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  The Messenger Copyright © 2019 by Variant Publications

  Book design and layout copyright © 2019 by JN Chaney

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental.

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  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing.

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  The Messenger

  Book 1 in The Messenger Series

  J.N. Chaney

  Terry Maggert

  Book Description

  Dash never asked to be a mech pilot, but fate has other plans.

  On the run and out of chances, he guides his ship and crew into the heart of a relic older than the galaxy itself--and find himself on the edge of an eternal war he never knew existed.

  The relic is an ancient mech, a powerful weapon from a lost age.

  Built by a forgotten race to be the ultimate answer to a neverending war, the machine is capable of unspeakable destruction, and its discovery could unhinge the balance of power throughout the known galaxy.

  Worse still, the A.I. inside the machine speaks of an ancient evil that will soon arrive--a race whose power far exceeds anything humanity has ever witnessed.

  Only the Messenger can stand against them, the A.I. tells its new pilot. Only you can do what must be done.

  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

  Epilogue

  Stay Up To Date

  About the Authors

  To our Dental Hygienist and friend Jennifer Long, without whom this collaboration would not have happened. Long may you floss!

  1

  Newton Sawyer took a deep breath, held it for a moment, let it out, then leaned closer to the vid. “I told you, Sammy, my friends call me Dash. Only my mother and the magistrates call me Newton.”

  “But we’re not friends,” Sammy said, his voice a flat, mechanical construct that still somehow managed to ring with disdain. “We’re business associates at best. And, after this latest debacle, not even that.”

  Dash offered his most charming smile to the amorphous mass that was Sammy. Concepts like gender, or even having a name, didn’t really apply to the Blobs—or if they did, not in any way someone who wasn’t also a living dollop of goo could understand. Dash didn’t care. Sammy and him were how this particular Blob wanted to be addressed, and since a Blob’s credits were as good a currency as anyone else’s, who was he to argue?

  “Sammy, that hurts,” Dash said. “Cuts me to the core. Of course we’re friends. And friends help one another out.”

  “The delivery was a failure.”

  “Well, technically, sure. But that’s not my fault. Your middleman substituted some short-lived radioisotopes for what was supposed to be in the shipment. How was I supposed to know that? The fact that they’d mostly decayed away to nothing by the time I reached the buyer is—”

  “The point,” Sammy said. “You were hired to deliver a working radioisotope generator to the buyer. That didn’t happen.”

  “Yeah, but like I said, your middleman—”

  “You accepted the shipment from him. That makes you accountable.”

  “Just wait a second,” Dash said, holding up a hand. “I’m a courier, not a scientist, or whatever. I just deliver these things where and when I’m supposed to. I did that.”

  “You were hired to deliver a working radioisotope generator to the buyer. That didn’t—”

  “Okay, now you’re repeating yourself. Look, it was your middleman.”

  “He’s not in my employ anymore, either.”

  “Either? Sammy, you and me, we’re—”

  “Concluding our business dealings, yes.”

  Dash took another breath. “Okay, fine. If you just make payment, we can—”

  “There will be no payment.”

  “But—”

  “You were hired to deliver a working radioisotope generator to the buyer. That didn’t happen.”

  Dash balled his fists under the console. “Sammy, you owe me—”

  “Nothing,” the Blob said—and disconnected.

  Dash stared at the vid for a moment, the only sound the various rumbles, whirs, and hums of the Slipwing’s systems. Then he punched the reconnect command into the comms.

  “Sammy? Sammy, don’t you dare disappear on me. You owe me. Sammy? Sammy!”

  But the vid stayed stubbornly stuck on the comm-provider’s splash screen. Dash hammered more commands into the system, but finally just got:

  The receiver you are seeking is offline.

  “Shit!”

  Dash slammed a fist down on the console. Something inside popped, then an acrid whiff of a burned-out circuit filled the Slipwing’s cockpit, followed by an error message on the diagnostics. It was just the latest of a dozen or so.

  “SHIT!”

  Fists still balled, Dash stood, almost smashing his head into the nav. That probably would have triggered more errors, and Dash had enough of those to deal with, but none of them really mattered because the Slipwing was almost out of fuel anyway.

  Dash glared hard at the nav. “That’s three jobs now with no payoff,” he barked. “And none of them my fault for fucking up! Well, okay, that first one, maybe I shouldn’t have spent that extra night with the lounge singer on Corona Superprime. But she had all those boobs, and even a second…” Dash’s voice trailed off. He was yelling at the nav. Venting at a piece of tech designed to manage the complex calculations needed to enter and traverse unSpace. It was definitely not a good listener.

