Marshal John Mandrake
The Nova Syndicate chronicles
Prologue: Crime Doesn’t Pay – Boot Leg Redemption
The twin suns of Kintore bled into the smog-line, casting the small mining town of Boot-Leg in a sickly orange glow. The wind howled through the skeletal remains of the town’s buildings, carrying with it the acrid stench of lithium processing. Boot-Leg was a place forgotten by time and progress, a dust bowl clinging to the edge of a lithium-cobalt mine. Its streets were empty, save for the occasional tumbleweed of scrap metal rolling through the cracked pavement. The town’s only pawnbroker leaned precariously, its neon sign sputtering like a dying heartbeat. It was a place where dreams went to die, and where men like Mango Boron came to disappear.
Marshal John Mandrake stood beneath the wooden verandah of an old horse livery, his tall, lean frame silhouetted against the fading light. He adjusted the ascot bib covering his mouth and nose, the fabric gritty with dust. His military-style uniform, complete with an armored chest plate and deep pockets stuffed with laser magazines and dry rations, was a stark contrast to the desolation around him. A holstered laser pistol rested on his hip, and slung across his back was his favorite weapon—a cut-down 12-gauge scattergun, perfect for tight situations. In one of his pockets, a small AI android named Max 54 hummed softly, its lens glinting in the sulphurous light.
Mandrake’s sharp eyes scanned the barren main street. Boot-Leg was a ghost town, but he knew his target was here. Somewhere in this godforsaken place, Mango Boron was about to make his last mistake.
Mango Boron was a small-time criminal with big-time problems. Back on Earth Nova, he’d been living in the slums, scraping by on petty theft and low-level scams. But when he’d gotten in over his head with the Nova Syndicate, he’d made the desperate decision to rob a Fortress Bank. It was supposed to be his ticket out of debt, a chance to pay back the Syndicate and start fresh. But the job had gone sideways. His old M16 assault rifle had jammed, the ancient ammunition failing to fire. The security guards had nearly killed him, and he’d barely escaped with his life.
Now, Mango was on the run, his pockets empty and his options running out. He’d come to Boot-Leg to sell the last of his possessions—a few trinkets and the useless M16—at the pawnbroker. It wasn’t much, but it might buy him a few more days of freedom. He shuffled down the deserted street, his boots kicking up clouds of dust. The Syndicate was closing in, and he could feel the noose tightening around his neck.
Mandrake watched as Mango approached the pawnbroker, his movements jerky and nervous. The marshal’s hand instinctively went to the pocket where Max 54 rested. The AI android chirped softly, its voice low and mechanical.
“Target acquired,” Max 54 said. “Shall I calculate his odds of survival? Spoiler: they’re dismal.”
Mandrake smirked. “Save the commentary, Max. Let’s just get this over with.”
He stepped out from the shadows, his boots crunching on the broken pavement. Mango froze, his eyes widening as he recognized the marshal. Mandrake’s voice cut through the silence like a whip.
“Mango Boron, you’re under arrest for the attempted robbery of Earth Nova’s largest Zigarette Fortress Bank and the attempted murder of two security guards.”
Mango’s heart raced. He clutched the M16 like a lifeline, though its rusted barrel had betrayed him once already. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes wild. The Syndicate didn’t forgive debts, and neither did Mandrake.
“Hey, why don’t you bugger off, lawman!” Mango shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. “You’re digging your own grave! You’re gonna get in more hot water than you can handle!”
Mandrake didn’t flinch. He took cover behind the burned-out shell of a light hover car, his laser pistol drawn. “Mango, I’m taking you back to Earth Nova’s Police Garrison. You’re out of chances. Come quietly, or I’ll drag you back in pieces. Dead or alive. You hear me?”
Mango’s grip tightened on the M16. “I told you, lawman—bugger off!”
Mandrake’s jaw tightened. He’d heard it all before—threats, pleas, curses. But this time, something in Mango’s voice made his trigger finger itch. Mango Boron wasn’t just another criminal; he was a reminder of every thug who’d slipped through Mandrake’s fingers. The marshal’s laser pistol hissed, slicing through the pawnbroker’s facade. Chunks of debris rained down, pinning Mango beneath their weight. A huge chunk of the building collapsed onto his shoulders, knocking him to the ground.
As the dust settled, Mango groaned, his eyes glazed with pain. He clawed at the rubble, his fingers bleeding. Mandrake stepped closer, his boots crunching on the broken debris.
“You think this changes anything?” Mango spat, his voice weak but defiant. “The Syndicate’s coming for me—and you!”
Mandrake holstered his pistol and knelt beside the injured man. “Mango, I told you. Poor fool.”
But before he could cuff Mango, a low hum echoed through the street. Mandrake’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the horizon. The Syndicate’s hover-ship loomed in the distance, its engines roaring like a predator. It was sleek and black, bristling with weapons, and it was heading straight for Boot-Leg.
Mandrake sighed. Another criminal, another mess. But as he glanced at the approaching ship, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the beginning.
The hover-ship descended, its engines kicking up a storm of dust and debris. Mandrake shielded his eyes, his hand instinctively going to his scattergun. The ship’s ramp lowered, and a dozen heavily armed Syndicate enforcers poured out, their faces hidden behind black helmets. At their head was a tall, imposing figure clad in a dark trench coat—Victor Kane, the Syndicate’s top enforcer.
Kane stepped forward, his boots crunching on the broken pavement. His cold, calculating eyes locked onto Mandrake. “Marshal,” he said, his voice smooth and dangerous. “You’ve got something that belongs to us.”
