Savage World (Babel Series Book 1) Read online

  Savage World

  Babel Series Book 1

  Jennifer Slusher

  Copyright (C) 2018 Jennifer Slusher

  Layout design and Copyright (C) 2018 by Creativia

  Published 2018 by Creativia

  Cover art by Cover Mint

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

  Table of Contents

  I Sharks

  II Survey

  III Jules

  IV Departure

  V Olympus

  VI Babel

  VII Skewers and Storms

  VIII Audreys

  IX Retreat

  X Sky Crabs

  XI Damage Control

  XII Reconnaissance

  XIII Jungle Trek

  XIV Campsite

  XV The Valley

  XVI Deployment

  XVII Reconnaissance

  XVIII Worship

  XIX Ancient City

  XX Mulks

  XXI Instinct

  XXII Underground

  XXIII It

  XXIV Subs

  XXV Barricade

  XXVI Expendable

  XXVII The Slurry

  XXVIII Reflections

  Epilogue Sleep

  I

  Sharks

  “Tommy please! Open the door!”

  Lisa's scream was muted by the seal of the airlock door and while he couldn't hear her, it was easy to tell what she was saying. Tom stared helplessly at her, feeling each dull thud of her fists against the small window as if they were stabs to his own heart.

  An explosion thumped behind Lisa and belched a ball of plasma fire. Under any other circumstances, the electric blue columns of flame rushing towards her might have been considered beautiful, but at this moment, it gripped him with horror. Death reached the others behind her first, devouring their flesh with such ferocity, they barely had time to scream before disintegrating into the wall of fire.

  At that moment, Tom saw the realization dawn on his lover's face. In the seconds before the plasma engulfed her, heat so intense any sweat was sucked dry, Lisa nodded. She understood. She knew. Jesus fucking Christ, she knew…

  … and then she was gone, swallowed up in swirling tongues of sapphire heat. Tom thought he saw her start to scream but the sound never penetrated the roar of the fire or the thick safety hatch. Her gold hair, which he so relished between his fingertips during their lovemaking, ignited, giving her the halo, she used to swear she'd never earn. For a second, the mottled greenish blue hue of the fire gave his Lisa wings before enveloping her completely. From an angel to a living candle, fair skin now translucent and burning out too damn soon.

  Later, he would curse himself for not acting faster and spare her the pain, but it didn't matter; he would pay for his sin every night in his dreams. Not for failing to save her, but because he let her burn.

  And she'd known, she'd forgiven him in her last moment for his ultimate betrayal.

  * * *

  “TOMMYYYYYYYYYY!!”

  Major Thomas Ian Merrick sat up in a cold sweat, shaking like a dog shitting razor blades, head pounding, trying to remember where the fuck he was. For a few seconds, he was still on that blazing ship, trying to save it as the plasma fire consumed the engineering deck. As the nightmare diminished, the scattered neurons in his brain regrouped to remind him where he was.

  In a supply closet. Or, rather, his supply closet. In a whole other nightmare.

  The closet had become 'his' because he'd commandeered the space to get a little privacy from the rest of the ship. The tiny room reeked of disinfectant and dust, with barely enough space to sit down or stretch one's legs. His back was pressed against a shelf, the edges digging into his shoulder, but it locked from the inside and, as far as Tom was concerned, it was fucking heaven. Beyond that door was hell.

  He needed solitude and, on this ship, packed to the rafters with the remains of human civilisation, privacy was a luxury no one had in abundance. When he stepped past the door, he would return to the overcrowded, transformed cargo space he shared with the rest of his company. Once upon a time, a company commander could be assured of his own private quarters, but those days were over. Space on any ship in the fleet was at a premium and his comfort was not a priority.

  In here, surrounded by the shelves of cleaning fluid, rags, and other janitorial necessities, Tom could hear the ever-constant hum of the ship's engines through the walls. Until this voyage, he never realised how much he loathed that bloody sound, now it added to the unquiet chaos on the decks of the ship.

  At least in here, he was given a temporary reprieve from the noise, where he could drink himself into a stupor and not think about Lisa, the woman he was forced to sacrifice to save the ship.

  * * *

  A short time later, he got to his feet, legs tingling uncomfortably until the circulation resumed normal programming. Clusters of pain pulsed in his temples and the rotgut he'd been drinking had left a dead cat in his mouth. Steadying himself against the steel bulkhead, he searched the floor and found his grey, sweat stained t-shirt and pulled it on. Running his fingers over his close-cropped dark hair, he tried to fake some semblance of grooming, even if there wasn't much there to put right in the first place. After a similar inspection of his face made him realized he was in desperate need of a shave, he frowned. Water, like everything else on board was rationed to the point where two-minute showers were considered a luxury and no one would dare suggest using any of it for a shave.

  Probably why all the women on board were wearing long pants and granny knickers.

  The thought made him snigger until he stepped into the chaos outside.

  * * *

  In its day, the HMS Rutherford was a strictly military transport ship. She spent her time ferrying soldiers from one end of the system to the other, chasing down those mad Earth First bastards who were determined to halt mankind's colonisation of Sol by any means necessary. This usually meant disrupting mining operations on Calisto or the Ananke Cluster by using bombs and other acts of terror.

