Call of Destiny
P R Adams
Promethean Tales
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.
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CALL OF DESTINY
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Copyright © 2021 P R Adams
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All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
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Illustration © Tom Edwards
TomEdwardsDesign.com
Created with Vellum
Contents
Also by P R Adams
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
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by P R Adams
For updates on new releases and news on other series, visit my website and sign up for my mailing list at:
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http://www.p-r-adams.com
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Infinite Realms
Call of Destiny
The Dark Realm
Warlords of Dust
Mirror of Souls (2022)
Dread Empire (2022)
Through Infinite Realms (2022)
The War in Shadow
Shadow Moves
Shadow Play
Shadow Strike
Shadow Talk
Shadow Pawn
Shadow Fall
Books in the On The Brink Universe
The Stefan Mendoza Trilogy
Into Twilight
Gone Dark
End State
Stefan Mendoza: The Human Deception Trilogy
Split Image
Hard Burn
Null Point
The Rimes Trilogy
Momentary Stasis
Transition of Order
Awakening to Judgment
The ERF Series
Turning Point
Valley of Death
Jungle Dark
Chariot Bright
Dawn Fire
The Lancers Series
Deep Descent
Deadly Game
Dire Straits
Dark Secrets
Desperate Measures
Domino Effect (2022)
The Burning Sands Series
Beneath Burning Sands
Across Burning Sands
Beyond Burning Sands
Inside Burning Sands
Over Burning Sands
War for Burning Sands
The Chain Series
The Journey Home
Rock of Salvation
From the Depths
Ever Shining
Dedication
To James Hudnall, creator of Harsh Realm.
1
Freefall in a Kydaas skimmer was the most terrifying and exhilarating thing Lieutenant Riyun Molliro had ever experienced. It required that you operate blind, trusting instrumentation and denying instinct.
Or you died.
It was that simple.
And over Miyatal, the capital city of Nao? There were so many complications.
They’d drop through three miles of clouds gray as slate, lit by lightning claws ready to scrape the vehicle at any moment. Ozone clung to everything, a threatening odor that dipped into an even more threatening grate on the tongue. At such an altitude, if the flight controls failed, there would be no recovery, and the only remnant of the skimmer would be a crater filled with twisted bits of machinery and mushier bits of its occupants.
Riyun had been on enough freefall runs to hide the jitters, keeping his forgettable face still beneath black hair grown out enough to show the first hint of gentle waves. But this was Symbra’s first, and it showed.
Chattering teeth, wild eyes whose cool, gold irises were almost lost to bloodshot red, flaring nostrils on a button nose with bronze skin now raw…it wasn’t a good look for such a pretty woman. If she was serious about learning the mercenary trade, she had to get past such moments. Riyun’s squad wouldn’t respect her otherwise, and she claimed to want that respect.
At four miles, he unbuckled, pulled himself to the rear with the stabilizer bar, and typed in the hatch access code. “Go time.”
Symbra bunched her long, golden-brown hair up over the top of her head, sealed her helmet, and guided herself to the other side of the hatch. “Ready.”
At the broad-shouldered lieutenant’s signal, the pilot slowed descent.
Riyun pulled his gold helmet on and hit the activation button.
The second the hatch opened, wind battered them and rain slicked everything. His boots slid around as he searched with his free hand for the smaller stabilizer bar on the skimmer hull. Ice slithered beneath his glove, then his fingers found the narrow bar and gripped tight. He released his hold on the inside bar—
—just as a gust of wind tipped the Kydaas on its side.
His boots came out from under him, and he shot out into the charcoal haze.
But his grip on the outer bar held.
The skimmer righted itself, and he slammed against the hull.
“Sorry, Boss!” There was an edge of whimsy to Hirvok’s voice, even though the pilot hadn’t meant for the skimmer to rock as it had. He was immature, but he wasn’t that irresponsible.
Riyun hauled himself up and planted his boots on the runner, then summoned the calmest voice he could manage. “Symbra!”
