The Tetra War_The Katash Enigma Read online

  The Tetra War

  —

  The Katash Enigma

  Michael Ryan

  &

  Hunter Ross

  Copyright © 2018 by Michael Ryan & Hunter Ross. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  It’s good to trust others, but not doing so is much better.

  ~ General Balestain, JFUA Command Third Army Group

  One year after the massacre at Vipsunpolis, Rhanskad, Planet Talamz.

  07MAY2311 HCE

  Confederated Interplanetary Republics Organization, CIRO

  The Capital City of Folreint, Nation of Chemecko, Planet Talamz

  System CAT: OEX–87.4763.004

  An elegantly dressed senior deputy with the family name of Veebqi pounded a stone gavel three times.

  Thud, thud, thud.

  It was his first day on the job.

  It was destined – by either the gods or corrupt officials – to be his last.

  In response to the gavel, the council chambers took on a deadening silence that reminded General Abast Balestain of being in a Tedesconian military morgue after the chanting of prayers to Saint Volundrof.

  CIRO members took their seats; servants stood at attention in the shadows.

  Those countries recognized by the council from the three member planets had each sent a pair of delegates. Another eight planets – so-called “colony planets” without recognized governments – were each allowed one delegate.

  Two days prior there had been a minor conflict; a calculating Chemecko general completing field inspections on Earth had ordered a thorough carpet bombing of Helsinki, ending the dispute.

  Senior Deputy Veebqi set down the ceremonial gavel and stood at attention to the left of the speaker’s podium. He spoke loudly and with a practiced eloquence. “It is with great honor I introduce our newly elected prime councilpurvast, Molveant P. Volestacken.”

  The attendees stood and clapped. As a whole they were unenthusiastic, but political decorum was maintained at such events because it was expedient.

  “Please take your seats,” the councilpurvast said. “I’m honored to be standing here today. I understand voting was close and contentious. Sometimes compromise leads to great coalitions and progress. I intend to fulfill the obligations of my office over the next four years with a tireless commitment to make every day count. Perhaps we can build a better future and function more productively if all nations recognize that each member state has lost significant numbers of lives. I believe the greatest act of heroism a citizen can ever hope to achieve is to die for their country.”

  As the new prime councilpurvast reached for a glass of water, an armor-piercing round passed through his head with such velocity that his arm managed to finish lifting the drink to his lips before he toppled like the statue of a deposed tyrant.

  The chief bailiff would later insist that capital police found and cataloged the bullet following all proper protocols. Whether it was placed in an evidence bag and then lost or never discovered by investigators in the first place remains a mystery to this day.

  Pandemonium ensued when the delegates realized they’d witnessed a political assassination in what had been sold as the safest building in the capital. In the confused madness to find an exit from the building, a human delegate from the Hong Kong District on Earth stepped on General Abast Balestain’s freshly polished sisalikalaur leather shoes.

  “Excuse,” the human said. “I need–”

  Balestain silenced him with a slap to the face.

  He turned away from the intrusion and said to President Borrokal, to whom he’d been speaking about a trade agreement for Erru dragon heli-jets, “Uncouth species, humans. Now, as you were explaining, Mr. President?”

  The president of Rhanskad was olive skinned and slender, an indication of his indigenous roots. He surveyed the panicking mass of officials scrambling for safety. “I expected this,” he said. “Fools…”

  “The Twelve, sir?” Balestain inquired.

  “Them too,” Borrokal said. “However, I meant the delegates. Running for the doors like a bunch of pecoraz. It’s disgraceful.”

  General Balestain looked around the room and choked back the urge to laugh. “Not everyone has seen combat, Mr. President.”

  “Shamefully, so true,” he agreed.

  “Back to business,” Balestain said. “I see you’ve approved my latest proposal.”

  “Yes, of course,” the president said dismissively. “You’ve had me tied to a sharbeel tree for months now.”

  “It’s a good plan.” Balestain waved at a porter.

  A diminutive Rhan woman approached the general. “Sir,” she said. Her Common English was rough but understandable. “How can I be of service?”

  “A Scotch neat for me, please,” he said politely. “And for the president, a jaccutizza. Please ensure it’s properly shaken and served at room temperature.”

  “Yes, General,” she said. “Of course.”

  The two men stared at her swaying hips as she sauntered toward the bar. When she was out of earshot, Balestain whispered, “I’d sure like to…”

  “Say no more, Abast. She’ll be in your suite at nine.”

  “Satisfactory,” the general stated with enthusiasm. “Mr. President, speaking of deliveries, when can I expect my next shipment of TCI-Armor?”

  “Thirty days from next Beilsgust,” he answered. “Excuse me – Tuesday.”

  “Beilsgust – Tuesday. Human – purvast. Sheep – pecoraz. It’s all the same to me, just with different syllables attached.”

