Corruption_Age Of Expansion_A Kurtherian Gambit Series

  Corruption

  Precious Galaxy Book One

  Sarah Noffke

  Michael Anderle

  Craig Martelle

  Corruption (this book) is a work of fiction.

  All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.

  Copyright © 2018 Sarah Noffke and Michael Anderle

  Cover by Andrew Dobell, www.creativeedgestudios.co.uk

  Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing

  LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact support@lmbpn.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  LMBPN Publishing

  PMB 196, 2540 South Maryland Pkwy

  Las Vegas, NV 89109

  First US edition, June 2018

  The Kurtherian Gambit (and what happens within / characters / situations / worlds) are copyright © 2015-2018 by Michael T. Anderle and LMBPN Publishing.

  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

  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

  Author Notes - Sarah Noffke

  About Sarah Noffke

  Acknowledgements

  Author Notes - Michael Anderle

  Books By Sarah Noffke

  Books By Michael Anderle

  Connect with The Authors

  Corruption Team

  Thanks to the JIT Readers

  James Caplan

  John Ashmore

  Mary Morris

  Kelly O'Donnell

  Peter Manis

  Paul Westman

  Micky Cocker

  If I’ve missed anyone, please let me know!

  Editor

  Jen McDonnell

  To Suzie for encouraging me.

  To Diane for reminding me.

  To Pavi for celebrating every win with me.

  I owe many a success to the support of my friends.

  -Sarah

  To Family, Friends and

  Those Who Love

  To Read.

  May We All Enjoy Grace

  To Live the Life We Are

  Called.

  -Michael

  Chapter One

  Underwood Ranch on Outskirts of Prairieville, Planet Ronin, Behemoth System

  The music of the wind blowing through the wheat fields was interrupted by a car engine, thundering down the dirt road. Lewis Harlowe leaned on his shovel, giving himself a much needed break from shoveling horse shit.

  “Damn city folk,” Raymond Underwood mumbled, shaking his head at the passing car. He led Gatsby into a fenced area. Gatsby was a beautiful palomino who understood everything Lewis said and agreed with him immensely, or so the farmhand liked to think.

  “How can you tell that person is from the city?” Lewis asked, amused. Raymond was ancient, but had more fire than anyone he’d met.

  “Besides the fact that their shiny car didn’t have a lick of mud on the tires?” the old rancher challenged.

  “Maybe they just washed the car,” Lewis said, suppressing a grin. He lived for aggravating Raymond.

  “The folks out here don’t wash their vehicles,” the old man argued. “We’ve got work to do. Who cares if our trucks are clean?”

  “Now I know what to do for you for your birthday.” Lewis chuckled as he dug the blade of the shovel into the heap of warm manure, and slung it into the wheelbarrow.

  He was so much stronger since taking this job at Underwood Ranch. He had always been of average build, which worked since he was of average height, but now there was definition to his arms and torso. His brown hair was longer on top now, too, rising up in an arc, but shaved on the sides. When he’d been a detective, he’d kept his hair short and his chin shaved… but the animals were hairy on the farm, so why couldn’t he have a bit of stubble too?

  “Don’t get me anything for my birthday,” Raymond grumbled, trotting for the farmhouse in the distance. He turned, giving Lewis a questioning look. “Actually, if you figure out when my birthday is, let me know. I’ve lost track.”

  “Didn’t you say you were born in the summer?” Lewis asked.

  Raymond scratched his head, looking perplexed. “Did I say that? Hmmm…makes sense.”

  The farmhand laughed to himself as the rancher continued on to the house, no doubt to wash up before his afternoon lager. There were few things that Lewis could count on these days, but Raymond’s consistency was one. Up at the same time, breaks in the early afternoon, and off to supper by sunset. The animals could be relied on, too. Lewis had never met a dishonest animal, which wasn’t something he could say for most of the humans he knew.

  Lewis pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. “What’s the old man going to say when I tell him they’re widening the road to make room for more traffic? There will be a ton of city folk coming through here then,” he said to Gatsby.

  The horse whinnied and shook his head, his blond hair spraying out around him.

  “Yeah, I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news,” Lewis joked. “Why don’t you tell him? He likes you more.”

  The horse snorted, and Lewis watched as Gatsby trotted to the center of the pen where the dirt was the softest, not having been packed down by the daily runs, and threw himself to the ground, rolling in the mud.

  It was something the animals did to shed their winter coats, but Lewis thought they also enjoyed the opportunity to frolic.

