DEADLY REFUGE (The Alorian Wars Book 2) Read online

  DEADLY

  REFUGE

  BOOK TWO OF THE ALORIAN WARS

  DREW AVERA

  Copyright © 2016 Drew Avera

  All rights reserved.

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  ABOUT DEADLY REFUGE:

  From Drew Avera comes the highly-anticipated sequel to his bestselling space opera Broken Worlds: Book One of The Alorian Wars.

  Four months after Brendle Quin pilots the Replicade and her crew through Key Lourna, they make the hard decision to come out of hiding. The tactics used to save their lives has left the ship held together with patchwork repairs, and the only way to make her fully mission capable is to port on a world with ship repair facilities. Unfortunately, the nearest world that meets that necessity is situated deep in Greshian owned territory.

  Farax is a colony world whose leaders are loyal to the Greshian Empire, but whose citizens are loyal to no one. Farax is a safe hold for piracy in the region, and none is more vile than Crase Tuin, the man known for trafficking people and weapons across the Alorian Galaxy. He has a reputation as the only pirate never to lose a ship, but that's only because no one has survived taking what is his. When he finds the Replicade, he vows to reclaim the only ship he ever lost, and claim the lives of the ones who stole her.

  Chapter One: Crase

  Farax was an ungodly world. The Greshian Empire had used it as an outlying territory for a generation, "used" being the operative word in place of "abused". It was a place not recognized as sovereign, not that anyone who frequented the dusty world ever held that against her. Farax was beneath the law, dirty and vile. It was just the kind of place that made smuggling seem routine. That's why Crase Tuin was here. He liked routine. He liked easy money. Hell, it didn't really have to be all that easy for him to be interested, but he wasn't much in the mood for obstacles with the shipment waiting to be offloaded on Farax today. It was better to drop it off, cash out, and skin the hell out of here, he thought as he stepped onto the wooden porch leading into Fro's Bar. Fro had been dead ten years, but the name was synonymous with come here and do your illegal bidding, so the name stuck. The new owner was Bac and he didn't talk much. Maybe it was out of fear, or maybe it was just Bac's nature. Either way it was a trait Crase liked about the people he allowed to know his business.

  Crase stood outside Fro's Bar for a moment, watching the sun set behind the high rooftops across the dirty street. He was early, but then again, he was always early. His associate stepped beside him, looking out at the view, but not particularly the landscape. "You know the deal. You don't know me and you wait until I've had time to take a seat before you come in. If she's undercover, she'll most likely be here already. Good to go?" he asked his quiet partner, Nuelar.

  The Lechen man nodded once, his yellow eyes a stark contrast to his dark gray skin. In another life Nuelar had been part of the priesthood. In another life he still had his tongue and the ability to speak. That other life was over.

  Crase nodded once, turned his back to the street and stepped inside. His jacket hung low, a size too big when it came to length, especially in the arms, but he had gained a bit a weight since he had stolen it from the original owner. Now it didn't even button around his waist, not that he cared. It was symbolic, and it made hiding the sawed-off rifle he tucked under his left arm a lot easier. Crase wasn't afraid of violence, but today wasn't the day he particularly wanted to worship at the altar of murder. Then again, it was still early in the evening and, with enough drinks, anything was possible.

  The dark bar made it hard to see, but his eyes adjusted as he made his way to the back of the bar where his favorite table sat empty. He collapsed his heavy body into a chair, feeling the groan of the wood settle into place as he found a comfortable position. Farax had a higher gravity than he was used to, and it made breathing a little more of a pant than he'd like, but it was something he knew he would grow accustomed to over time. He just didn't have that kind of time, at least not today.

