Battle for Maji-Onda (Starmen (Space Opera Series) Book 2) Read online

  STARMEN – Episode 2

  Battle for Maji-Onda

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2017 J.M. Hagan

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Table of Contents

  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

  Let him that would move the world first move himself.

  --Socrates

  TOP SECRET

  11/19/16

  INTERVIEW TAPE 12

  SUBJECT: E-B-E 7.

  1

  Sam was finding it difficult today.

  The interviewer had been asking questions for almost two hours, but the responses the little guy offered didn’t make a lick of sense to his telepathic translator.

  Unlike Sam, with his shaggy hair and beard, the Agent asking the questions was clean cut and muscular.

  As he puffed on his cigarette, the Agent, whose name was as much a mystery to Sam as the true name of EBE-7, blew smoke with an exaggerated sigh. That he was nearing the end of his tether had been evident for some moments before his outburst even arrived.

  “God damn. What the fuck is wrong with it?” he demanded, in an angered whisper, when EBE-7 failed yet again to provide a satisfactory response.

  Sam didn’t see the point in whispering at all. EBE-7 could hear and understand everything.

  Despite the interviewer’s crass manor, EBE-7 had no emotional response. He had no pride and didn’t even show a desire to protect himself or preserve his own life. Death is inconsequential, he once told Sam telepathically. He was created for service, but he couldn’t serve his masters from here, whoever they were.

  “I’m trying,” Sam snapped.

  Even if the little guy didn’t mind, it had bothered him. Over the course of the last four months, Sam had grown attached to him. After all, this was the 12th interview they had done, and he spent a lot of that time telepathically linked to the extra-terrestrial biological entity.

  EBE-7 was one of only two EBEs known to be on Earth at this time, since EBE-4 died back in ‘09. That was unless the Chinese or the Russians had got a hold of some others. Sam had high level clearance, and he’d learnt a lot from EBE-7 – but there were still a lot of things he wasn’t privy to.

  Without the aid of a telepath, they had to rely on the pictograph to communicate with the EBEs. If things continued in this vein, he knew it wouldn’t be long until the interviewer resorted to that. In fact, he’d already threatened to several times.

  The EBEs either didn’t have the capacity to, or simply refused to, speak our languages. They understood spoken words very well, however, be it English, Russian, or Chinese.

  Okay. EBE-7, Sam thought, and the grey alien heard him as he pointed out a piece of tech. Tell us…what is the function of this portion of the apparatus labelled EN-201?

  Sam prodded the diagram on the page with his finger. The dark oval eyes looked down briefly capturing the lights of the dim room.

  Each time they met with an EBE, interviewers asked questions regarding the recovered technology from crashed craft. But none so interested them as EN-201, the latest device discovered that was thought to be capable of faster than light travel.

  It had been upgraded since the originals found from ‘49 onward.

  They still couldn’t backwards engineer that tech, and the fact that the EBEs were making even more progress over humanity had people at the Pentagon demanding swifter results from these interviews.

  Sam had been feeling the pressure lately.

  However, the more they demanded of EBE-7, the less he gave in return. The creature blinked with its lids folding shut in the odd, almost innocent style of the species, as its tiny mouth curled at the right corner.

  Transference.

  Sam shook his head, shut his eyes feeling the interviewer’s hard glare. “Well, what did he say?” he barked impatiently.

  “Transference,” Sam relayed its simple response with a sigh.

  The interviewer slammed down his pen. “Same shit as before.”

  Sam shot him a glare. “You know, maybe if you guys had a little more patience, and didn’t always bark at him, EBE-7, might permit more than a handful of interviews a month.”

  The interviewer, with cold eyes, and a tightening jaw, shoved a finger in his face, and Sam gulped. “You’re on thin ice,” he warned him. “Do your job. You’re supposed to be a professional.”

  Sam knew, with a click of the fingers, a man like this could end his career. He wasn’t interested in testing him. But he was genuinely worried for the strange creature that sat in the glass cage before him.

  EBE-7. Can you give me a more descriptive answer?

  Right then, the alien shut its eyes as if in pain. It let out a splutter. The interviewer was quick to call in the medical team on standby.

  As they rushed into the glass containment, EBE-7 opened his eyes, giving a great howl, and for the first time, Sam heard it make a noise beyond a cough.

  A wave of psionic energy ringed from its large cranium, sending cracks along the glass containment, and throwing both members of the medical team onto their backsides.

  Everyone in the room froze.

  EBE-7 seemed to look at them – really look at them for the first time – there was traces of a soul in his obsidian eyes. Then his eyes found Sam, and he heard it say Gone.

  Then its mouth opened with a hiss of air. “They’re gone,” it said, and Sam felt his heart skip a beat. EBE-7 had a voice. It was unlike any he had ever heard; the words came out as if distorted by some electronic device.

