fuonlyknew

WAR AND MYSTERY BEYOND THE STARS

Sgt. “Det” Cox has just spent three years under psych observation on Earth; now that he’s out-system, he isn’t about to tell anyone he’s seeing aliens again. Paige Barnett has lost everything, even her name, because she knows too much about the rebellion spreading through the Earth-Space mining colonies.

Together Cox and Barnett stumble upon the mystery at the revolution’s heart and learn why the rebels are willing to die for it.

Is their discovery humanity’s worst threat or greatest gift? The authorities are willing to destroy whole planets to keep the revolution’s secret from reaching Earth… What’s to stop them from destroying two people

“The Morrises’ blend of fast-paced narrative and meticulous research into near-space technology makes a novel you can’t put down.”
— C.J. Cherryh

“Action sequences that would make any writer proud. OUTPASSAGE is a wonderful book.”
–David Drake

“OUTPASSAGE might just be the perfect science fiction novel.”
— Jack Williamson

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PROLOGUE

Fourth World Nightmare

The sky was thin and the color of dirty motor oil, except where it exploded above their heads. Concussion was delayed in the thin air but the smell of roasting Rangers got to you right away, even through your air filters. The terraformers hadn’t done much of a job on this classified ball of rock before the corporation workforce moved in, the shit hit the fan, and a request for military assistance followed.

The request wasn’t denied, exactly, but it was rerouted to InterSpace Tasking Corporation’s security division, who sent out a deniable reconnaissance team — thirteen US Rangers sheep-dipped for hazardous duty under the command of Colonel “Mad Jack” Reynolds.

It was Reynolds whose charred flesh was sending up the stink that made Cox gag as he dove for cover. Long recon meant long odds, long distances, and long hitches, but nobody ever wanted to think it meant dying a long way from home.

Overhead, even through his flash-and-blast suppressing helmet, Cox could see the enemy coming in for another strafing run. Nobody ever thought the enemy was going to come at you with airpower, either, because there wasn’t supposed to be any hostile force out here that had airpower.

In Cox’s ear, Locke was screaming over the comm set: “… suggest you form up for extraction, sir, at the beacon.”

Cox huddled under an overhang of silicate, his rifle cradled against his chest and his knees pulled up, shifted enough to turn his head. “Reynolds?” he said into his comm-mic, just to be sure.

But there was no way the barbecued officer lying beside him, charred limbs askew, was going to answer. The airpower came over and Cox covered his head: his helmet’s recon pack had sent plenty of pictures already; he didn’t need to risk his life for one more shot of somebody shooting at him.

He needed to risk his life to get to the extraction point, and that was about all he could handle. “Hey Locke,” he yelled into his mic because the airpower was strafing what was left of Reynolds: “Reynolds is past it. I’m here by my lonesome.” Rock exploded near him. Reflexively, he ducked his head in the shelter of his arms, eyes closed, and said as clearly and calmly as he could, “But I’m real ready for an order to get the fuck out of here.”

“Then give it,” came Locke’s voice, laconic over the static and hard to hear because the sniper aircraft was coming back for another pass. “You’re the only friendly voice I’m hearing.”

“Falling back,” Cox heard his own voice say, and his body followed suit. He knew he was calling the roll as he got to his knees, then his feet, crouched under the overhang, listening hard for even a groan or a grunt in response.

But nobody came back to him over his comm-link. Thirteen guys, and of the twelve on his comm-link, Cox couldn’t raise a single one but Locke. He was poised, his thighs cramping, as he waited for what felt like the right moment to sprint across the scree, a mapping display already enabled on his faceplate that gave routing overlays to his target — the extraction site.

But through the electronics, he could see Reynolds. Behind the colored grid with its pulsing points and alphanumeric displays, Reynolds seemed to be moving.

Sliding along the ground, almost. Cox didn’t want to leave anybody behind that had a breath of life ….

He scuttled toward Reynolds, his pack scraping the ceiling of the overhang — scrambled close enough to see that not only Reynolds’ left arm and leg, but the left side of his skull, was burned away.

“Shit.” The shock of it propelled the Ranger out from cover, along the suggested track on his visor-display, as fast as he’d ever moved in his life.

But in the confines of his helmet, he knew what he’d seen: something moving; Reynolds moving. And he knew he was running from that vision as much as from anything else here.

Because there wasn’t anything else here. There wasn’t anything but some deep-space double-cross having to do with mining rights and racial hatreds spread across the stars.

It was the gang bosses against the cheap labor, was what it was. There wasn’t any alien life here, despite the security classification level of the planet designated X-31A, due to artifactual evidence. There wasn’t any alien life anywhere, not above the vegetable level — a century in space had proved that beyond a reasonable doubt.

Everything that seemed artifactual had, eventually, turned out to be natural, not intelligence-made. There wasn’t any reason for these IST honchos to be afraid of the boondocks on X-31A but the way they treated the contract laborers they’d trucked in here.

If Cox said different, he’d be in psych evaluation for the rest of his life — if he got off this shitball to have one.

It hadn’t been anything, not anything, that he’d seen out of the corner of his eye. It sure as hell hadn’t been a white, human-looking, delicate hand pulling Reynolds toward a wall of solid rock — coming out of a wall of solid rock.

It hadn’t. His lungs were burning despite the augmented oxygen-rich mix his recon pack was feeding him as he sprinted; he was sweating like a pig — sweating worse than his cooling system could handle. And, overhead, he heard a subtle change in volume that wouldn’t be subtle for long: the pursuit aircraft, laying down rivers of flame as it did a one-eighty, had sighted him. It was coming back.

With the bogey on his tail and nobody to answer to, Cox hit his jet-assist. It was a one-time-only, emergency move, but there was no way he could outrun that aircraft, not on foot.

The wrench at his shoulders was immediate, the grab in his crotch comforting. And then he was airborne himself, skimming across the ground toward the extraction point where Locke’s bird was already a dark speck lowering out of the filthy clouds.

Need to touch down before the transport does; got to watch his wash; wind-shear could crash him. You weren’t supposed to do this — it was against every rule in the book to jet toward an extraction point: gave heat-tracking to the enemy; gave random bad luck more of a chance to scratch you from the game-card.

He could still see the charred half of Reynolds’ face, the eye like a lamb’s eye that had popped up in his soup once during a Saudi tour. He saw it so clearly that when the enemy screamed overhead, ignoring him and going after Locke in the pickup craft, it didn’t bother him any.

Not even when Locke’s VTOL exploded in a gout of dirty orange flame, because he could still see Reynolds inching along the rock like he was alive, that hand clamped on him.

And then he couldn’t see anything, not for a long time, because something shorted his helmet’s system and the ground hit him, hard, in the face.

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