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  STAR SPLINTER

  BOOK 1 OF THE FRACTURED SPACE SERIES

  BY J G CRESSEY

  Star Splinter

  Book one of the Fractured Space Series

  Copyright © 2014 by J G Cressey

  www.jgcressey.com

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, places or events is purely Coincidental.

  First Printing, 2014

  Edited by Amanda Shore

  Cover art by J Cressey and Oda Sonju

  Cover design by Keri at www.alchemybookcovers.com

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio

  If you would like to learn more about the book and the author please visit www.jgcressey.com where you can also sign up to a release date newsletter

  For my wife, Liz. Thanks for the encouragement and unyielding support.

  Part One:

  Chapter One

  GUILT AND REGRET

  Lieutenant Callum Harper felt no satisfaction from the punch. He watched grimly as the big man stumbled back across the office, his arms flailing like some sort of faulty windup toy before a collision with a hefty metal desk bounced him face first to the floor. The man lay still, seemingly out cold. Cal cursed. Violence had never been his intention, but now that the time had come, he’d found it impossible to hold back. In truth, he was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. Patiently, he waited for the man to come to. It started with a confused shifting, which before long turned into a clumsy panic. The man was bordering on obesity, and getting to his hands and knees was proving a struggle. Then there was something close to a whimper as he caught sight of his tooth set neatly in a little pool of blood beneath him.

  Oh bloody hell. Cal felt his jaw tighten as well has his fist. He could take raging expletives, violence, or even arrogance and spite, but not self-pity and blubbing. There was no way he could put up with the man crying, not this man. He’d just have to knock him out again. Fortunately, the tears didn’t materialize, and Cal relaxed his fist.

  The floored man was Captain Laurence Decker, someone whom, to Cal’s utter bewilderment, had been deemed worthy of commanding a Class One Military Starship. Even more confusing was the fact that he was the son of the highly revered Admiral James Decker, a man who’d worked his way up the ranks with unrivalled determination, wit, and charm. How the hell could such a great military leader have produced a son who fell so short of the mark? The only logical explanation was that the Admiral's greatness simply didn't stretch to his parenting skills. There were, after all, plenty of rumours to back that up, talk of inflated grades at the Admiral’s hand and echoes of disgust relating to his son's absurd leapfrog from academy to starship command. Cal had started military training shortly after Laurence Decker had graduated, but the rumours had lingered on. He had even heard talk of a discreet bodyguard being hired in the early years to deal with bullies.

  Laurence Decker had more than a few bodyguards now, and they were far from discreet. The sound of multiple cutting lasers on the other side of the sealed office door pulled Cal away from his thoughts, and he briefly turned to the sound. “It seems your guards are finally coming to your rescue, Decker. But they won’t be getting through that door seal anytime soon.”

  Decker didn’t react to the words; he was still staring at his front tooth, seemingly struggling to come to terms with the fact that it was no longer in his mouth.

  “Stand up and face me, Decker.”

  As if trying to prevent any more teeth from spilling out, Decker placed a hand over his mouth and finally looked up at his attacker. There was unmistakable fear in that look, fear that this man who’d punched his tooth out might not be finished with him. Cal had never considered himself a particularly imposing man, and the level of the Decker's dread took him by surprise.

  Good, let the bastard be scared.

  Clumsily, Decker shifted back against the same desk that he'd recently bounced off, his eyes darting wildly about the office no doubt in search of an escape from his nightmare. But there was no escape. Not unless you counted the exterior viewing panel, which, even if he could break through it, would make for a rather messy, unceremonious exit out into the cold vacuum of deep space. There was only one exit, and Cal had activated the door's heavy duty punch locks and placed himself between that exit and the captain.

  “Are you going to stand up and face me, or am I going to have to come over there and haul you up?” Cal hoped for the former. He didn’t relish the idea of lifting that much weight.

  Leaning back against the desk to steady himself, Decker managed to struggle to his feet. “Anything you want. I'll give you anything, just name it.”

  Here we go. “Let's dispense with the begging and bribing,” Cal replied evenly. “You know why I'm here.” Why the hell am I here? Would pounding his fist into this man really do any good?

  “Open that door, Lieutenant. Open it now, and your career will remain intact.” The shaking in Decker’s voice drowned out any inkling of authority it might once have contained. “My career ended when I failed to stop you sending good soldiers on yet another suicide mission.” I’m here to try and knock some sense into you, you useless bastard.

  “But I had no choice,” Decker reasoned weakly. “I had to send at least one squad in. The pirates—”

  “They weren’t the threat. You're a weak, dim-witted fool, Decker, but even you should have seen that.”

  “You're wrong… There were orders… I—”

  “Shut your damn mouth,” Cal shouted more in frustration than anger. All he wanted was to get through to the man. He wanted him to realize what a fool he was. He wanted him to realize the weight that his command carried and the cost of his foolishness. He also wanted to punch him again. “The order came from you. You know it, and I know it.” The lazy bastard probably hadn’t even read the mission brief. “I can’t let you do it again, Decker.”

