taking local command of the situation, but I'm your first point of contact for any developments. Everything about this mission is obviously classified at the highest level. Remind your crew what that means.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Orwell, “of course.”

  “Good luck, Captain,” said Staines. Then his avatar disappeared, and Orwell was left alone with his thoughts.

  1

  Ten reeled as the sniper bullet tore a chunk from his left ear and sent him crashing to the floor for cover. Inches from his nose, a rat sniffed at him, then bounded away into the rubble.

  Ten swore and eased himself around until he sat with his back against the wall. It felt good to have something solid between him and the sniper, but he’d been careless. Stripped of his HUD and power armour, his senses and reactions were dulled. This was raw combat, and he was completely outgunned.

  He stared across the street at the crumbling balcony of the former Hotel Grande. The sniper had to be up there somewhere, hiding amongst the shattered wreckage. If he could take out that gun, he might have a small chance of containing the civilian body count.

  A bead of blood ran along what was left of his lobe and trickled down his neck. It was a strange thing to notice among the oppressive sounds of hostile gunfire. Could they really not have spared a bit of backup?

  “This fucking mission is cursed,” Ten muttered to himself, frowning at a nagging doubt. Details of the operation buzzed through his head, but something was wrong. He tore the strip of severed flesh from his ear and tossed it across the room. He wouldn’t be needing it anymore, and it would only annoy him. And now that the sniper was targeting him instead of civilians, his torn ear was the least of his worries.

  A rat appeared from amongst the crumbling masonry at the back of the room, and Ten was briefly distracted as the rodent sniffed its way toward the discarded remnants of his ear.

  “Slim pickings,” said Ten, wondering what the locals were eating if even the rats were reduced to scavenging.

  Then a bullet tore through the rat and sprayed blood across the shattered stone. Ten snapped back to the job at hand, recoiling from the sniper’s display.

  But this wasn’t Ten’s first duel with a sniper.

  “Time to teach the bastard a lesson,” muttered Ten.

  He took a moment to focus and checked his weapon. He’d become lazy, relying on the tech to support him. Combat could be like a game at times, what with the constant flow of info to his HUD, the hi-tech kit, and the protective body wear.

  But this was a bare-knuckle fight, like the old days. No fancy gizmos, nothing battery-powered, and only the wits that nature had given him. It would be enough too, but now he had to use his brain again and not rely on the computers.

  Snipers were a special breed. They might lie for hours for the chance of a single shot, patiently waiting for their enemy to emerge. Always on the edges of combat, they never really felt part of the team. They were like the scared kids lurking behind the bushes, not the soldiers getting their hands dirty in the heat of battle. So it was with this guy.

  But they were smart arses too, and only the very best were able to resist the temptation to show off. The sniper had taken the bait, just like the rat, and Ten grinned because now he knew where the sniper was hiding.

  “Time to go to work,” he whispered, frowning again because something wasn’t right. Then he shook his head, pushing the doubt aside.

  He unclipped a grenade from his belt and pulled out the pin. A heartbeat, a breath; then he moved to a crouching position, counted slowly, and threw the grenade to his right.

  The sudden movement sparked gunfire, and Ten sprang off in the opposite direction, making for a doorway directly ahead of him.

  The grenade exploded – he felt its blast even as he ran – and he used it to push him towards his destination. The firing was intense, but they’d been slow to see what he was doing, and he slid to the ground in the doorway, dodging a second bullet.

  The sniper was above him, one of a band of terrorists within the building, working the city for some unknown reason. If the intel was correct, the civilians were in the heart of the structure, held in a central courtyard.

  He slung his rifle and unholstered his pistol. He was low on ammunition after his previous encounters, but he couldn’t remember why. The recent past was fuzzy, and that worried him.

  Fresh magazine or not? he thought. Ten decided on a fresh one, then found he had none left. Strange. Six rounds left, for the sniper, then back to the rifle and its near-empty magazine. After that, it was a dagger, and then he was stuck with bare hands if he couldn’t borrow a weapon from a corpse.

  It wasn’t often that Ten didn’t fancy his chances, but today was one of those rare occasions.

  He scanned the area. This was no way to run a military operation in a colony. They’d sent a tiny team, poorly-equipped with no support, and his fellow Marines were inexperienced and out of their depth. The war on the Deathless was squeezing resources, and Sol wanted this situation dealt with quickly, but he didn’t like it.

  Five of his team had been killed in the first hour. Sure, it was a stealth mission, but with only a single Marine left, the chances of success were not high. They were terrorists too, and Ten was more used to fighting soldiers of late. And wings – he’d had wings. This was just him, in a basic Royal Marine clone, no extras. It made him feel more vulnerable than he had in a long time.

  “Fuck 'em,” he said to himself. “Get the job done, go home. You know how to do this, Marine. This is what you used to do all the time. It’s like riding a bicycle; you just jump on, and off you go.”

  He became aware of movement both ahead and behind him as the terrorists peered from their stations, trying to figure out where he’d got to.

  “Over there, under the second balcony,” one of them called.

  Damn, where was covering fire when you needed it?

  Ten tightened his grip on the pistol and moved towards an exterior cable conduit on his right. He gave it a tug to check it would hold his weight and grinned. Once upon a time, he’d held the cadet speed-climbing record for nine months.

  He thrust his left hand forward and heaved his body up, jumping so that both feet were now in contact with the wall. He moved his left arm above his head, then pulled himself up a level. Difficult work, and after three reps he had to stop to deal with a couple of brave shooters who’d ventured from their cover to look for him.

  “There,” one shouted, spraying bullets as they slid to a halt in the open ground.

  Ten took a cloud of brick dust to the face, then flinched as a voltage blast rippled through him, almost shaking him off the conduit. They’d hit the cable, giving hi
m a solid jolt, but he clung on.

  He was desperate to wipe the brick dust from his eyes, and his arm was being tortured by the voltage from the live cable, but he had to take out the shooters, or this crappy colony would get the better of him. He heard the click of rifles, his cue to act.

  Clenching his eyes fast shut and whirling around, he fired twice at the first shooter, going on sound alone. There was the satisfying sound of a bullet tearing through flesh, a startled cry and a thud on the ground. He had moments to act, the voltage blast still numbing his left arm, and he’d have to let go if he couldn’t finish the second shooter.

  He listened again but heard nothing. His eyes were watering, and a few blinks helped clear the brick dust just enough that he could see. It itched like crazy. He needed time to sluice his eyes with water.

  “Shit,” said Ten, pushing back the other way, desperate to get clear. There was the click-clack sound of a jam being cleared, then swearing as the second terrorist wrestled with his weapon.

  “Gotcha,” whispered Ten, bringing his pistol up. Three shots, guided only by the sounds of the terrorist’s panic. A loose cluster of fire, centred above the rifle sounds, then a pause.

  There was a second thud – quieter this time – as a body slumped to the ground. Ten holstered his empty pistol and wiped the dust from his eyes. There were two corpses on the ground: one sprawled on its face, the other collapsed in a pile with a hole in its head. No pill in the universe was fixing that headache.

  He gritted his teeth against the pain in his arm, and heaved himself up the conduit, towards the balcony. Above him, boots scraped on concrete as the sniper scurried away, looking for a new place to hide. These guys weren’t made for close-quarters combat. Well, he was going to pay for the botched ear-piercing. Ten was coming for a refund, and he didn’t deal in cash.