  “Who is gone?” the interviewer demanded, while Sam still struggled to comprehend his situation. The medical doctors remained on their asses with looks of frightened awe.

  “Overseer. Gone,” said EBE-7. “Life. Meaningless.”

  The question that had never been truly answered was the first to be on the tip of the Agent’s tongue, and Sam didn’t need his telepathic powers to know that it was coming. They had traded with them, turned a blind eye to abductions, even ran campaigns of disinformation to cover it up in plain sight. In return, they had been given the technology decades ago that began the boom of technological advancements that continued to this day. But they never received the answer.

  Every superpower in the world was well aware of the alien race’s existence, and they had been preparing in secret ever since their arrival to fight back against them, if it came to that.

  The interviewer looked to Sam who was baffled.

  EBE-7’s mind had never been so…

  “Whatever has been controlling him all this time…it’s gone…”

  The interviewer leant over the table. His thin black tie fell into his coffee cup and he didn’t care. “EBE-7…
what does your race hope to accomplish here on Earth?” he asked, swallowing deeply.

  Every heart in that room was beating like a drum as they awaited an answer.

  “Not my race,” said EBE-7. “I am nothing. Genetic material. Vessel.”

  “Is your agenda benevolent or hostile?” the Agent screamed.

  EBE-7 looked right at Sam.

  In his mind’s eye he saw a great ship, a hundred times larger than any ship he’d ever seen before, succumb to an enormous explosion. The vision was intense.

  He wasn’t sure of its meaning, but he guessed that this had been a significant loss to the grey species.

  Then, as an icy chill washed down Sam’s spine, it turned its head back to the Agent. “Beware…Dok’ra…”

  EBE-7’s head shook as he fell into a violent bout of coughing. The medical team rushed to his aid, this time they didn’t encounter any form of resistance.

  Sam, sick with worry, watched EBE-7 die...

  Starmen

  Battle for Maji-Onda

  Part 1

  Preparation

  Everything's easy after it's done;

  Every battle's a 'cinch' that's won;

  Every problem is clear that's solved--

  The earth was round when it revolved!

  But Washington stood amid grave doubt

  With enemy forces camped about;

  He could not know how he would fare

  Till after he'd crossed the Delaware.

  Though the river was full of ice

  He did not think about it twice,

  But started across in the dead of night,

  The enemy waiting to open the fight.

  Likely feeling pretty blue,

  Being human, same as you,

  But he was brave amid despair,

  And Washington crossed the Delaware!

  So when you're with trouble beset,

  And your spirits are soaking wet,

  When all the sky with clouds is black,

  Don't lie down upon your back

  And look at them. Just do the thing;

  Though you are choked, still try to sing.

  If times are dark, believe them fair,

  And you will cross the Delaware!

  --Joseph Morris, a Lesson of History

  2

  Location: Europa

  December…

  Bullets pelted the cover he had chosen, a small stone wall at the edge of the complex, and Jack hunkered down, making himself small. Claudia watched from the windows along the rusted gangway above the disused factory floor. She hurried to her vantage point, carrying a PM-72 high calibre bolt-action marksman rifle.

  “Yo! Team – a little help here!” Jack’s voice blared in her earpiece, as he reloaded his X-series sub-repeater.

  His had been modified with a red-dot sight and a laser sight on the side. It was perfect for close encounters like this, capable of firing 1000 rounds per minute, and with an increased magazine capacity of 65. Suppressed as he was, though, it didn’t matter what weaponry he had if he couldn’t fire off a single round without having his head blown off.

  “Hold on, Jack,” cried Mark Anderson.

  He was currently making his way behind buildings on the other side of the complex to flank the units suppressing Jack. The market was wide open, with a just a few small walls bordering the empty stalls.

  The maze of small houses looked dizzying to navigate through from where she was looking. Just as Claudia reached the window that gave her a view of the entire compound and readied her rifle, Mark came out from an alleyway wearing black optic-goggles and firing his lever-action P8 shotgun that was deadly in close proximity.

  His first shot took one of them in the back, and the hologram was launched five feet forward by the powerful blast before disintegrating.

  Claudia found one in her sights and held her breath before taking her shot. He dropped upon taking it in the chest. Then Mark blasted at the other, missing his shot, and he sought cover in one of the market stalls.

  Claudia lost him behind a wide wooden board at the stall’s rear. She cocked her bolt-action rifle to free up the chamber and some steam vented as the spent casing spilled out; if she allowed a spent round to remain in the chamber for too long, it often caused the rifle to jam.

  She shot through the board three times in a straight line, cocking the bolt so sharply that a mere few seconds had passed, and Mark signalled her with a thumb once the third shot went out. She smirked. Can’t believe that actually worked.

  Windows at the main house, which had been converted into a sandbagged barracks, smashed. Machine gun fire sprayed the market. Mark hurried into cover in the alleyway, and Jack sprinted over to join him.