  He gazed up at the gray sky and smiled. Winter was going to bed, and soon Spring would be on its way; a good opportunity to put in some extra time at the farm. It was hard work on his body, but it didn’t bother him if he didn’t have to use his mind so much. Lewis’s brain was free to roam, without the responsibility of having to catalogue every detail.

  Out in Prairieville, no one knew his name, or really cared about what he used to do. It had been a relief, the first time he’d shaken Raymond’s hand and introduced himself. All the rancher had grumbled about was that Lewis’s palms were smooth and lacking calluses.

  “I’m not afraid of that, sir,” Lewis had stated. “I can do the work. I’ll toughen up, if you give me a job.”

  “You’ll have to,” Raymond had said before thrusting a shovel into his hands.

  Lewis looked down at the dirty shovel in his hands now and smiled. It was nice to be in a place where no one had heard of
Lewis Harlowe.

  A squeal echoed from the barn at his back, gaining his attention. He rolled his eyes, perfectly aware of what was happening inside the red and white shed.

  “Everything at Underwood happens like clockwork,” he remarked to Gatsby, who had rolled onto his stomach and looked up curiously.

  Langdon, the goat, had no doubt broken into the pig’s stall, and was probably stealing slop. No matter what Lewis did, he couldn’t figure out how to keep that damn goat out of there. Langdon didn’t want to eat his own slop; he preferred to steal it.

  Some aren’t happy unless they have what doesn’t belong to them, Lewis thought bitterly, as he leaned the shovel up against the fence. He gave Gatsby a commiserate look before setting off for the barn.

  “Damn, Langdon,” he muttered, pulling back the large door to the barn. The cold, musky smell of the hay-strewn area made Lewis’s nose twitch with a sneeze.

  The goat was, as usual, standing on top of the trough and looking down at the squealing pigs with mischief in his eyes.

  “You live to piss them off, don’t you?” Lewis strode in the direction of the pen on the far side of the barn. On his third step, his foot stuck to the ground, like he’d stepped in thick mud.

  Perplexed, he yanked up with his foot, fearing he’d pull a muscle from the effort. His shoe was cemented to the ground. He pivoted, looking awkwardly down at his other foot, which also wouldn’t move. Lewis was about to reach down to check his feet, when he realized his hands and arms were frozen.

  He opened his mouth to exclaim, “What the…?” but nothing came out.

  He stared at the barn full of animals, like he was stuck behind a plastic sheet. None of them seemed to understand his distress as they blinked back at him.

  The black crept in from the corners of Lewis’s vision, filling his head with panic.

  What in the hell is going on?

  Before him, his hands and arms disappeared like he was made of sand and eroding away. Fear rolled around in his stomach, but he remained paralyzed.

  The black was all encompassing, offering only a few pinholes of light.

  The last thing Lewis saw was the serene scene of the animals, unchanged by witnessing his plight. And then his vision went black and he fell into oblivion.

  Chapter Two

  Pilot Training Center, Onyx Station, Paladin System

  Bailey Tennant strode out of the pilot training room with her head held high. She knew the rest of the squadron was grumbling because she’d outscored them yet again, earning herself the afternoon off, whereas they all had cleanup duty. It was only the first part of hell week though, so flight training would have a lot more opportunities to kick her ass. Flying simulations are one thing, but what about when I get out into space?

  “Lieutenant Tennant,” the captain called at her back, that familiar irritation in his gravelly voice.

  Bailey froze. Swallowed. Quelled the frustration. She kept her eyes even as she turned to face Captain Santrock. “Yes, sir?”

  He gave her a stare that spoke of his disapproval. Maybe it was her long, blonde ponytail or her easy smile, but for some reason, he hadn’t liked her from the beginning. The team said it was because she didn’t look rough enough.

  Such bullshit. Somebody works their ass off and then doesn’t get respected because they don’t look the part?

  Bailey didn’t let any of her anger show as he studied her.

  “There was a disturbance down on Deck 47, by the incinerators,” the captain said, his gray eyes narrowed on her.

  She nodded. “I’m free to go and check it out.”

  A sadistic expression lacking any joy spread across his mouth. “Yes, I see that. A couple of Trids are getting out of hand. They may have brought illegal weapons onto the station.”

  Bailey didn’t argue, though protocol dictated she’d need a partner for this type of call. Santrock wanted her to argue. He wanted her to ask for backup, to show her weakness.