  His eyes shifted up towards the woman moving in his direction. She had been sitting in a dark corner of the room, nursing a half-empty glass of something already at room temperature, if Crase had to guess. An obvious attempt at disguising herself as part of the new criminal cliental, he thought as she took a seat across from him, but he didn't let her know he was onto her with his eyes. He just smiled greedily as she set the bounty on the table. The box was small, reflecting the sunlight piercing through the slits in the door. Size didn't matter. It was the contents within that held the value to Crase. Encased was enough data to keep him monetarily satisfied for the rest of his life. Well at least that was what was supposed to be in the case, but his doubts about the contents were significant enough to make him think he would probably be walking out the door empty handed.

  "You're late," she said with no hint of a smile on her ruby lips. She sat down, the effect of gravity not as harsh on her body as it had been on his. Another clue that she is not who she claims to be, he thought as he stared at her through narrow slits of eyes. Despite the dim light of the bar, Crase could tell she was wearing contacts to alter her eye color. Her hair had a distinct tinge of dye when the light hit it just right as well.

  "No, I'm never late. I was just making my rounds to ensure my delivery would not be hindered by those who want to uphold something as tragic as the law," he replied with a coy smile. "Buy you a drink?" The small talk was a ruse to prolong the contact, to get a real feel for the situation, but Crase was confident now that she was an undercover agent of the Greshian Empire. She might have the altered skin color and enough acting ability to pretend to be someone else, but Crase spent his life running from the law. Part of his success was detecting this kind of bullshit. The smell of it was thick in the air now, but he continued the charade. "The root liquor is my favorite here. It has a lot of bite," he said, snapping his teeth together after saying "bite".

  The woman turned back her own glass and finished its contents. When she pulled it away she made a face that confirmed his suspicion that it was warm. "Maybe something clear," she said, wiping her hand across her lips.

  Crase lifted a hand to the bartender, signaling his desire for two drinks. The bartender nodded, but didn't make any attempt at expediting the order.

  "How about we cut to the chase," she said, leaning forward, her voice slightly louder than a whisper.

  "I don't like to conduct business on an empty stomach," Crase answered, his lips curling with anticipation. This wasn't going to be business and she was too quick to jump at the opportunity to accost him. In his experience it was the sign of an amateur, but sometimes those with too much confidence gave the same signals. It always ended the same way: bloody.

  The woman cleared her throat. "I know who you are. Your attempt at masking your transponder codes failed and I have already signaled for a platoon of Greshian Marines to come arrest you."

  He fought the urge to smile, to give away the thoughts lingering in his mind. He always hated having to explain ignorance to the weak minded. In cases like this, though, it was nice to reveal a bit about the art of piracy. Words were a much gentler way to lead a person to death, and threats were nothing more than trashy advertising. Crase saw Nuelar take a seat a few tables away, his dark skin obscuring him from view of the woman as she continued to talk. It was a shake down; he was under arrest for smuggling arms and slave running. It was always the same thing, different world, different undercover agent spewing the lingo with more confidence than their life could purchase. One would think this situation would grow old and tiresome, but for Crase it was refreshing. He blinked twice and rested his palms on the table
before focusing on the woman speaking. He didn't even know her name.

  "Not only do I have you dead to rights, but I also have your ship," she said, the smirk widening on her pale face. "I thought you never lost ships," she finished. He hadn't been paying much attention to her until she mentioned losing ships. It was a bit of a sore spot, a semi-fresh wound that still festered when touched the wrong way.

  Crase leaned forward, his hands flat against the table except for his finger swirling the condensation left over from her drink nonchalantly. "I never started the myth about not losing ships," he said flatly.

  "Then I wonder where that myth came from, if not from you." Her smile was a mask of false confidence. She just wasn't aware of it yet.