  “That’s it. Stick together boys,” said Claudia, turning her aim to the windows.

  The hostage was inside. From the position of the windows to their targets in the alleyway, the sentries were hidden from her view as they shot out.

  “I don’t have a shot,” she told them, as Jack and Mark hunkered down. “Should I relocate?”

  “You’re the sniper. You know best,” replied Jack.

  Real helpful. She bit her lip, mulling it over. Then she looked around for a better vantage point. She spied a rooftop at the back of the complex that was in line with the barracks and decided that was her position.

  “I’m on the move,” she told them, hurrying back along the gangway.

  *

  Anderson led the way, as they negotiated a path through the tight alleyways. He took shells from his ammo belt, reloading his shotgun as he went with the non-lethal training rounds they used in the HC. There was yet to be a case of friendly fire, but he didn’t doubt that these rounds still packed a hell of a punch.

  He spin-cocked his lever-action P8 shotgun to secure the ammo in place with a satisfying click.

  When they made it to a short garden wall, he peeked from the corner carefully.

  Using his black optic-goggles that were secured by a strap around his head, he could see better than ever. Ahead was a long open stretch leading to the barracks. There were windows overlooking the alley.

  “What do you see?” asked Jack, watching the flank on his knee with his PM pulse pistol at the ready. It was a variant of the standard issue Plysarian military pistol – an energy weapon fuelled by zolphorous oil cartridges that allowed upwards of fifty shots per load.

  Danger. “How many smoke grenades we got?”

  “Two. Get them from my pack,” said Jack, steady-aimed.

  Anderson hurried to open the flap. Then he dug his hand inside and felt around for the two cylindrical grenades. When he had them, he put his back to the wall and tossed one. It sprayed with an initial hiss. Then, when a thick cloud had gathered, he tossed the other.

  “Okay, Jack, stick close to the buildings. If they’re gonna fire blind, they’re likely to aim for the open space.”

  Jack got up and planted his back next to him. “Where are we going?”

  “Side entrance. Thirty yards. Stick close,” he said, switching the setting of his optic-goggles to thermal. The world became a mesh of red, yellow and blue. “Let’s go!”

  Even with the smoke billowing around him, Anderson could see a faint heat signature by the window above. Then he heard glass bash. A soldier came out in full view and tossed a grenade. Oh, fuck!

  He sprinted, heart in his mouth, feeling time cut at the back of his neck like a blade. An icy tingle surged through him. I’m not gonna make it!

  An explosion rang behind him, as a powerful wave crashed against his back that propelled him in the air before he crashed down on his front, rolling in agony.

  He gathered himself, and hurried to check the vitals on his vest. They flashed red. Shit!

  Anderson rolled on his back, cursing himself. “I’m dead,” he moped, panting with sweat on his burning face.

  “Me too,” moaned Jack, from somewhere within the smoke cloud.

  “Son of a bitch,” Claudia yapped, over the com
, her breathing laboured. “I just sprinted the whole way over here for nothing?”

  The HC sounded with failing power as the simulation came to an abrupt end. “I’m afraid so,” Cane commented, over the loudspeaker.

  He was in the audience suite, viewing their progress and grading them. When everything vanished around them, Anderson and Jack were lying on their backs on a metallic grey floor, and the air filters blew out the smoke. The door to the outside opened, and Cane entered with his PDP in hand.

  “You did well,” he complimented. “All of you. Unfortunately, your plan was flawed from the beginning.”

  Jack rose, his nostrils flaring. “I thought it was a good plan. The execution, however…”

  “How did we score?” asked Anderson, eager to find out. He had done better than usual, and he hoped he might finally score higher than Jack.

  Cane pointed at him while looking at his PDP. “Anderson – B. Jack – C.” Yes! “Claudia – B.”

  Claudia came forward with a smug grin, whistling at him. “Oh, Jack, what happened?”

  “Stuff it, Miss Stewart,” he joked. “It’s about time you both beat me; I was sick of coming first anyway.”

  Anderson removed his optic-goggles with a smile. “If it meant so little, then why are you getting all red?”

  “I’m not getting red!” Jack blared, trying not to sound angry, and failing. “My cheeks were already burning from all the running, douche.”

  “Okay,” Cane interrupted them. “The fact remains, as a team, you failed. Individual progress won’t matter in the final exam. Remember?”

  He was good at that, helping them remain focused on the big picture. Anderson felt his victory become hollow, real fast.

  “Yeah. You’re right. We’ll go over our plan again tonight. Agreed?” Jack and Claudia nodded in response. “If we prepare, I know we can pass this assessment tomorrow.”

  Regardless of what Cane had said about individual progress not being important, Anderson was gaining in confidence. This time last week, he couldn’t hold a candle to Jack.

  Cane clapped his hands together. “All right. Lunch time, then CQC.”