Mandrake stood his ground, his scattergun resting on his shoulder. “Kane. I was wondering when you’d show up. But I’m afraid Mango’s coming with me. He’s got a date with a judge back on Earth Nova.”
Kane’s lips curled into a smirk. “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen. Mango owes us a debt, and we always collect.”
Mandrake’s grip tightened on his scattergun. “Over my dead body.”
Kane chuckled, a low, menacing sound. “If that’s how you want to play it.”
The enforcers raised their weapons, and Mandrake knew he was outgunned. But he wasn’t about to back down. He glanced at Max 54, still humming softly in his pocket.
“Max,” he muttered. “Time to earn your keep.”
The AI android chirped, its lens glowing brighter. “Calculating odds of survival. Spoiler: they’re still dismal.”
Mandrake smirked. “Good to know.”
The standoff lasted only a moment before the first shot rang out. Mandrake dove for cover, his scattergun roaring as he returned fire. The street erupted into chaos, laser bolts and bullets flying in every direction. Mango, still pinned beneath the rubble, watched in horror as the two forces clashed.
Mandrake moved with precision, his years of training and experience evident in every shot. He took down two enforcers with his scattergun before switching to his laser pistol, its precise beams cutting through the Syndicate’s ranks. But the enforcers kept coming, their numbers overwhelming.
Kane watched from the safety of the hover-ship, his smirk never wavering. “You’re a stubborn one, Mandrake,” he called out. “But even you can’t win this fight.”
Mandrake gritted his teeth, his mind racing. He needed a plan, and fast. He glanced at Max 54 again. “Max, any bright ideas?”
The AI android chirped. “Analyzing. Suggestion: create a diversion and retreat to higher ground.”
Mandrake nodded. It was a long shot, but it was the best he had. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small explosive charge, setting the timer for five seconds. With a quick toss, he sent it flying toward the hover-ship.
“Fire in the hole!” he shouted, diving behind a pile of rubble.
The explosion rocked the street, sending the enforcers scrambling for cover. Mandrake used the chaos to make his move, sprinting toward the nearest building and scaling the rusted fire escape. He reached the roof just as the enforcers regrouped, their weapons trained on his position.
Kane’s voice echoed through the street. “You can’t run forever, Mandrake!”
Mandrake smirked, his scattergun resting on his shoulder. “Who’s running?”
The battle raged on, but Mandrake knew he couldn’t hold out forever. As the Syndicate’s forces closed in, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was the end. But deep down, he knew one thing for certain: he wasn’t going down without a fight.
The Syndicate’s enforcers closed in, their laser rifles humming with deadly intent. Mandrake crouched behind the crumbling remains of a storage shed, his scattergun resting on his shoulder. The rooftop offered little cover, but it gave him a vantage point to pick off his attackers. Max 54 chirped in his pocket, its voice calm but urgent.
“Mandrake, odds of survival are decreasing rapidly. Suggest immediate retreat.”
“Not an option, Max,” Mandrake growled, firing another round from his scattergun. The blast tore through an enforcer’s chest, sending him tumbling off the roof. “We finish this here.”
The hover-ship loomed above, its engines roaring like a beast. Victor Kane stood on the ramp, his trench coat flapping in the wind. He raised a hand, signaling his men to hold their fire. “Mandrake!” he called, his voice carrying over the chaos. “You’re outnumbered, outgunned, and out of time. Surrender, and I’ll make it quick.”
Mandrake smirked, reloading his scattergun with practiced ease. “You Syndicate types always talk too much, Kane. If you want me, come and get me.”
Kane’s smirk faded, replaced by a cold, calculating glare. He gestured to his men, and they advanced, their weapons trained on Mandrake’s position. Mandrake knew he couldn’t hold them off forever, but he wasn’t about to make it easy for them.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small device—a plasma grenade. “Max, calculate the blast radius.”
“Calculating… ten meters. Detonation will eliminate all hostiles within range but will also compromise your position.”
Mandrake nodded. “Good enough.”
He primed the grenade and hurled it toward the advancing enforcers. The explosion lit up the rooftop, sending a shockwave that knocked Mandrake off his feet. He hit the ground hard, his vision swimming as debris rained down around him. The enforcers were gone, reduced to ash and twisted metal.
But the victory was short-lived. The hover-ship’s engines roared as it descended, its weapons locking onto Mandrake’s position. Kane stood on the ramp, his face twisted in rage. “You’re a stubborn one, Mandrake. But this ends now.”
Mandrake struggled to his feet, his body aching from the blast. He raised his scattergun, but he knew it was useless against the hover-ship’s armor. He was out of options—or so it seemed.
“Mandrake,” Max 54 chirped. “Incoming transmission from Nova Prime Garrison. They’ve dispatched reinforcements. ETA: two minutes.”
Mandrake grinned, despite the pain. “Guess I just needed to hold out a little longer.”
Kane’s eyes widened as the sound of approaching engines filled the air. A squadron of Police Garrison hover-cruisers descended from the sky, their weapons trained on the Syndicate’s ship. Kane cursed, barking orders to his pilot. “Get us out of here!”
The hover-ship’s engines roared as it ascended, but it was too late. The Garrison cruisers opened fire, their laser cannons tearing through the Syndicate’s defenses. The ship shuddered, its hull buckling under the assault. With a final, deafening explosion, it plummeted to the ground, a fiery wreck.
Mandrake watched as the Garrison forces secured the area, their officers rounding up the surviving Syndicate members. He holstered his scattergun, his body aching but his spirit unbroken. The Syndicate had made their move, but they’d underestimated him—and paid the price.