  He smiled now, leaning close to whisper. "Because the people who can tell the tale of a ship I've lost never live to speak it. I want to let you in on a little secret, though. My transponder wasn't masking the signal, at least not in a way that would allow me to land undetected. Do you see this tiny rock world for what it really is? Farax is the filth that Greshia uses to hide its own dirty deeds. Those disposable people sent to toil in slavery are far more loyal to monetary bribery than they are to militant threats." He watched her look around at the silent people ignoring the tension growing in the back of the bar. He wondered if she realized it was all an act. "Your message to the Greshian Marines was intercepted. There is no platoon coming to arrest me, and there are no heroes coming to rescue you, either. You, my dear, are another disposable pawn in the hands of an empire that loathes you." His words were brash and cutting. He could see in her eyes that she believed him. It was wise, because a lying pirate is a sloppy pirate. It is always better to deal in truths.

  She wanted to say something, but as Crase watched, waiting for her words to emanate, the only thing he saw was a tear slide down her cheek. That image said more in the breadth of a heartbeat than anything she could have spoken verbally. That tear was the truth.

  Behind her, Nuelar gripped her face, turning her head. She didn't have an opportunity to respond before his steely blade sliced through her flesh. Her blood poured down her shirt, at first trickling and then like a waterfall staining the fabric of her clothes, but that was the least of her worries. Death was cruel mistress, but not as cruel as Crase Tuin who was smiling back at her wickedly, his eyes never leaving hers as her life escaped from her throat.

  Crase stood stoically over her; the Greshian mole in a colony she thought was loyal to her people. But loyalty could be bought just as easily with the currency of providing an oppressed people the option to fight back. Those same oppressed people watched as Crase left, unopposed by anyone, while the blood of an ignorant Greshian pooled across the floor behind him.

  He didn't hate her. On the contrary, he thought she was quite ballsy despite knowing nothing about her other than that she was an undercover agent and planned to have him arrested. But in order to run a successful business, one had to go to extremes to secure the future of that business. Deception was only one such tool he used to exercise those extremes; death was another. She was right about one thing, though. The myth of his never losing a ship was not based on reality, but no one would ever speak of it; at least not if he ever got his hands on the people who had stolen the warship he called Replicade from him. For them, he had something much slower than Nuelar's blade gliding across the delicate flesh of their throats. No, for them he had something much worse.

  Chapter Two: Anki

  Floating in the dark, with an EVA suit as her only source of warmth, Anki winced under the blinding blue light from the welder in her hand. The visor of her helmet darkened automatically, fighting back the searing glare as it radiated from the scorching tip, manipulating the steel hull of the old warship. Each time she released the switch, her helmet cleared up again, allowing her to see the details of her work under the much dimmer work light. A small, distant star twinkled, its light winking at her, seducing her with its majestic beauty from light years away. She paused to stare at it, allowing her eyes to adjust once again to the darkness, where acute details came back into view. I hope I don’t go blind doing this, she thought, narrowly missing some kind of container flying past her head. Surrounding her was a barrage of debris sucked from the hull of the Replicade, a majority of it orbiting the ship like planets around a star. This was the third repair in as many days and she had missed more than her share of sleep out of fear she might wake up to vacuum. She had seen the effects of the dark firsthand and it was a terrifying experience. Sleep deprivation doesn't allow me to do my best work, she thought as she inspected the bead of weld from patching the most recent hole in the skin of her ship. Her ship; that had a certain ring to it, she had to admit.

  It had been four months, Luthian time, since she found herself a member of the crew onboard the Replicade. She never had any intentions of being on a ship like the one she was patching up now. Her brief stint as a salvager had put a bad taste in her mouth when it came to floating for months on end, trapped inside such a small vessel. The threat of claustrophobia alone was enough of a deterrent, but running from the destructive path of the Greshian Empire made the anxiety worse. Sure, she knew she could survive on a ship, but that was not her calling, at least not in her mind. The Luthian Navy was supposed to be the answer to that call, especially as a marine. She expected her life to be forfeit for the good of her home world, but she no longer had a home to return to. Everything, her entire life, had been destroyed as the Greshian warship Telran deployed its weapons on her home world. She witnessed the desolation of her planet via video feed from the Telran. They might not have been able to catch the Replicade, but they found her heart and crushed it under their heels nonetheless. Luthia burned for weeks until the atmosphere was devoured by the flames, a devastating death, destroyed by the fires consuming her. Anki dreamt of it every night since the attack, waking in panic, chills running down her spine as she witnessed the horror perched above her world.