  “Yet you drink Scotch. An earth-distilled Scotch, if my sources are correct.”

  “You have good spies, Mr. President,” Balestain said in a complimentary gush of praise. Mighty warriors, if they were intelligent, knew when to appeal to the vanity of lesser men. “I acquired a taste for Scotch during a summer campaign on Earth. A particularly ugly one, if my memory serves. It was some years ago. Before the last of the Scots died off in a terrible winter.”

  “I’d like to visit someday.”

  “Old Scotland, Mr. President?”

  “No, I mean Earth.”

  “Your wish may be granted in an unpalatable manner.”

  “This whole business is un…un…”

  “Unpalatable, sir. It’s a difficult word to chew on.”

  “Yes,” he said. “The damn common P. It gives me fits.”

  “Stick to disgusting, Mr. Pre
sident. It’s easier to pronounce and more visceral.”

  “Thank you, General,” he said. They discussed the various benefits and pitfalls of the default language until the server returned with their drinks.

  “Tell me,” Balestain asked the woman after accepting the glass from her outstretched hand. “Why didn’t you panic?”

  The woman glanced towards the president for an imperceptible moment, but the general still caught the look with his one good eye.

  “I was…” she said.

  “She was forewarned,” President Borroka said to the general. “That will be all,” he said, dismissing the servant.

  Balestain stared at her again. “A spy. You sneaky bastard.”

  Borroka gave a wry smile and said, “But I assume you still want her tonight?”

  “Yes, of course,” he answered with a grin. “Provided you don’t inform her that I know.”

  “You’re a devil,” the president said. “Done. But don’t be too rough on her, please. She’s one of my best.”

  Balestain was satiated and exhausted as midnight approached. He looked with pride at the naked woman lying next to him. “Can I get you a glass of water, dove?”

  “You’re serving me now?” she asked.

  “Yes, Apreelia. I’ve been serving you since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

  “That would be some feat,” she said, looking him in the eye.

  “Oh, you think you’re funny, don’t you?” he said, standing.

  “Only when I try.” She sat up, exposing small, perfectly round breasts circled with bite marks. “I have to leave soon, Abast.”

  “No.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll be lucky to get home and into my own bed by noon.”

  “Do you think he knows I know that he knows that I know you’ve been compromised by all parties?” Balestain asked.

  “Yes, of course,” she answered. “He’s very savvy. He allows this charade to continue as a favor to you.”

  Balestain smiled. “Maybe it’s a favor to you.”

  “Yes, my love. When the war is over, I’ll have your children.”

  “Wars are never over, my sweet thing. Besides, I’m many years older than you.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Don’t you agree we’d have beautiful babies?”

  He nodded his head. “And intelligent ones.”

  She leaped out of the oversized feathered bed like a jubilant child. “I want to join you in the rain bath before I leave.”

  “And you’re still talking…why?” he asked.

  She raced him to the bathroom.

  Balestain turned on the rain ceiling. He eyed the lavatory mirror until the rising steam masked his grotesque scars.

  Apreelia watched him.

  She truly loved the man, in spite of his faults.

  They coupled violently. As he tired, they tenderly kissed each other for what would be the final time.

  The following morning, while Balestain ate four sunny-side up eggs served on dry Rhan toast, Apreelia was tortured to death in an attempt to be sure she wasn’t double-crossing her own government. That General Balestain actually loved the woman would lead to several million unnecessary deaths the following summer.

  But that was unknown to all parties at the time.

  CHAPTER TWO

  But if they turn into renegades, seize and kill them; take no friends from their ranks.

  ~ Poems of Beelnt, Book of Truth, Index 41:18

  One year previously, as the massacre was concluding…

  07MAY2310 HCE

  Pugnale Ridge, Vipsunpolis, Rhanskad, Planet Talamz

  I avoided coming into contact with troops from both armies as I walked along the outskirts of Vipsunpolis.

  Missiles would be launched at me from the Tedesconians.

  From the Guritains, I could expect to be arrested and then executed.

  As I reached the edge of the city, Pugnale Ridge was a click to my right. A green belt rose from the metropolis as if constructed by urban planners. I approached the sheer cliffs, and it became apparent the features were natural; stone from Talamz’s crust had created the distinctive features in a geological event long in the past. While I stared at the contrast between the beauty of nature’s violence and the ugliness of the destroyed city, a squadron of Ted heli-jets flew over me. None of them bothered to strafe with their nose guns or launch missiles. It might have been good fortune. Or they’d simply run out of ammo. Probably the latter.

  I needed to determine if I’d be safer if I stayed in my armor or not. I was vulnerable walking around alone, and while I was protected from many forms of attack in TCI-Armor, I’d be outnumbered in any fight.

  I had many weeks’ worth of food and power, but I’d expended the last of my ammunition leaving the city. The suit’s elimination system retained water at nearly one hundred percent efficiency, but that only ensured a stranded SDI soldier would starve long before dehydration did them in.