As the dust settled, Mandrake turned to Max 54. “Guess we’re not done yet.”
“Indeed,” Max replied. “But for now, mission accomplished.”
Mandrake smirked, his eyes scanning the horizon. The Syndicate was still out there, and they wouldn’t stop until he was dead. But neither would he. This was just the beginning.
Chapter 1: Prime Meltdown — Thermobaric Shock
The year was 2196, and the galaxy was a sprawling, interconnected web of planets, colonies, and star systems. Humanity had reached the stars, but with progress came chaos. Crime syndicates, rogue militias, and interstellar warlords thrived in the shadows, their influence stretching across star clusters. Law enforcement had evolved to meet these challenges, but so had the criminals. And in this ever-shifting landscape, Marshal John Mandrake was a relic of a bygone era—a man who believed in justice, even when the universe seemed determined to prove him wrong.
Mandrake stepped out of the Quantum Star Pad, the instantaneous travel booth humming softly as its energy dissipated. The air on Nova Prime was crisp, tinged with the faint scent of ozone from the planet’s atmospheric processors. Beside him, Mango Boron stumbled, his hands cuffed and his face twisted in a scowl. The Quantum Star Pad, a marvel of 22nd-century technology, had been invented in 2108. Initially deemed too dangerous for human travel, it had been used exclusively for cargo shipments. But by 2130, after decades of rigorous testing, it had become the backbone of interstellar travel. For Mandrake, it was just another tool—one that had brought him and his prisoner to the heart of the Earth Prime Police Garrison.
The Garrison loomed before them, a massive ziggurat of steel and concrete, its walls towering over the surrounding cityscape. Above, the twin moons of Nova Prime hung in the sky—one small, irregular, and grey, the other large and blood-red. The blue haze of the planet’s atmosphere gave the scene an otherworldly glow.
Mandrake tightened his grip on Mango’s arm, steering him toward the Garrison’s main entrance. “Welcome to your new home, Mango. How do you like it? Think you can dig your way out of ten square meters of reinforced concrete?”
Mango glared at him, his eyes burning with defiance. “You think you’re so smart, lawman. But you watch your back. You hear me? You watch your back!”
Mandrake smirked. “Noted.”
After processing Mango, Mandrake was summoned to the office of Commander Eddie Gorman, his old friend and superior. The office was a stark contrast to the dusty, desolate streets of Boot-Leg. Sleek and modern, it was filled with holographic displays and state-of-the-art equipment. Gorman sat on the edge of his desk, his uniform immaculate, his expression grim.
“Mandrake,” Gorman said, standing to greet him. “Long time no see. How’s life on the frontier?”
“Same as always,” Mandrake replied, shaking his friend’s hand. “Dusty, dangerous, and full of idiots like Mango Boron. How’s the family?”
“The wife and kids are fine,” Gorman said, his tone shifting to business. “But we’ve got bigger problems. I need your expertise, John. There’s been a surge in illegal weapons shipments into the Eurasian Imperial Star Cluster. We think the Nova Syndicate is gearing up for war with law enforcement.”
Mandrake’s eyes narrowed. “Sounds like my kind of job. But I’ll need special authorization—documents that give me the authority to requisition weapons and manpower. I can’t afford to have some desk jockey second-guessing me in the field.”
Gorman nodded and walked to a pair of filing cabinets against the wall. One was blue, the other green. He opened the green cabinet and pulled out a file, handing it to Mandrake. “This should cover you. Your mission starts in two days. Head to Macedon Prime’s moon, Bitola. There’s a criminal there named Ilco Stojkov—a member of Marko Risteo’s gang. Apprehend him and bring him in for interrogation. Once you’ve completed that, expect further orders.”
Mandrake took the file, flipping through its contents. “Understood. Good to see you, Eddie. It’s been too long.”
“Same here, John,” Gorman said as Mandrake turned to leave. “Stay safe out there.”
Mandrake stepped out of the Garrison’s main gate, the file tucked securely under his arm. The courtyard was bustling with activity—officers patrolling, hover-vehicles coming and going, and civilians milling about. But as he descended the steps of the ziggurat, the world erupted in fire and chaos.
The thermobaric vacuum bomb detonated with a deafening roar, its shockwave ripping through the courtyard. The force of the explosion threw Mandrake clear off his feet, slamming him into the side of a maglev garbage truck. The air was sucked out of the area, creating a vacuum that crushed lungs and shattered eardrums. Then came the fireball—a searing inferno that incinerated everything in its path.
When the dust settled, the courtyard was a smoldering ruin. Large sections of the Garrison’s walls had been obliterated, and one of the guard towers had collapsed in on itself. The crater left by the bomb was massive, its edges still glowing with heat. The cries of survivors echoed through the smoke and debris, a haunting chorus of pain and despair.
Mandrake groaned, his body pinned beneath rubble. His armor had protected him from the worst of the blast, but his left arm and leg were broken. His head throbbed, and his ears rang from the explosion. He tried to move, but the weight of the debris held him down.
“Max,” he croaked, his voice barely audible. “You still with me?”
From his pocket, the small AI android chirped weakly. “Affirmative. Calculating odds of survival… still dismal.”
Mandrake chuckled despite the pain. “Good to know.”
It took four hours for emergency services to find him. The shrill alarm from Max 54 had led them to his location, buried between two maglev trucks near a destroyed police sign. Commander Gorman arrived shortly after, his face grim as he surveyed the devastation.
“Who’s in charge here?” Gorman barked, his voice cutting through the chaos.
A young woman stepped forward, her uniform singed but her demeanor calm. “Captain Paula Keats, sir. I’m leading this team.”