  His glare became a scowl, still directed at the nav. “You know what? Screw Sammy, and screw those other assholes who cheated me out of my pay. While we’re at it, to hell with the galaxy.” Dash was nothing if not thorough in his wrath.

  He spun and stalked out of the cockpit.

  For its part, the nav just did what it always did—waited for navigational inputs so it could steer the Slipwing to wherever Dash wanted it to go. Which, right now, was nowhere.

  Dash frowned at the bottle sitting beside the nav.

  “Is it half-empty,” he asked the air, “or half-full?”

  The background hum of the Slipwing was his only answer.

  He gave a slow nod. “Yeah, I agree. Half-
empty.”

  He turned his attention back to the vid. It displayed the Needs Slate, a listing of jobs throughout the Galactic Arm. They were mostly short-term—one-shot contract jobs. But that was what couriers did. Retainerships, positions that were paid across multiple jobs, were as rare as black holes, and they sure didn’t go to small-time couriers like Dash. No, they went to the big courier ships, the ones with full crews and cargo holds, the ones that were corporations unto themselves.

  “Bunch of assholes, in other words,” Dash muttered, grasping the bottle. He took a swig, gritting his teeth as the cheap brandy seared its way down his throat. “They got all the fuel they want ’cause they got contracts that actually pay.”

  He cut himself off with another swig, tried the deep breath thing again, then turned his attention to the vid. Or he tried to, at least. But the world had gone soft around the edges, the data on the vid rippling like he was seeing it under water. He had to concentrate on each word, one after another, to get them to make sense.

  A soft chime from the Slipwing’s master computer plucked Dash’s attention away from the vid, making him lose his train of thought. “What?”

  “Fuel level is nearing critical,” the master said. “In six hours shipboard time, there will not be enough to both maintain full system power and travel to the nearest habitable—”

  “I know, I know. What do you think I’m doing?” Dash paused to burp; it filled his mouth with the sour taste of warm brandy. “Not the best choice, I see.”

  The master said nothing else. It had said all it needed to say. The Slipwing had enough anti-deuterium in its tanks to power the ship for a long time yet. But add in the amount needed to translate her through unSpace to the nearest port, and Dash had…

  He looked at the engineering panel, took a moment to focus, then another to puzzle out what it was telling him. Enough fuel for another day, and then the Slipwing would be unable to go anywhere useful. Sure, she could keep him alive, but he’d be a world of one man, stuck in a remote place among the cold stars of the Galactic Arm. And even that wouldn’t last, and then she’d be his tomb. But if he translated now, he’d likely end up somewhere with no work. He might even have to sell the Slipwing just to keep a roof over his head and food in his belly, and that would leave him stuck planetside somewhere he wouldn’t want to be.

  He checked the nav. Tilly’s Planet. That was the only habitable world he could reach from this desolate patch of space. So he’d be a permanent resident of Tilly’s Planet. But there were people on Tilly’s Planet he owed credits to. So not just a resident, but a resident-in-desperate-hiding.

  “I’ll pass, I think,” he said, then turned back to the vid. There must be something on the Needs Slate he could do, some job he could pick up with the fuel he had left, that would pay enough to—

  “Ah, there we go.”

  The vid highlighted a one-shot, a contract to carry a data module from Penumbra to Traver’s Landing. Pay was pretty good and the contractor would pay toward up-front expenses, including fuel. And it was a sealed data module, so the courier’s sole responsibility was on-time delivery.

  “Hmm. Beggars aren’t choosers and all that.” Dash leaned closer, thinking hard. The decision was simple; the command, even simpler.

  He tapped at the vid, submitting his bid for the job. This would be perfect. Just a brief stop on Penumbra—he didn’t even have to go down to the surface, just rendezvous with a ship in orbit—fuel up, translate to Traver’s Landing, and get paid. Then he could get some of the Slipwing’s problems fixed and knock some of those error messages off the diagnostics.

  Dash leaned back and closed his eyes. This would probably take a while, but he had nothing he needed to do for the moment. Rest, then, and a deep-seated hope that this worked out.

  He heard a chime, sitting up as he blinked in surprise.

  “Okay,” he said, rubbing his eyes to try to clear away some of the blur. “Quick answer like that must be good.”

  Bid rejected. Only bonded couriers eligible.

  Dash stared at the vid for a moment then hissed in frustration.