  Instead she smiled—something that always seemed to annoy him. Soldiers apparently didn’t smile, according to the captain.

  “I’ll take care of it, sir,” Bailey stated confidently.

  “Good. Be quick about it,” the captain said, turning and putting his back to her in dismissal.

  She spun around and hurried for the lower deck.

  She knew that Santrock had her pegged for a desk job; he had his favorites, and most of them had dicks and hairy chests. But even he couldn’t argue with the exams. Bailey had scored at the top of the class, and continued to do so.

  However, Santrock had somehow found a way to close entry to the pilot program when it had come time for her to enroll, and claimed it had ‘unexpectedly filled up’.

  That would have been that, but fate—or whatever it was that ran the universe—intervened.

  Bailey had been off-duty when a threat broke out on deck 35. Panic had turned into chaos, quickly overwhelming the patrols on duty. It was Bailey who had taken control of the situation—if she hadn’t been there, things would have turned out a lot differently; as it was, many were traumatized by the event.

  Even though the pilot program had supposedly been capped, when word got out about the role Bailey had played in the outcome of the incident, a curt order from the General had changed everything.

  If Santrock hadn’t hated her before, he despised her now.

  The bay where the incinerators were located was humid and dark. Usually this area was closed off, even when the machines were in hibernation mode. Bailey looked up at the roll-up door hanging loosely from the ceiling, the padlocks clipped.

  So, they brought illegal weapons and clippers onto the station, Bailey thought. Someone in security wasn’t doing their job.

  “What do you mean it was supposed to be working?” a deep voice whispered, followed by a loud clunk, like he’d kicked the wall.

  “I didn’t know they turned the incinerators off,” came the gruff reply.

  “If we don’t get rid of this, they’re going to keep following us.”

  Bailey pulled her gun up to her chest, and inched closer, her back up against the wall.

  “You think I don’t know that,” the other voice growled. “Try pushing down on that lever. I think I’ve got the doors almost open.”

  The commotion around the corner intensified.

  Bailey pulled in a breath and spun out, her gun held high. “Freeze where you are,” she ordered, staring at the backs of two giant Trids that were easily double her size.

  The aliens had shark heads, and gills on the sides of their thick necks. They had evolved from their ancestors, developing legs and arms, although the appendages still resembled fins. They relied on a device worn on their hip to keep them from drying out when on land.

  The Trids did not, in fact, freeze, as she had ordered. One looked over his shoulder and let out an annoyed sound of protest; the other didn’t even give her a slight glance before continuing his efforts to slide open the door to the incinerator. At their feet was a large, round rock, chipped in some places while completely black and shiny in others.

  “Would you take care of that?” the Trid trying to open the door requested between breaths, really working double-time to pry the incinerator open.

  “Oh look at who's come to join us. Why don't you put that gun down little lady. Wouldn't want you to get hurt now, would we?” The other asked in false geniality as he ambled over, holding a baton in one hand and slapping it into the palm of his other.

  An electric shot rattled out the top of the baton. He’d closed the distance between them enough that it made Bailey’s gun less effective, and his close proximity weapon much more problematic.

  Bailey placed her gun back in her holster, keeping her eyes on both Trids.

  “That’s it, princess,” the closest one said. “Now that you’ve found us, looks like you’re sticking by our side until we’re done here. Can’t have you running home and telling your papa what you found.”

  The incinerator
doors popped open, a blast of heat spilling forward. Bailey blinked back from the rush of hot air, keeping her eyes on the Trid in front of her.

  “Yay, I got it open,” the other Trid said, kneeling down to pick up the large rock, seeming to struggle with its weight.

  “What’s that?” Bailey asked, indicating the stone.

  “Don’t you worry about that,” the first Trid said.

  “Would you shut her up?” the other snapped. “I’m tired of hearing her talk, and the more she sees, the worse it’ll be for us.”

  The Trid in front of Bailey stared down at her with cold, black eyes. “Sorry, little girl, looks like it’s time to sleep.”

  He reached out for her, but Bailey lifted her boot and brought it down hard on the Trid’s exposed foot. He doubled over in pain, and she grabbed his arm, using his own momentum to yank him over her back. The surprise of being tossed around by a small human registered on the Trid’s face as he looked up from the ground.

  “I’m not a freaking ‘little girl’,” Bailey stated, turning to face the other Trid, who looked dumbstruck, and was burdened by carrying the rock in both hands. Bailey tried to open her mouth to say something else, but her lips suddenly felt cemented together.