Gorman nodded. “How bad is he?”
Keats glanced at Mandrake, who was being carefully extracted from the rubble. “Unconscious, but stable. His armor saved him from plasma burns. He’s got a broken arm and leg, but the hospital’s 3D robotic printer can fix that in a couple of hours.”
Gorman exhaled, relief washing over him. “Good. Get him to the hospital. And keep searching for survivors.”
The Hover ambulance arrived an hour later, its path slowed by the debris littering the streets. Mandrake was loaded onto a stretcher, and his injuries were stabilized by the emergency team. As the ambulance sped toward the Metro Hospital, Gorman turned his attention to the investigation. This wasn’t just an attack—it was a declaration of war.
At the hospital, Gorman took the Quantum Star Pad to the 20th floor, where Mandrake was being treated. The elevator doors opened to a scene of chaos. Laser pistol fire streaked through the hallway, narrowly missing nurses, patients, and doctors. Gorman ducked behind a gurney, his hand going to his sidearm.
“What the hell is going on?” he muttered, peering around the corner.
A group of armed men—Syndicate enforcers, by the look of them—were storming the floor, their weapons blazing. Their target was clear: Mandrake. Gorman’s jaw tightened. This wasn’t just an attack on the Garrison. It was a hit.
Drawing his laser pistol, Gorman stepped into the fray. “Not on my watch,” he growled, opening fire.
Chapter 2: Lasers Sizzle — Just Another Day in Hell
The Metro Hospital on Nova Prime was supposed to be a place of healing, a sanctuary where the wounded could recover in peace. But on this day, it had become a battlefield. The sterile white halls were now streaked with scorch marks from laser fire, the air thick with the acrid smell of burning plastic and ozone. The flickering lights cast eerie shadows on the walls, adding to the chaos as people scrambled for cover.
Marshal John Mandrake had just finished his surgery in the 3D Robotic Printing Operation Theatre. The advanced medical technology had repaired his broken arm and leg in record time, leaving him sore but functional. He was pulling on his boots when the door hissed open. Two men in white coats entered, their faces calm but their eyes sharp. Mandrake’s instincts kicked in before they even moved.
The first man reached into his coat, pulling out a sleek laser pistol. The second followed suit, their movements practiced and precise. A nurse screamed, the sound piercing the tense silence. Mandrake didn’t hesitate. He dove behind the large 3D robotic printer, his own laser pistol already in hand.
The fight that followed was one of the fiercest Mandrake had ever experienced. Laser bolts sizzled through the air, carving glowing lines into the walls and equipment. The two assassins were skilled, their shots precise and relentless. Mandrake returned fire, his aim steady despite the pain still lingering in his limbs. The 3D printer took several hits, its delicate mechanisms sparking and smoking.
The assassins were forced to retreat into the hallway, their cover blown by Mandrake’s relentless barrage. The marshal used the opportunity to move, crouching low and keeping the printer between him and the door. He could hear shouting outside—Commander Gorman’s voice, sharp and commanding.
Gorman had arrived just as the shooting started. He’d taken charge immediately, directing hospital staff and patients to safety. “All of you, get down!” he barked, his voice cutting through the panic. “Nurses, head to the stairs—move fast! Doctors, get into the stairwell and stay low. You two patients, come with me!”
He helped the two injured patients into the elevator, his movements quick but calm. “You’ll be all right,” he assured them. “When you reach the ground floor, call security and the local police. I’m going back in.”
As the elevator doors closed, Gorman turned and drew his laser pistol. He moved down the hallway, his eyes scanning for targets. The two assassins were pinned down near the nurses’ station, their focus entirely on Mandrake. Gorman took aim and fired, his second shot hitting a fire extinguisher mounted on the wall.
The explosion of CO2 gas filled the hallway with a thick, white cloud. One of the assassins stumbled, coughing and blinded. Mandrake seized the opportunity, firing a precise shot that drilled through the man’s skull. The assassin crumpled to the floor, his blood and brain matter splattering the wall behind him.
The remaining assassin didn’t falter. He intensified his fire, forcing Mandrake to duck behind the nurses’ station. Then, with a swift motion, he pulled a fragmentation grenade from his jacket and hurled it toward Gorman.
“Grenade!” Mandrake shouted, but it was too late.
The explosion rocked the hallway, throwing Gorman against the closed elevator doors. He slid to the floor, his body limp and lifeless. Mandrake’s jaw tightened, his grip on his pistol turning white-knuckled. He didn’t have time to mourn—not yet.
Using the chaos as cover, Mandrake rushed the remaining assassin. He vaulted over the nurses’ station, catching the man off guard. A snapshot from his laser pistol drilled through the assassin’s
hand, causing him to drop his weapon and scream in pain. Mandrake followed up with a kick to the chest, pinning the man to the floor with his boot.
The lights flickered overhead as Mandrake leaned down, his pistol pressed against the assassin’s forehead. “Stop moving, scumball,” he growled. “You’re going to spend a long time in lockup. But first, you’re going to tell me who sent you.”
The assassin’s eyes narrowed, a smirk twisting his lips. Before Mandrake could react, the man bit down on something hidden in his mouth. His body convulsed, foam bubbling at the corners of his lips as the cyanide capsule took effect.
“Damn it!” Mandrake roared, firing two shots into the man’s head in a fit of rage. “Piece of shit!”
The police arrived moments later, their weapons drawn and their faces grim. Mandrake stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving as he holstered his pistol. He knelt beside Gorman’s body, his hand resting on his friend’s shoulder. “I’ll make them pay, Eddie,” he whispered. “I promise.”