  The Rutherford, or Ruthie, as she was more commonly known, was four hundred meters across and comprised of ten decks with a state of the art EM-Drive, capable of travelling at half the speed of light. Aside from transporting soldiers, she took passengers and equipment from Earth to the colonies and had a crew capacity of one hundred and fifty.

  At present, she was carrying seven hundred.

  When Tom stepped out of his supply closet, he walked straight into those seven hundred people who were mostly civilian refugees from Europa Colony. While seven hundred might seem high in the confines of the Ruthie, it was eclipsed by the number of how many were left behind. Being on the front line of the boarding process ensured the faces of everyone left behind were burnt into his memory.

  Like they had when the sun went nova.

  The noise level rose the instant he stepped into the hallway, into an assault on his senses. A group of children running past him, somehow managing to play in all this shit, made him pause and he watched them disappear down the corridor. The noise dulled into a roar just as the smell assaulted him. Even with the ventilation system working at capacity to keep things fresh, nothing could prevent the stink of so many bodies. Throw in
water rationing and well…

  It smells like a bloody barn, he thought, not for the first time.

  Walking along the passageway, Tom no longer noticed the objects tacked against the walls and along the deck, turning the bulkheads into memorials for those left behind. There were photographs, toys, keepsakes, scrawled names against the grey steel and notes, left by mourners still shell shocked by the new world order. Tom no longer saw their faces, only their shapes disappearing into the walls, like living wraiths.

  They in turn gave him a wide berth as he walked by, because everything about Tom Merrick said, 'go away'.

  He was six feet of compact muscle, maintained by years of hard military discipline. Forever wearing a day's growth on his face (even when there was water), he wore a scowl made worse by his intense hazel eyes. If that wasn't enough of a deterrent, the uniform he wore certainly was. Tom was a lifer and lifers were hard bastards.

  While it was easy to pigeonhole him because of his appearance, his sympathy for their situation would have surprised them if they'd known about it. Tom found it obscene he considered himself lucky to have lost his parents before Earth was destroyed. His mother passed years before his enlistment and his father followed her a decade later. Throughout this fucked up situation, he counted himself fortunate he was spared losing them the way most of the population had lost family, by the lack of space.

  Although, truth be told, if Johnno Merrick had met his end in the nova, Tom would have lost no sleep over it. That bastard deserved to burn.

  * * *

  At six feet four, Gunnery Sergeant (aka Gunny) Derick Rickman looked like folded origami as he sat in a quiet corner of the cargo hold retrofitted for his unit, reading one of Tom Merrick's books. Trying to get lost in its pages, he raised his blue eyes at the rumble of voices intruding on his concentration. With no such thing as privacy anymore, Derick made do with the knowledge at present, this was as good as it was going to get.

  Luckier than most because he came out of Earth's destruction with a brother who still lived, Derick knew most people had lost everyone they ever knew. Luke, who was currently on the Olympus, had made it onto one of the ships, unlike their parents and baby sister Lily. Thinking about them made his heart ache and he consoled himself with the thought they were with his older brother Chris now, and eventually he'd see Luke again.

  BANG!

  Derick jumped, startled by the noise. It had come from the centre of the room where one of the occupied chairs around the square table normally used for poker was lying flat on its back. He looked up just in time to see Corporal 'soon to be Private' Ozymandias Washington, flip the table out of his way and lunge for Private Linus Voight.

  Cards, glasses, and poker chips cascaded to the deck as Ozzy landed on Linus, forcing the others to back away to get clear of the fighting. Only Private Alain Dupree made any effort to intervene, trying to drag Ozzy off the former Heir infantryman before the fists started flying. The other players opted to watch the show and those who were disinterested in the game earlier were now coming to egg on the two combatants.

  Cursing under his breath, Derick jumped to his feet and stomped over to the impromptu arena. Under any other circumstances, Sergeant Joshua Jackson, whom everyone called Jazz, would have dealt with this situation, but Derick had spied Jazz leaving the room to go for a jog around the ship, so this was now his lot to deal with.

  “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON!!”

  Derick's bellow was so loud and uncharacteristic, the two men froze, fists cocked as if they were about to duke it out to Queensbury rules. The rest of the platoon was equally shocked, accustomed to this from their sergeant and the Major, but not from their even-tempered gunny. They gaped at him like fish panting for air. If he wasn't so damn pissed, Derick might have found the scene funny.

  He was the antithesis of a typical lifer Marine and definitely not the average Gunnery Sergeant. He didn't bark for no good reason. In fact, in Tiger Platoon, Derick was the reasonable one. The Major could strip paint with a glare, or flash you a T-Rex's sneer right before he ripped you a new one. Nope, Gunny Derick Rickman was who you came to with your troubles, who'd talk you down when you wanted to blow yourself out of an airlock.

  An outburst from him was nothing to take lightly. Even if he wasn't standing almost six feet four, with a solid build, a chiselled jaw, intense hazel eyes and a flop of hair that defied Marine regulations no matter how many times he cut it, Derick towered over most of the Sharks. While he looked just as hot, sweaty and smelly in his fatigues and canoe-sized boots, the authority he commanded was something they were all conditioned to obey.