Her gloved left hand slapped at the bar on the other side of the opening before grasping the steel tight, then one of her legs swung around. She flailed for a second before getting a boot on the runner.
The leader of the Hurdist Squad—once the Hurdist Platoon before so many misfortunes—never let his people know when he worried for them. But he came close to grabbing the woman’s turquoise-colored armored long coat when it tangled in the wind.
Then she had both hands on the bar and both boots on the runner. “Ready.”
Her radio picked up the tremor in her voice, which said she wasn’t actually ready at all, but it was the words that mattered. She wanted this job. She wanted to prove to everyone in the Inner and Outer Spheres that she wasn’t some pampered and entitled
Onath. He had to let her prove herself, no matter how it twisted his guts.
He connected privately over the radio. “You okay?”
She nodded and tightened her grip on the bar. “Do we really need our backpacks for this? I mean, food and water? We’re in a city.”
“Go in prepared, or don’t go in at all.”
“Then why not use the cable system?”
“It tops out at three hundred feet.”
And they were miles up. Armored plates or not, the wind was whipping his duster around like a gold-and-black flag. Ice formed on his gloves and boots, on his sleeves and helmet faceplate. Even sealed up, the cold leaked through. Symbra had to be hating life, but she wasn’t about to let it show, not if she was serious about proving herself.
He tapped the side of his helmet where it covered his ear. “When the tone sounds, you follow my lead—understand? Stick to call signs over the open comms.”
Another nod. “What about the lightning?”
The clouds grew bright, and thunder rumbled in his bones. “Don’t worry about it. Lightning never strikes twice.”
That relaxed her. Then the engine groaned, and she tensed again. “Wait, are you saying this bucket of scrap’s been hit before?”
The tone sounded.
He released the bar and kicked off the runner, dropping boots down into the glowing clouds. “Lightning away.”
A second later, he heard what he needed to hear: “S-Silver away.”
Good kid.
Tendrils of electricity curled through the clouds, and rain battered him like rapid-fire punches from a giant. At any moment, he expected a cloud to snatch him with puffy fingers. Imagination could go wild in such moments.
Two-and-a-half miles.
He connected to Tawod, the squad’s hacker. “Six-Pack, you have the update on this security vehicle for me?”
“It’s the right car. Planetary security just confirmed the corpses we found were the real security team.”
“You better be right.”
Chatter filled the open channel. This was high risk, and the team knew it. They wanted to know if they were covered. The unit had been burned by corporations before.
The hacker was there in a private connection. “Lieutenant, they’re getting restless.”
They had a right to be.
One-and-a-half miles.
Riyun cleared his throat over the open channel. “Everyone, listen up. We’re going to be okay. We signed on with the right company this time.”
The chatter died.
In the quiet moments, Riyun actually believed what he was saying. He didn’t like this particular job. It was political. Messy. Very messy. Migra Rutai messy. Of all the terrorist groups, they were the worst. And they’d evaded corporate and planetary security for weeks. Now they held Munot Dareth, the planetary governor, hostage and were making demands.
Ugly demands.
And they’d tossed a survivor from the security detail and a couple civilians to the street to show they were serious.
From a mile up.
Riyun normally avoided political jobs, but after what had happened on Nevinon, this was the only gig he could get.
And the squad knew that. Everyone knew.
He reconnected to Symbra on the private channel. “Now.”
After a second, he activated his grav pack.
White light burst all around, like a ball of lightning, and the harness yanked against his groin and hips.
It was like being hit in the gut by a bag of cement.
Symbra came into view off to his left. She seemed to be handling the grav pack better than him. No surprise—she was graceful.
The security air-car was a few hundred feet below. Long, black as a starless night, bulky, with flashing lights running around the sides: It looked legit.
It was legit.
Migra Rutai operatives had stolen the IDs, uniforms, and weapons of the real security team, same as they’d inserted people into the staff of the Brezak Building—the facility hosting Governor Dareth’s visit. Now they had the entire building locked down, and the demands were slowly being fed to the governor’s people.