As the investigators began their work, Mandrake searched the assassins’ bodies. He found little of value—a pack of cigarettes, a few gold coins, and a handful of credits. But the cigarettes were a clue. They were a brand only sold on Macedon Prime, known for producing the finest tobacco in the known systems. Mandrake’s jaw tightened as he pieced it together. These men were connected to his new assignment—to Ilco Stojkov and Marko Risteo’s gang.
He had a job to do, and now it was personal.
Three days later, Mandrake stood on the far side of Macedon Prime’s red twin moon. The local Police Garrison was a stark, utilitarian structure, its walls reinforced against the harsh lunar environment. The Quantum Star Pad he’d arrived on was heavily guarded, a squad of Garrison police watching him with wary eyes.
Mandrake approached the checkpoint, his credentials in hand. The officer in charge, a grizzled veteran with a cybernetic eye, scanned the documents and nodded. “Marshal Mandrake. We’ve been expecting you. Commander Gorman’s death… it’s a blow to us all.”
Mandrake’s expression was grim. “He was a good man. And I intend to make sure his killers pay.”
The officer gestured toward the Garrison. “We’ve got a briefing room set up for you. Local intel suggests Ilco Stojkov is holed up in Bitola, just as you suspected. But be warned—Risteo’s gang has been fortifying their position. It’s not going to be an easy fight.”
Mandrake nodded, his hand resting on the grip of his laser pistol. “I didn’t come here for easy.”
As he entered the briefing room, Mandrake’s mind was already racing. The Syndicate had struck hard and fast, but they’d made one mistake: they’d underestimated him. And now, they were going to learn just how dangerous that mistake was.
Chapter 3: Who’s the Boss
The moon of Shtip, orbiting Macedon Prime, was a place of stark contrasts. Its surface was a barren, rocky expanse, but its cities were vibrant, chaotic, and alive with the hum of commerce and crime. The Police Garrison on Shtip was a fortress of steel and concrete, its walls scarred by years of conflict. Inside, Commander Alex Markov sat behind a desk cluttered with reports, his face a mask of frustration. Across from him stood Marshal John Mandrake, his presence commanding even in the dimly lit room.
Commander Markov was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a face that looked like it had been carved from granite. His cybernetic eye glowed faintly, its lens shifting as he studied Mandrake. “So,” he began, his voice a low rumble, “you’re the famous Marshal Mandrake. I’ve heard stories about you. Most of them end with a lot of dead bodies and a lot of questions.”
Mandrake smirked, leaning casually against the wall. “I’ve heard stories about you too, Commander. Most of them end with you complaining about a lack of resources.”
Markov’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “What do you want, Mandrake? My Garrison is stretched thin as it is. We’ve got riots in the streets, smuggling rings operating in broad daylight, and now you show up, demanding my attention.”
Mandrake straightened, his expression turning serious. “I need your help, Markov. I’m here to apprehend Ilco Stojkov, a major player in Marko Risteov’s gang. He’s holed up in Magma Town, and I need a heavy unit to back me up when I go in.”
Markov laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. “You’re joking, right? Magma Town is a war zone. Even my best officers wouldn’t go in there without a small army. And you want me to spare a heavy unit for your little mission? Forget it.”
Mandrake didn’t flinch. He reached into his combat backpack and pulled out a set of documents, slapping them down on Markov’s desk. “These are orders from High Command on Earth-Prime. They authorize me to requisition whatever resources I need, including your officers. And if you refuse, you’ll be stripped of your rank and thrown in prison for ten years.”
Markov’s cybernetic eye whirred as he scanned the documents, his jaw tightening with each word. When he finally looked up, his expression was a mixture of anger and resignation. “You’ve got some nerve, Mandrake. You waltz in here, throw around orders from High Command, and expect me to just roll over?”
Mandrake leaned forward, his eyes locked on Markov’s. “I don’t expect you to roll over. I expect you to do your job. Ilco Stojkov is a threat to everyone on this moon, not just me. If you want to keep your streets safe, you’ll help me take him down.”
Markov stared at him for a long moment, then sighed, running a hand through his graying hair. “Fine. You’ll get your heavy unit. But if any of my officers die because of this, it’s on your head.”
Mandrake nodded. “Understood.”
After the tense meeting with Markov, Mandrake decided to take some time to explore the city. The moon of Shtip was known for its vibrant nightlife, and the market district was the heart of it all. The air was thick with the scent of spices and sizzling meat, the streets alive with the chatter of vendors and the laughter of patrons. The market was called “Pepper Land,” a sprawling maze of stalls and tents where the hottest peppers in the known star systems were sold. It was a place of color and chaos, a stark contrast to the grim reality of life on Shtip.
Mandrake moved through the crowd, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. The people of Shtip were a mix of Southern Slavic descent, their features sharp and their expressions fierce. They were a proud people, hardened by years of living on the edge of civilization. The women wore brightly colored scarves and long skirts, while the men favored heavy boots and leather jackets. The market was a melting pot of cultures, with traders from across the galaxy hawking their wares.
As Mandrake passed a stall selling exotic fruits, a vendor called out to him. “Hey, stranger! My name is Daro. Care to try some yari fruit? It’s juicy and sweet—best in the market!”
Mandrake paused, eyeing the vendor. Daro was a wiry man with a wide grin and a face lined with years of hard living. The yari fruit he held up was a deep purple, its skin smooth and inviting. Mandrake nodded, pulling out a few credits. “I’ll take three.”
Daro’s grin widened as he handed over the fruit. “You won’t regret it, my friend. Best fruit on Shtip, I promise.”