  The only comfort she found was in the arms of her lover Brendle. The fact he was a Greshian, bearing the same face as the ones who annihilated Luthia, was something she had come to terms with. Through Brendle she was learning to love, to push back the needle of hatred piercing her every time she thought of the war of aggression that rapidly changed everything in her life. The losses still hurt, but she wasn't as alone as she thought she would be, as she thought she should be. To say she was experiencing survivors remorse was putting it mildly, but she had the love and support of the ship’s small crew. The Replicade represented her new family, and there was hope in that at least.

  "How's it going out there, Anki? Pilot says you have only a few minutes of air remaining. It might be a good idea to head in," Brendle said over the radio. His voice was interrupted by static, probably from the radiation of the star on the other side of the ship, she thought. The EVA suit could not shield her properly, so the Replicade acted as a barrier of protection to shield her from the radiation. It was a necessary evil to work in these conditions. It’s for survival, she thought.

  "I think I'm done," she replied, exhaling softly. Anki had been breathing slower in order to conserve air. The small oxygen tank on the EVA suit wasn't made for long, tedious jobs, but more for aiding the mating of two ships’ airlocks for the transporting of arms. The Replicade had been a scouting craft and gunship prior to being salvaged and coming into the hands of Deis and Malikea. The ship had saved their lives, she was told more than once as she and Brendle ate with the Lechun husbands who had come to their aid on the worst day of her life. She regretted thinking of her meeting Brendle as her worst day, especially considering the joy she found in him now, but between the half-dozen times she almost died only to find her world destroyed and there being nothing she could do about it, there was a shortage of more accurate words to describe the crew's initial meeting. All things aside, she loved the crew. If only the terms of their coming together could have excluded the death of her father and not taken an entire civilization with him.

 
"I'll cycle you in through the aft airlock," Brendle replied.

  Anki took a few steps back, her magnetic boots keeping her bound to the metallic skin of the ship. She looked across the skin, expecting to find evidence of an air leak. Usually, if the leak was significant enough, the leaking air would resemble smoke billowing from the small cracks in the hull. With none visible, she turned towards the airlock just as the air filtering into her suit began to grow stale. Timing was everything, she thought with a smile as the airlock cycled opened, welcoming her back home. The exterior airlock cycled closed, and her ears popped as pressure filled the void between the inner and outer airlock. That's when she knew it was safe to take off the helmet.

  Freshly recycled air filled her lungs as she inhaled deeply. The inner airlock cycled open, the bulk of it looking like the silvery iris of an eye as the door wound counterclockwise to allow her to step into the main deck of the Replicade. She hung her helmet on the bulkhead and stripped off the EVA suit, the tight fabric clinging to her body and not wanting to let go. It was a trait that was annoying when putting the suit on and taking it off, but it also allowed the suit to be made thinner while still keeping the person wearing it warm. At this point, with as many times as she had to skitter out into vacuum to expedite repairs, Anki found herself thankful the EVA suit was as compact as it was, even if it meant shedding the suit sometimes felt like she was taking her skin off with it.

  "Anki, Captain Brendle is waiting for you in the galley," Pilot said, the voice eerily similar to that of her late father's. On the night of Luthia's destruction, she had programmed the ship AI's voice to emulate her father's. She had been alone on the bridge; Pilot her only source of company, when the AI suggested emulating her father’s voice so she could hear it once more. Anki doubted it was meant to last this long, and sometimes hearing her father’s voice did more harm than good, but she couldn't find the strength to change it. To Anki, it seemed that changing the voice would be like killing her father a second time. It was a ridiculous notion when she stopped to think about it, which she rarely did, because the wound of loss was still sensitive to the touch.