  Decker didn't reply. He gripped the desk behind him and shot nervous glances between Cal, the exit, and the exit's locking mechanism. Cal could still hear the guards battling furiously with the sealed door, but he wasn't concerned. There was still time. He stared at Decker, reading the man like a book. The pathetic excuse for a captain had tried begging, making excuses for his actions, and of course pulling rank. They'd all failed, and now, Cal saw a level of desperation that suggested a last ditch effort at physical action. It seemed that apologizing and admitting his guilt would never occur to such a man.

  “Don’t bother—” Cal began, but the captain was already launching his ample weight forward.

  Swiftly, Cal twisted aside, easily tripping the man and once again setting the arms flailing. Decker’s journey was a short one that ended abruptly as his head connected with the rear wall.

  Cal rubbed his face and eyes. What the hell was he doing? He’d never get through to a man like this, not with fists and certainly not with words. Stepping towards the crumpled captain, he was amazed to see that he’d somehow remained conscious. Reaching down, he clamped a fist around his collar and dragged him up onto his knees.

  Decker pawed at the fist with weakened fingers. “I'm sorry… I'm sorry they died.” The words were quiet but clear.

  Cal paused, not quite trusting his ears. He stared into the man's terrified eyes, searching for some sincerity, some truth. Releasing his grip, he allowed the captain to slump to the floor. “Is there none of your father in you?” he asked, his brow creased in frustration.

  After a few moments of silence, Cal shook his head and turned away. May
be it hadn’t been a complete waste. Maybe something had made it through. “You can take this as my resignation,” he said as he walked slowly over to the office door and activated its release mechanism. The military would have to do without him from now on. He’d had enough of foolish orders and bullshit missions. He’d had enough of men like Captain Laurence Decker. And he’d had enough of being responsible for people. From now on, he’d be responsible for himself and leave it at that. No more taking orders, no more giving orders, and no more responsibility. With that in mind, Cal almost smiled as Captain Decker's guards burst in and surrounded him with pulse rifles raised.

  “What d’you want done with him, sir?” asked the guard who had taken up position directly in front of Cal. His voice was aggressive, and the muzzle of his weapon was practically touching his nose.

  Suddenly feeling much calmer, Cal looked down at the crumpled man.

  Remaining on the floor, Decker took a few moments before answering. “Earth,” he said simply, his voice sounding as broken as his face. “Send him back to Earth.”

  As the guards escorted him from the office, Cal caught a glimpse of an unfamiliar expression on Captain Laurence Decker's face. It was the unmistakable look of guilt and regret.

  Chapter Two

  JUMPER

  Jumper Decoux was lost in thought as he stared at the huge, skeletal form of the Bullseye walker that lay crippled in the lush jungle ravine below. It was still morning in Mars’ Big Game Zone, but already, the sun was beating down mercilessly, rapidly evaporating the last of the morning mist that hung limply over the jungle’s canopy. Sweat rolled down Jumper’s dark skin. He wiped it from his brow without moving his gaze from the distant wreck. He’d seen the crippled walker countless times over the last forty years but had never lost interest in the contrast of machine and nature. This was the only one of the SD181 Bullseye walkers remaining, all the others having been recovered by Federation scrappers long ago. Jumper could only guess why this one was left to corrode.

  He would have liked to have seen one of the machines in action, but they’d been before his time, used in place of human hunters during the Food Planet’s early days. They would stomp through the vast areas of the Big Game Zone, picking off just enough animals for the transport ships to ferry back to the hungry mouths on Earth. Of course, truthfully, no one on Earth was anywhere close to hungry. As Jumper understood it, the Bullseye walkers had worked well, but they were expensive, and the Federation hated nothing more than wasting money. Humans were cheap. He sighed and wiped again at his brow. Dirt bloody cheap.

  Jumper remembered his first encounter with this walker wreck as a boy, how out of place it had seemed settled amongst the lush foliage. Its slick metal shielding would have been shiny enough to shave in back then had a fourteen year old trainee hunter really needed to shave. Every year since, when passing through this sector of the Big Game Zone, he’d always taken the time to locate the lone wreck and witness its ever-losing battle with the elements. Tall trees loomed over its weakening frame now, casting shadows like a giant, open maw. Stains from fallen fruits created a blood-like illusion as thick creeper vines mercilessly clung and tugged at the twisted metal as if pulling it slowly into a muddy grave.

  The metallic skeleton reminded Jumper of his own aging body. Maybe this planet was doing the same to him, eating away his strength bit by bit, turning him into a lonely, forgotten old man. In truth, Jumper suspected he was fitter and sharper than most men half his age, but the lonely part was a different matter. Food Planet Hunters had an isolated career. The only people he ever saw were those on his once yearly shrink assessment at Big Game Headquarters, but ironically, the sanity of those manning the headquarters was iffy at best, most notably the shrink, so he never stayed for long.