Mandrake took a bite, the sweet, tangy flavor bursting in his mouth. He nodded appreciatively. “Not bad.”
As he continued through the market, Mandrake couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease. The people here were resilient, but they lived under the constant shadow of violence and corruption. The Syndicate’s influence was everywhere, from the heavily armed enforcers patrolling the streets to the whispered conversations in dark corners. Mandrake knew that taking down Ilco Stojkov was just the first step in dismantling the Syndicate’s hold on Shtip.
By the time Mandrake returned to the Garrison, the night was in full swing. The streets were alive with music and laughter, but Mandrake could feel the tension beneath the surface. He made his way to the barracks, where the heavy unit Markov had assigned him was waiting. The officers were a mix of seasoned veterans and fresh recruits, their faces a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
Mandrake addressed them with a calm, commanding presence. “Listen up. Tomorrow, we’re going into Magma Town. It’s not going to be easy, but we’ve got a job to do. Stick together, watch each other’s backs, and we’ll get through this.”
The officers nodded, their expressions hardening with determination. Mandrake dismissed them, then made his way to his quarters. The room was small and spartan, but it was a welcome respite from the chaos of the day. He sat on the edge of the bed, his mind racing with plans and strategies.
As he lay down to sleep, Mandrake couldn’t shake the feeling that the real battle was just beginning. The Syndicate was a formidable enemy, and they wouldn’t go down without a fight. But Mandrake was ready. He’d faced worse odds before, and he wasn’t about to back down now.
Chapter 4: Sands of the Dust Bowl
The moon of Shtip was a desolate place, its surface scarred by endless sandstorms and dotted with the remnants of failed mining operations. The air was thick with red-blue dust, a constant reminder of the dangers that lurked in the shadows. As the twin suns of Macedon Prime began to rise, casting a faint glow over the horizon, the Police Garrison on Shtip buzzed with activity. Commander Alex Markov stood at the head of a briefing room, his cybernetic eye scanning the assembled officers. Among them was Marshal John Mandrake, his presence commanding even in the dimly lit room.
Markov’s voice was a low rumble, cutting through the tension like a knife. “Men, your mission this morning is a dangerous one. You’re heading into Magma Town, a place that has claimed the lives of seven patrols in the last eleven years. The Syndicate’s grip on that slum is ironclad, and they won’t hesitate to kill anyone who gets in their way.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the room. “But this time, it’s different. You’ll be under the command of Marshal John Mandrake, a man who’s faced worse odds and lived to tell the tale. Your objective is to capture Ilco Stojkov, a major player in Marko Risteov’s gang. We need him alive—no excuses, no exceptions. The sun will rise in four hours. Be ready.”
The officers exchanged uneasy glances, their faces a mixture of determination and fear. Mandrake stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. “Listen up. I know what you’re thinking. Magma Town is a death trap. But we’ve got a job to do, and we’re going to do it. Stick together, follow orders, and we’ll get through this.”
Sergeant Mendokov, a grizzled veteran with a face like weathered stone, raised his hand. “Marshal, with all due respect, this feels like a suicide mission. What guarantee do you have that any of us will make it out alive?”
Mandrake’s eyes locked onto Mendokov’s, his expression unyielding. “Your job isn’t to worry about outcomes, Sergeant. Your job is to follow orders and do your best. The rest is on me. Now, I need four officers to help me load the heavy hover trucks with special equipment. We roll out in one hour.”
The room fell silent, the weight of Mandrake’s words settling over the officers. Mendokov nodded reluctantly, his jaw tightening. “Understood, Marshal.”
The heavy patrol was a formidable force, a convoy of two heavy hover trucks, two hover tanks, and one light hover SUV. Each vehicle was armed to the teeth, equipped with heavy laser cannons, mobile mini-laser howitzers, and light laser machine guns. The officers moved with precision, loading the vehicles with the special equipment Mandrake had requisitioned. The air was thick with tension, the officers’ nerves frayed as they prepared for the mission ahead.
As the patrol assembled outside the Garrison, Mandrake addressed the officers one last time. “Remember, we’re not just going into Magma Town to capture Ilco Stojkov. We’re going in to send a message—to the Syndicate, to the people of Shtip, and to anyone else who thinks they can operate above the law. Stick together, watch each other’s backs, and we’ll get through this.”
The officers nodded, their expressions hardening with determination. Mandrake climbed into the lead hover truck, his mind racing with plans and strategies. The convoy rolled out, its engines humming softly as it moved through the winding trails that led to Magma Town. The only lights in the distance came from small gold mining operations and the Garrison’s searchlights, their beams cutting through the thick red-blue dust that hung in the air.
Two hours before sunrise, Mandrake ordered the convoy to black out its lights and switch to infrared and heat vision technology. “We need to give the occupants of Magma Town the surprise of their lives,” he said over the laser intercom. “Keep a sharp lookout for enemy contacts.”
The officers obeyed, their senses heightened as they scanned the terrain for any signs of movement. The tension in the vehicles was palpable, the officers’ nerves on edge as they approached their destination.
Fifteen minutes from Magma Town, Sergeant Mendokov’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Marshal, Officers Kuleovs and Resnik have spotted the town. It’s dimly lit, but we’re picking up movement near the perimeter.”
Mandrake’s voice was calm but firm. “Get ready to engage. Use your personal laser rifles on sniper mode. A good kill is a silent kill.”
The officers readied their weapons, their fingers hovering over the triggers as they scanned the town through their scopes. The tension in the vehicles was almost unbearable, the officers’ breaths coming in short, shallow gasps.