Impossible demands.
That was how the Migra Rutai operated.
Riyun maneuvered until he was over the security vehicle; Symbra followed.
He pulled his Minkaur Devastator around by the strap. “You get the front. I’ll get the back.”
Symbra had a thing for the Zarikav Model 7. Limited magazine capacity, poor stopping power, and a bad track record in the field—it was a disaster waiting to happen. But it was popular with the people she normally ran with. People from money.
He could only hope tonight wasn’t the night the gun failed.
They were birds of prey–circling slowly until they were just above the air-car. The heads-up display of the tactical network showed four heat signatures and the stolen IDs. They would be focused on the building below and its security system, not the sky above. It was a good security system, the same one used to coordinate the massacre of the corporate security team that had made the first rescue attempt.
But Riyun’s team was better than corporate security.
He checked the signals: Four targets, all of them hooked in to communications with the other terrorists. “Tac-net HUD shows four.”
Symbra descended a little farther. She had one of the targets in the Zarikav’s sights. The one thing the gun was good at—the sole purpose behind its design–was penetrating armor. That was heaviest at the front of the security skimmer.
“Ready.” Her voice shook.
He would rather negotiate with the terrorists, save lives, avoid the brutal violence that was so close.
That option was off the table.
“On my shot.” Riyun targeted the closer of the two terrorists in the rear. He had armor-piercing rounds loaded. At ten millimeters, a Devastator round would be enough to drop anyone with a hit to the right area. He was targeting the neck.
He squeezed off a round.
Just as lightning flashed all around him.
Every nerve lit up. Bright light like a sun filled his awareness. His jaw locked. Fire filled his lungs.
Then his grav pack cut out.
And everything went black.
2
Riyun plunged toward the Brezak Building. His mind tumbled from disbelief at his misfortune, to fury that he’d failed his squad, and then to curiosity over whether or not they could finish the job without him.
Seconds passed in heartbeats and panting. What would impact be like? Would he die instantly, or would his Juggernaut armor absorb enough energy on impact that it would take time?
Then his helmet flashed back to life.
Clouds thinned. Lights from some of the taller, distant buildings sped by.
The tac-net flared a frightening red, then it flipped to welcome green.
And the grav pack fizzled. Popped. Hissed.
But it didn’t start.
He twisted, spotted the building below–a couple hundred feet.
A burst of white light: lightning?
No. The grav pack. Kicking on abruptly.
He leveled off not even fifty feet above the wide terrace that had hours before been the scene of the governor’s victory party. Four more years of his ruinous, unpopular policies.
“Power low.”
For such a terrible message, the voice of the tac-net control was soft and pleasant. Was that all the lightning strike had done—shorted out the batteries?
There was a minute left on the grav pack—backup batteries.
Time enough.
Riyun ascended back to the security air-car, hoping there might still be a chance for the mission. They desperately needed the money.
One of the front doors was open. A body dangled halfway out.
Symbra? Using night-vision, he couldn’t—
No. The body was held in place by a belt. Symbra was in the center seat, helmet and gloves off, frantically typing at the
console.
She whipped around, Zarikav leveled at his chest.
He threw up his hands. “It’s me—Lightning!”
“Shit.” She lowered the gun and returned to typing. “Go ahead, Six-Pack.”
As Riyun drew closer, he caught details from the interior: holes in the armor; four bodies slumped; blood spattered on the consoles and pooling on the floor. She’d smeared gore on the display in front of her—probably swiped it with an icy glove before pulling that off.
Symbra nodded. “Uh-huh. I see it.”
The lieutenant climbed in through one of the rear doors and settled between the two corpses before powering down the grav pack. They looked exactly like security personnel. All that separated them was ideology and opportunity. “Who’d you think that was, flying around up here?”
The Onath tapped the microphone stretching from her ear to her lips, muting her connection. “I thought you were dead.”