  Protocol required self-destruction if the hardware was destined to end up in enemy hands, but I’d allowed Major Balestain to take Callie, Mallsin, and Abrel, so there was no reason to pretend I could ever go back. I decided that once I neared a Ted base, de-suiting was my only sensible option.

  I would have to negotiate with the major.

  My friends and partner would soon find themselves in a similar predicament, assuming they were all still alive. That seemed a likely outcome considering a high-ranking Ted officer had bothered to enter a battlefield to retrieve them. I tried speculating why he’d done this, but it only gave me a headache.

  My medi-program sensed my discomfort and fed the appropriate nano-pharma into my veins like a drug dealer.

  After several hours of sneaking through the brush along the cliffs of Pugnale Ridge, I joined a throng of Rhan refugees leaving the city. They’d become accustomed to the insignias of the Gurt military – we were the force that killed them only by accident – and I was mostly ignored. The few that engaged me either threw rocks or gave me a finger gesture I assumed was obscene. As dusk approached, the displaced pitched tents and cooked over small fires. I walked past thousands along the highway, occasionally receiving a stone to the faceplate.

  A little past midnight, I hid in the thick undergrowth.

  My camo rendered me nearly invisible in the darkness, so I had little concern about being harassed. I needed to be thinking clearly, and that required rest. I set a five-hour timer and fell asleep.

  A melody that reminded me of Callie woke me the next morning. A mild stimulant brought me to alertness as if I’d drunk three cups of coffee. I remained in lockdown mode with the camo system running while my CPU scanned for messages and checked for threats. Because I’d programmed my system to mimic a long-dead soldier, I hadn’t received even the most basic ship-to-ground news burst or all-troop bulletins. I decided it was time to de-suit and take my chances.

  Being defenseless had its disadvantages, but approaching a base camp in armor would undoubtedly draw fire. Instead, I found a dead man who approximated my size and borrowed his clothes.

  I walked for six hours, sometimes alongside civilians escaping the city. Most of them ignored me, although a friendly family offered me water and something resembling a sandwich. By the time the Ted camp came into view, I was joined by returning light infantry. Although I looked nothing like a Rhan, because I was wearing the typical clothes of the poorer classes, my presence raised no alarms.

  The camp was set up behind rows of metal fencing and hastily constructed barriers of cheap concrete and rock. A massive bulldozer worked in tandem with a pair of tracked cranes to move material to the thick wall that encircled the camp.

  Squadrons of heli-jets took off and landed from somewhere beyond my view. I was nearly crushed by a platoon of tanks moving along the same road as the crowds, which were a mix of military and civilian. I followed a small squad of soldiers to a checkpoint.

  “You can’t enter here,” a guard said to me in an overly loud voice. “Do you u
nderstand Common English?”

  “Yes,” I answered. “You. Don’t. Have. To. Shout. I’m not Rhan. Major Balestain is expecting me; I’m a Guritain soldier.”

  The guard and his partner laughed with genuine amusement.

  The skinnier of the two said, “And I’m Saint Voleberger.”

  “Hold one minute,” his partner said. “I’m calling Prime Minister Griesterberg. He’ll be joining you for lunch, of course.”

  The first guard coughed. He stopped laughing long enough to say, “You’ll have to dress up better than that.” He slapped his partner on the back. “Do you think he has time to get his hair styled and a proper manicure?”

  “Oh, certainly. Major Balestain is expecting him! He doesn’t need to be punctual.”

  A third soldier walked over to see what all the commotion was about. The first two explained the situation, and he chuckled at the presumed absurdity of my request. Finally, he said to me, “You’ll need to leave now unless you’re one of our deserters. But if that’s the case, I’ll need to shoot you.” He lifted a small, locally made coil rifle. “Scram!”

  “Hold on,” I said. I pulled up the sleeve of my borrowed shirt and displayed the emblematic tattoo of the SDI.

  The skinny guard slowly read my ink. “Death from the sky.”

  “Holy Golvin,” the first soldier said. “This brain-dead fool wasn’t kidding.”

  The third soldier seemed to be ranking; he kept his gun pointed at my face. “Don’t make any threatening moves.”

  I lifted my arms and turned slowly in a circle. “I’m unarmed. My name is Master Sergeant Specialist Avery Ford. Get my name to Major Balestain; I can assure you he wants to see me.” I grimaced and added, “Alive.”

  I spent six days in an uncomfortable cell; I was bored but well fed.

  It turns out that Rhan food is excellent. That the Teds had just bombed much of their city didn’t deter them from seeking employment where it could be found.

  That people have to eat is a universal motivator.

  On the seventh day, a guard took me for a haircut and shave. I was provided fresh clothes that fit as if they’d been tailored.