Seven minutes from Magma Town, the patrol made first contact. Nine enemy combatants emerged from the shadows, their weapons raised as they charged toward the convoy. The officers reacted instantly, their sniper fire quick and deadly. The enemy fell silently, their bodies crumpling to the ground before they could fire a single shot.
Mandrake’s voice was steady over the intercom. “Good work. Keep moving. We’re almost there.”
Two minutes from Magma Town, the patrol spotted the main gate. It was a crude structure, surrounded by a low mud-brick wall and constructed of rusty iron beams. The gate was the only well-lit part of the town, its sign riddled with bullet and laser burn holes. Movement was detected at the top of the wall and near the gate, where two sandbagged positions housed heavy machine guns.
Mandrake’s voice was sharp and commanding. “Take out the guards on the wall first. Then hit the machine guns with the mini-laser howitzers. Move fast—we can’t give them time to react.”
The officers obeyed, their sniper fire cutting down the guards on the wall with deadly precision. The hover tanks’ mini-laser howitzers roared to life, their beams slicing through the sandbagged positions and reducing the machine guns to molten slag.
With the gate cleared, the convoy entered Magma Town at full speed, its engines roaring as it plunged into the heart of the slum. The officers’ nerves were frayed, their senses heightened as they prepared for the battle ahead. Mandrake’s voice crackled over the intercom, calm but firm.
“Stay sharp. The real fight starts now.”
Chapter 5: The Graveyard
The heavy patrol rolled into Magma Town like a storm, its formation tight and deliberate. At the front was the lead hover tank, its heavy laser cannons glowing faintly as it scanned the narrow, uneven streets. Behind it rumbled the first hover truck, its mounted mini-laser howitzer swiveling ominously. In the center of the formation was the command hover SUV, Marshal Mandrake’s mobile command post, bristling with communication arrays and sensor equipment. Bringing up the rear were the second hover truck and the trailing hover tank, their weapons primed and ready. The patrol moved with precision, a well-oiled machine cutting through the heart of the slum.
The streets of Magma Town were a labyrinth of crumbling buildings, makeshift shanties, and piles of rotting garbage. The air was thick with the stench of decay—burning trash, unwashed bodies, and the acrid tang of industrial waste. The walls of the buildings were scorched and pockmarked, their surfaces covered in graffiti that told the story of a town ruled by violence and despair. The people of Magma Town were a desperate lot, their faces gaunt and their eyes hollow. They moved like shadows, darting in and out of alleyways, their tattered clothing blending into the grime of their surroundings. Some carried antiquated weapons, their fingers twitching on triggers as they watched the patrol with a mixture of fear and hatred.
The patrol had barely traveled five minutes when it encountered its first real threat. A roadside blockade loomed ahead, a haphazard pile of rusted vehicles, broken furniture, and sandbags. Behind it, enemy combatants manned heavy howitzers, their barrels glowing as they prepared to fire. The patrol didn’t hesitate. At Mandrake’s command, the formation opened up, unleashing a torrent of laser fire and howitzer rounds. The air crackled with energy as beams of red-hot light sliced through the blockade, vaporising enemy combatants and reducing their weapons to molten slag. The mini-laser howitzers on the hover tanks roared, their explosive shells tearing through buildings and sending debris raining down on the streets.
The patrol’s vehicles were equipped with state-of-the-art magneto-reactive carbon nanotube armor, designed to absorb and deflect laser, thermobaric, and even nuclear attacks. The enemy’s antiquated weapons were no match for the patrol’s advanced technology, but the sheer volume of fire was overwhelming. For seven minutes, the air was filled with the deafening roar of explosions and the sizzle of laser fire. When the dust settled, the blockade was gone, reduced to a smoldering ruin.
The lead hover tank, manned by Officers Kuleovs and Resnik, pushed through the remnants of the blockade, clearing a path for the rest of the patrol. The convoy moved forward, its engines humming as it navigated the narrow streets. But Magma Town was far from defeated. Around the next corner, the patrol encountered another blockade—this one far more formidable. Forty-four hundred enemy combatants swarmed the streets, their weapons trained on the patrol. They poured out of alleyways, climbed onto rooftops, and took cover behind crumbling walls. The rising sun revealed their faces—filthy, scarred, and filled with a feral rage.
Mandrake’s voice crackled over the intercom, urgent and commanding. “Officers, brace yourselves! This is it—the fight we’ve been preparing for. I know you’ve never seen anything like this before, but remember your training. Fire at will, and don’t let up. We’re not just fighting for our lives—we’re fighting for justice.”
The patrol responded with a fury that shook the very foundations of Magma Town. The mini-laser howitzers on the hover tanks roared to life, their beams cutting through the enemy ranks like a scythe through wheat. The semi-robotic compression mortars mounted on the tanks launched blistering fragmentary shells, their explosions shredding flesh and reducing buildings to rubble. The air was filled with the screams of the dying and the acrid smell of burning metal and flesh.
But the enemy was relentless. They swarmed the patrol from all sides, their antiquated weapons spitting bullets and crude explosives. The lead hover tank took the brunt of the assault, its armor glowing as it absorbed hit after hit. Officers Kuleovs and Resnik worked in perfect sync, their movements calm and deliberate as they returned fire. Behind them, the hover trucks and SUV provided covering fire, their laser cannons cutting down anyone who dared to approach.
Mandrake’s voice came over the intercom again, sharp and urgent. “We need to keep moving! The lead tank—punch a hole through that barricade! The rest of you, cover them! Rear tank, stay back, and hold the line. Don’t let them flank us!”