  Of course, it would be these two, Derick thought as he grabbed both Ozzy and Linus by the shoulders and yanked, as if he were pulling apart two brawling kids in the playground.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” He shoved them apart in opposite directions.

  Linus stumbled backwards before he was halted by the body of Private Ren Richards, a stunning redhead with wild, wild hair. She shoved Linus back towards Derick, her face twisted in annoyance as if she couldn't believe this shit either. Derick met her gaze fleetingly and saw her shaking her head. Meanwhile, Ozzy did a little better. He didn't lose his footing and straightened up, almost matching Derick in height.

  “Humanity is on the brink of extinction. We've got food riots and kids sleeping in the trash collection chutes because we don't have the room for them. At any moment, a dozen things could fuck us sideways and with all that, you're going to add acting like assholes to the list? I don't give a flying fuck about what started this! It ends now.”

  Derick glared at them, silencing both men before his gaze shifted to the crowd. The onlookers fell silent, found their boots interesting to look at, stunned at their normally quiet Gunny going full hulk on them.

  “In one hour, we've got to get our asses out there and maintain some kind of order during food distribution in the middle of a fucking famine. There will be enough people pissed at us, blaming us for enforcing the rules and here you two are, fighting like kids instead of watching each other's back!”

  That sunk in. Whatever grievance had led to the fight melted in the face of that stark reality. They were Sharks and Sharks watched each other's back. Especially now.

  “Sorry Gunny.”

  Ozzy's use of the nickname meant the message was received loud and clear and by the man's expression, it was one received with a side of shame.

  “Pardon,” Linus stepped forward and extended a hand towards Ozzy who met it with a fist bump instead.

  “Peace, Kraut.” Ozzy smirked, and Dupree smacked him on the back in approval at the gesture.

  “Fuck you, American,” Linus returned, but he was smiling.

  “What's this, a fucking wedding?”

  “Major ON DECK!” Someone belted out belatedly. Derick reacted immediately, recognising that voice anywhere.

  * * *

  Tom stepped into the billets his Sharks affectionately called the Cave, on the tail of a fight. He couldn't blame them. Not really. Their present situation and the close quarters didn't do much to help tempers. Being jammed into makeshift bunks in the cargo hold made them look and feel like penned sheep. Back in the day, soldiers serving on the Rutherford would have proper quarters but since the Exodus every space short of hazardous voids had become living quarters.

  Now the Rutherford was one more lifeboat in a patchwork fleet comprised of military, cargo and cruise liners under the banner of what was being called the Earth Alliance.

  Once in competition with each other, the various military organisations of Sol were forced to amalgamate to protect the remains of the human race. While the transition was easy enough with the flight corps becoming the Space Corps, the consolidation of Earth's infantry forces was far more complicated.

  The American forces joined ranks with the remnants of other units, such as the British SAS, the Chinese Marines, French Colonial Troops, Israeli Givatis and other nationalities. Now consolidated, the reorganized fo
rce became the Security Heavy Artillery & Recon Corps. Its acronym, SHARC, gave rise to the nickname that quickly went viral.

  Sharks.

  Tom was given command of Tiger Platoon, composed of forty warm bodies, with ten to a squad and he had to admit it fit well. He liked the term Sharks better and it was a hell of a lot better than Marines, which he knew would rankle the non-American troops, himself included.

  “At ease,” Tom ordered with a dismissive wave of his hand when he saw everyone stepping to at his arrival. His head was split open now, thanks to the enthusiastic announcer but he kept his cool. Morale was already in the shitter without Tom tearing about like some drunken bastard.

  He saw the dissipating hostility between Linus and Ozzy and guessed the earlier friction was forgotten once Derick reminded them Sharks watched each other's back. The big bloke knew how to handle short tempers. Christ knows they'd been friends long enough for Derick to handle his.

  The kid was good value and their friendship went all the way back to a bar in Miramar when he was still a non-com. Tom was supremely grateful to learn Derick survived the exodus from Earth and wasted no time asking for the gunnery sergeant to be assigned to his new platoon.

  Serving together was one of the few positives coming out of human civilization going to shit. Besides, Derick Rickman was the only Yank he'd ever met he didn't feel the urge to throttle.

  “Good morning ladies,” he greeted them with a nod and then met Derick's hazel eyes. “What's all this then?”

  “Just a few assholes letting off steam,” Derick saw no reason to go into details. Besides, chances were Tom already knew what's what. “It's handled.”

  Ozzy shot the Gunny a look of surprise but held back the confession on the tip of his tongue. If Gunny thought it was best to keep his mouth shut, then Ozzy wasn't going to argue with him. Besides, he had no desire to get his ass chewed out by the Major, who could yell even louder than Gunny. Meeting Linus's gaze, the two men agreed in silent solidarity for their benefit.

  With Tom's arrival and the situation now under control, Derick's attention turned to his best friend and commanding officer. Tom was doing his best to hide it, but Derick saw the signs of yet another drink-til-he-passed-out respite.