  “I am bonded, you stupid—"

  No. Wait. He was bonded. But then he’d carried those stims and other chems, and run afoul of a magistrate patrol. The one time he’d carried something illicit—or, at least, the one time he’d been caught doing it—and it cost him his bonded status until he could get cleared again. Which should be soon, maybe even now, but he’d forgotten about it.

  “Well, this is a shitty development.”

  Dash swung the bottle up, a heartbeat away from slamming it back down into the comms. Only a last-second sliver of sanity stopped him. Knocking out the comms would be it, wouldn’t it? Basically ensuring I’d stay right here, in the middle of nowhere, until the fuel ran out and I spent the rest of eternity a freeze-dried corpse in this chair.

  He lowered the bottle and plunked it back on the console.

  Again, he swore, but softer and with more feeling, if such a thing was possible.

  “Doesn’t matter, though, does it?” Dash asked the air. “No job, so no fuel, so I’m good and fucked.” He grabbed the bottle again, lifted it, and announced, “Here’s to an early retirement. Whatever that looks like.”

  He took a long, acrid pull from the bottle. As he did, another one-shot popped up on the Needs Slate, a new job that fit the filters he’d set.

  Urgent…origin pending…destination pending…pay negotiable.

  It had every hallmark of a shitty job that was probably illegal, almost certainly immoral, and would probably end badly.

  Dash put the bottle down again and tapped at the comms. He entered a bid so low he might as well offer to pay for the privilege of working. Didn’t matter, though. He probably didn’t have enough fuel to get to the origin anyway. But what did it matter?

  “When you’re screwed,” he murmured, transmitting his bid, “you might as well be good and screwed.”

  That made Dash giggle, although he wasn’t really sure why. He was still giggling as he slumped back in the seat, and still giggling as he floated off into a sodden slumber.

  2

  Ping.

  Ping.

  Ping.

  Ping…ping…ping…

  Dash raised his head. It took a long time. And then it didn’t stay where he wanted it. It wobbled. And…that taste. If he’d thought burping that brandy was bad, it paled in comparison to letting it stew in your mouth for…how long had he been asleep, anyway?

  Ping…ping…

  Dash blinked. His eyes found the chronometer, narrowed, and worked at reading the display through the throb behind them. Almost three hours.

  Ping…ping…

  He turned to the comms. It still showed the Needs Slate. It also showed the last job he’d bid on, the one he’d practically offered to do for free, which was blinking, pinging, announcing that his bid had been accepted.

  “Huh.”

  This was good. Really good. Of course, he’d be more enthusiastic if his head wouldn’t keep wobbling and pounding, his mouth still tasting of something vaguely dead. Or horribly alive. He couldn’t be sure which.

  His gaze had brushed across the nav data for the job and kept going. His brain hadn’t, though. It did an intuitive calculation and concluded…

  Dash blinked again.

  “Three minutes.”

  Slowly, he stood, the reality of it pushing the wobble, throb, and vile taste aside. He had three minutes to initiate a translation into unSpace if he was going to make it at the prescribed time. Three minutes to change his life. To salvage his life.

  Dash exploded into action, residual drunkenness and burgeoning hangover forgotten. He rattled off commands to the computer, at the same time hammering inputs into the nav and the flight control system. The Slipwing’s engines rumbled to life, accompanied by the rising whine of the unSpace translation drive. Dash furrowed his brow at the nav, making sure the coordinates matched the ones sent with the job.

 
; “Wait, what? These coordinates are out in the middle of freaking nowhere!”

  He glanced at the engineering chronometer. Twenty seconds to translation.

  A destination in deep space. It would literally take years—a lot of them—to reach a habitable world from there, at the Slipwing’s best real-space speed. He’d run out of fuel and die gasping on cold, dead air years before he’d ever make it—again, a lot of them. With some jobs, he could drop only partly back into real space to do whatever needed to be done, but this one specified a full drop out of unSpace. That meant it was a hand-off job, transferring something from one ship to another. Dash hated hand-off jobs, because the pay usually sucked—and that was when he didn’t have to hope he could scrounge some fuel from the client, which wouldn’t be free, which meant he’d probably end up down in credits for all his trouble.

  He reached for the Abort toggle, which would kill the spool-up of the translation drive and leave him right here, so he could find another, better-paying job, one that didn’t have him dropping into the void on fusion exhaust and a prayer.

  Ten seconds.

  Dash got his finger within a centimeter of the Abort toggle…and did something he didn’t really understand, then or later. It was intuition, a hunch, a feeling in his gut, something he couldn’t quite describe. Anyway, whatever it was, it made him turn and plunk himself down into the pilot’s seat and buckle in.