The lead hover tank surged forward, its cannons firing in rapid succession. Four rounds tore through the barricade, sending debris flying and clearing a path for the rest of the patrol. The convoy began to move again, but the rear hover tank, manned by Officers Parkov and Petrokov, stayed behind to provide cover fire. The tank’s weapons blazed, cutting down enemy combatants as they tried to swarm the patrol from behind.
But the enemy’s fire was relentless. The rear hover tank took ten direct hits from heavy howitzer shells, its armor glowing as it absorbed the impact. Then, with a sickening lurch, the tank’s hover engines failed, and it crashed to the ground. Inside, Parkov and Petrokov were thrown against their seats, the impact jarring but not incapacitating.
Parkov unfastened his seatbelt and scrambled to the control panel, his hands moving quickly as he assessed the damage. “Petrokov, one of the power supply superconductor chips is burned out. Do we have any backups on board?”
Petrokov, his hands steady on the weapons controls, shook his head. “No backups. We’re on our own. But we’re not done yet. Redirect all remaining power to the weapons systems. We’ll hold them off as long as we can.”
Parkov nodded, his face grim. He rerouted the power, his fingers flying over the controls. The tank’s weapons came back online, their barrels glowing as they unleashed a torrent of fire. The enemy surged forward, their faces twisted with rage, but Parkov and Petrokov held their ground. The tank’s laser cannons cut through the enemy ranks, their beams slicing through flesh and bone. The compression mortars launched fragmentary shells, their explosions tearing through the swarm.
But the enemy was endless. They came in waves, their bodies piling up in the streets as Parkov and Petrokov fought on. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of burning flesh, the sounds of battle drowning out all else. Parkov glanced at Petrokov, his face streaked with sweat and grime. “We’re not going to make it out of this, are we?”
Petrokov’s jaw tightened, his eyes never leaving the targeting screen. “Maybe not. But we’ll take as many of them with us as we can.”
The two officers exchanged a grim nod, their resolve unshaken. They fought on, their weapons blazing as the enemy closed in around them. All they heard was the roar of their own cannons drowning out the screams of the enemy.
Chapter 6: Pandora’s Box
The heavy patrol was slowed down by the last skirmish but pushed forward at full speed toward Ilco’s fortress, deep in the heart of Magma Town. Their hover vehicles roared through the narrow streets, clearing their path with precision. As they emerged into the massive, oval-shaped town center, a grim sight awaited them. A solitary fortress stood in the middle of the square, surrounded by twelve thousand armed Magma Towners, their weapons at the ready, their formations impeccable.
The Marshal’s voice crackled over the intercom, steady despite the overwhelming odds. “Officers, we have a tough job ahead of us this morning. Ilco’s forces are well-organized, but we have an ace up our sleeve. We must hold our position—spread out the remaining hover vehicles. Sergeant Mendokov, start unloading the secret payload from the hover trucks!”
Sergeant Mendokov’s voice came back with urgency. “Marshal, how in God’s name are we supposed to unload all eight containers without cranes? And what exactly is in these containers?”
The Marshal’s voice held an edge of amusement. “At the time they were loaded, it was a need-to-know basis, Sergeant, and you didn’t need to know. Now, you do. Inside those containers are the military’s newest weapons: Mobile Hedgehog Drones. The moment you crack the container walls open, they deploy automatically. They are semi-autonomous, but I’ll be controlling them from the command hover SUV. Now, get to work.”
Six minutes later, the container walls were peeled away, and the eight Hedgehog Drones came to life. Each two-meter-square, 2.5-meter-high drone moved like an insect, their six articulated legs adjusting to the uneven terrain. They exited the trucks in single file, spreading out into a lethal half-moon formation. Their matte-black exoskeletons gleamed under the dim sky, their quad laser turrets swiveling, awaiting activation.
Parkov & Petrokov Return
A familiar voice crackled over the comms. “You didn’t think I’d let you bastards have all the fun, did you?” Parkov’s borrowed hoverbike roared past the convoy, executing a sharp turn before skidding to a stop beside Mandrake’s command vehicle. He pulled his helmet off while Petrokov held on for dear life, revealing a scarred face with a wicked grin. “Got a personal score to settle with Ilco. Hope you don’t mind us tagging along.”
Mandrake chuckled. “As long as you both don’t slow us down.”
Parkov revved the bike’s engine. “Slow you down? Watch and learn.”
The bike shot forward, Parkov firing the bike's single large laser gun at the enemy ranks, creating an opening before the full-scale battle erupted.
The Battle Begins
Mandrake stepped forward, lifting the super megaphone. “Ilco Stojkov! You have five minutes to surrender. I suggest you take this offer before more of your people die. Surrender, or we’re coming for you.”
The response came before the fourth minute was up. The twelve thousand-strong force surged forward, opening fire.
Mandrake barked his orders. “Engage! Hedgehogs, combat mode—now!”
The drones reacted instantly. Each Hedgehog unleashed four laser Howitzers in rapid succession, sending streaks of burning light into the advancing horde. The impact was devastating—limbs vaporized, bodies torn apart as the lasers found their marks. The Hedgehogs moved constantly, their beetle-like legs shifting effortlessly through the chaos, making them difficult targets.
But their most horrifying weapon had yet to be unleashed.
Without warning, the Hedgehogs fired their blister grenade launchers. The grenades exploded mid-air, raining down a corrosive mist that clung to flesh and armor alike. Screams of agony filled the air as the Magma Towners writhed, their bodies dissolving in the chemical mist. The attack was relentless; every thirty seconds, another volley was fired, turning the battlefield into a nightmare.
Then came the final blow.
To be Continued...