  As a younger man, Jumper had reveled in the seclusion. He’d always done well on his own and felt at home in the wild. Mars had been the right place to be, particularly the Big Game Zone. But one year ago to this very day, during his last visit to the Bullseye wreck, the thought had occurred that maybe he should be elsewhere. Scrap metal belongs with scrap metal; people belong with people. He had made a conscious decision that day to leave Mars for good and seek out a new, altogether more social life. After all, he’d be a rich man by now. Big Game Hunters weren’t well paid by any means, but with not a credit spent after forty years of service, his accounts had built up. If he was honest, though, the money meant little. A convenience, nothing more. It was human company he longed for. That and avoiding the same sorry fate as this derelict walker.

  Unfortunately, abandoning the only lifestyle he'd known for forty years was no mean feat, and here he was, one year later, with nothing changed but a few extra gray hairs peppering his afro. Jumper was ashamed to admit that it was fear that stopped him from leaving, fear of rejoining a civilisation that would no doubt be worlds apart from the one he’d left as a boy. No, this planet wasn’t going to let him go without a fight.

  A faint, rhythmic thump abruptly yanked Jumper from his thoughts. Without hesitation, he snatched his Long Eye bliss rifle from his back, closed his eyes, and listened. The thumping became louder. Spinning on his heel, he made a rapid descent down the ravine and, reaching a large cluster of rocks, dove behind them just as the culprit of the ominous thumping revealed itself. Jumper didn’t need to risk a look; of all the creatures on the planet, it was the footfall of this particular beast that he was most familiar with.

  The thumping stopped.

  Damn it’s hot, he thought, checking his rifle was loaded and clean. The sun had fully cleared the horizon now, and sweat was practically flowing off the end of his nose. What the hell was going on with the damned atmos-tweekers?

  A deafening roar echoed down the ravine, reverberating through the boulders and in turn through Jumper’s spine. Very slowly, he straightened up to assess the situation. As he’d guessed, the Tyrannosaurus rex stood in its menacing haunch at the very crest of the ravine, its cold, soulless eyes surveying the multitude of creatures inhabiting the wrecked walker below.

  Jumper remained calm. The giant beast was a mere sixty feet from him, but he was well used to such events. During his forty years on the planet, he’d faced hundreds of dinosaur species, and every year, the Federation would rebirth more. Some believed they’d begun the experiments for archaeological research, others for the profits of theme park attractions and Jurassic zoos, but Jumper suspected they did it simply because they could, showing off on a grand scale. Using them as a food source had come later once it had been discovered that most dinosaur meat was surprisingly agreeable. From high quality stegosaurus steak to fast food T-rex burgers, never underestimate the potential profits of a good gimmick. With money in mind, the Federation had decided that free range was the way to go; feeding and breeding naturally proved far more cost effective. And thus, the Big Game Zone of Mars was born, allowing the Federation to well and truly begin cashing in.

  The Tyrannosaurus indulged in one last ground-shuddering roar before lurching in to a thunderous charge down the ravine. Feeling the reassuring grip of his rifle in his hands, Jumper also made his move. Diving clear of the rocks, he tucked into a well-practiced roll and landed smoothly in a small clearing of dusty, red mud. Coming up on one knee, he leveled his rifle and, calm as a kid shooting cans, watched the creature grow large in his sights. With only a few precious meters left before the beast was upon him, Jumper pulled the trigger of his impressive-looking weapon, and a decidedly unimpressive dart hissed from its long barrel.

  The great brute’s charge ended there, its huge body abruptly losing all power as the dart did its job and sent it into a state of pure bliss—or as close to that state as such a creature could reach. Seconds later, it died, its body thundering into the dirt like a toppling tree, its giant head coming to rest just inches from the tip of Jumper’s rifle.

  Jumper took a few deep breaths. Despite having witnessed the effects of the bliss darts thousands of times, he still marvelled at their effectiveness. Sl
inging his rifle over his shoulder, he climbed onto the dinosaur’s back, pulled the spent dart from its neck, and placed it carefully into his ammo belt. He was glad for the darts; not only did they avoid the rather messy business of pulse rifles, but they were infinitely more humane.

  “Rest in peace, old girl,” he whispered whilst gently running a hand along the dinosaur’s rough hide. Then, reaching into his backpack, he plucked out a small locator device, flicked it on, and clamped it onto the creature’s back.

  “Okay, she’s all yours,” he said looking up to the sky.

  Sliding to the floor, Jumper strolled over to a nearby tree; plucked a plump, red fruit from a low-hanging branch; and settled himself into a comfortable nook between two large, twisted roots. He hadn’t waited for a Scooper ship in thirty years. There had never been any point. The ships had always worked like clockwork, flying in and quite literally scooping up the dead beasts within minutes. Until a few days ago, however, the atmos-tweekers had also worked like clockwork. So this time, Jumper decided to wait. More than anything, he hated to think that such an impressive beast had died for nothing.

  After an hour of waiting, Jumper climbed to his feet and stared upwards, confusion creasing his brow. Not only had the scooper ship not arrived, but he had caught sight of a small, black dot moving across the pale blue sky. The dot was undoubtedly a small craft, but Jumper knew from decades of experience that a craft of that size had no place in the Mars sky. Snatching up his longeye rifle, he flicked the sights to the highest level and used them to peer at the new arrival. It was an ugly craft, that much was clear, little more than an oblong hunk of metal.